nana’s loving space

No no no no no…

You sprint down the sidewalk, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly as it bounces against your back.

How can this be happening!?

For the first time in your life, you had slept through your alarm. You had stayed up late the night before, binging a new K-Drama that was too good to turn off. “One more episode…” you’d whisper, before clicking ‘next’ on the screen. So when the beeping of your phone finally pulled you out of your slumber, an entire half an hour late, you swore to the entertainment gods for making such addictive shows.

You round a corner, and then another, the concrete blurring beneath your feet. You felt beads of sweat forming on your skin and realized you probably looked like a crazy person racing through the street like this. The school was only a couple of minutes away, you were so close…

A large shape darted in front of you.

Startled, you lost your footing and went crashing to the ground. You stuck out your hands instinctively and felt a sharp pain as your skin skidded against the concrete. 

You groan, turning onto your side as you slowly open your eyes. Before you could process what was happening, a large wet tongue licked your face.

“What the…”

You open your eyes to find a medium-sized dog staring at you happily, its tongue out and its tail wagging. 

“Hey there, buddy, you really scared me.”

The dog licked your face again.

“Ok, ok, thanks, that’s enough.” You shoo the dog away and sit up wearily. Your hands sting, and when you look down, you find them caked with blood and dirt. 

You sigh loudly, “Now what am I gonna do?” You look back at the dog, “It’s your fault, you know.”

The dog clearly didn’t understand your frustration, and it continued to wag its tail happily. For the first time, you noticed how skinny the dog was. It looked like some sort of retriever, but you couldn’t tell under its dirty coat and thin frame.

“Poor boy, are you out here alone?” You reach out a hand and scratch its head with your fingers, being careful to avoid the cuts. “Are you even a boy?” You crane your neck to look under it. “Yes, you are, and a good boy too.”

The dog whined with happiness and rolled over on his stomach. You giggle, momentarily forgetting that you had somewhere to be.

“Looks like you made a friend.” A voice sounded from behind you.

You whirl around to find a boy around your age. He was a little taller than you, with a leather jacket and dark hair that fell softly around his face. His brown eyes watched you steadily, glowing with subtle amusement. You’d know that crooked smile anywhere, the one that drove all the girls crazy. Mr Popular himself, Jake Sim

“Oh uh, he’s not mine.” You get to your feet but keep your eyes on the dog, who’s still lying happily on his back. You avoid Jake’s gaze, feeling the unsteadiness of your speech before it even reaches your mouth. Talking casually with the school celebrity was not one of your skills.

“Really? Is it a stray?” Jake walks up until he’s standing right next to you. He crouches down and starts to rub the dog’s belly. “Hey, little guy, do you have a home?”

You can’t help but smile at the scene, Jake’s Australian accent not helping to calm your nerves.

The dog gets up and starts trying to lick Jake's face. He laughs as the dog assaults him with kisses.

His laugh had always had a contagious quality to it that you could never place. It was childlike, playful, and in total opposition to his “cool” exterior. You can’t stop a small laugh from escaping your lips. “He really likes you.”

Jake grins at you, his fluffy hair falling over his eyes, “They call me the dog whisperer.”

Your heart skips a beat at his smile. Maybe it made sense why all the girls lost their minds over him. “Oh, so you’re the expert.”

He shrugs, “I like to think so.” He looks up at you again, this time studying your face. Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of the flush on your cheeks from running and the sweat that clung to your neck. You avoid his eyes.

“I’ve seen you before, we have History together, right?”

You nod.

“Wait, don’t tell me.” He closes his eyes and puts a finger up, “You’re… Y/n!”

“Yep, that’s me.” You smile, suppressing the part of you that’s jumping for joy that he knows your name.

Jake cocks his head slightly, “Wait a minute, why are you even out here? Aren’t you the girl with perfect attendance?”

Your eyes widen, remembering why you’d been running in the first place. Before you could come up with the words to excuse yourself and get to class, Jake suddenly grabs your hand.

You inhale sharply as he gently holds your palm up to his face. “You’re hurt. Did this just happen?”

For a second, you can only stare at him, you’d never noticed the specks of yellow in his eyes…

“y/n?”

“What? Oh yes, I was running to class and-” you glare at the dog who’s staring up at the two of you curiously, “-and someone darted in front of me.”

Jake glances between you and the dog and smiles, “Maybe it was fate.”

Your breath catches, “Fate?”

Jake shrugs again, his crooked, boyish smile making another appearance. “Maybe you’re meant to take him home.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t-”

He cuts you off, “I’m just kidding, you don’t have to, but you do have to get these hands cleaned.” He gently releases your hand and turns away. “I can get you cleaned up at my place. Come on.”

You stare after him, speechless.

Jake calls out behind him, “And you too, boy, come on!”

The dog gets up from beside you and trots after him happily. You couldn’t help feeling a little betrayed. You look off in the direction of the school.

Well, it’s not like I can still be on time.

You take a deep breath and hurry after Jake.

“Here we are.” Jake holds the door open for you as you walk into his house. 

You look around, surprised at how cozy it feels. You expected towering ceilings and minimalist decor, but instead found family photos lining the walls and large, comfy furniture. You stop in front of a family photo featuring a young Jake and an older boy you assume is his brother.

“Pretty cute, huh?” Jake leans against the wall beside you, looking at the picture.

“Oh uh- yes, very adorable.” You run a hand through your hair, trying to ignore the way his proximity makes your heart race. 

This boy…

The dog pushes his way between the two of you, rubbing against your leg.

“Are you sure he can be in here? Your parents won’t kill you for bringing in a stray dog?” You say, leaning down to scratch his ears.

“It’s fine.” Jake waves dismissively. “We have another dog, but my mom takes her to work with her.”

“Should we give him a bath or something?” You ask.

Jake studies their new companion, “Probably, we can do that after I patch up your hands.” He walks over to the staircase. “The first aid stuff is up here, follow me.”

You follow him up the stairs, trying not to think about how the girls at school would murder you if they found out you had been in Jake’s house.

“What’s your dog's name?” You ask, trying to distract yourself.

Jake gets to the bathroom door and grins at you as he opens it to let you in. “Layla, she’s a border collie.”

“Aw, I love border collies, they’re so smart.”

“Right? She’s my best friend,” he runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, “my friends even say we look alike.”

You laugh softly, “You do have a puppy-like quality to you, in a good way.” 

Jake cocks his head slightly.

You cover your mouth with your hand to suppress your laughter, “Oh yeah, now I really see it.” 

He chuckles and starts to look through the bathroom cabinets, eventually pulling out a white plastic box with a red cross on top. He puts it to the side and holds out his hand.

You stare at it blankly.

“Give me your hands, we have to rinse them first.” He says.

You blush slightly, but quickly stick out your hands.

He gently guides them under the sink and starts to massage the blood and dirt off your skin.

You wince slightly as his fingers brush the cuts.

“Shh, sorry,” he says softly.

“It’s ok,” you reply.

As his attention is on your hands, you take the opportunity to get a closer look at him. You admire his soft features and warm brown eyes, his expression focused but kind. A warmth radiates off of Jake like something you’d never felt before. You gaze at the locks of hair that fall softly in front of his eyes. Your arm twitches slightly as you feel the urge to brush them out of his face.

Jake senses the movement and smirks slightly, his mouth creating a cute dimple that sends your heart fluttering all over again. 

“Ok, I think they’re clean enough.” Jake steps back and hands you a towel. “Ok, now sit.”

You suppress your smile at the firmness in his voice and perch at the edge of the bathtub. He crouches down beside you and starts to wrap your hand with gauze. It was more cut up than you expected, so you were grateful to have someone there to take care of you.

“Thanks for all this,” you murmur.

Jake looks up at you, “Anytime, I’ll always help a lady in need.”

“What a gentleman.”

He flashes you another one of his heart-stopping grins, “That’s how my mama raised me.” He finishes wrapping your hands and cleans up the supplies. “Should we call up our new friend?”

“Yeah,” you pause for a second, “should we give him a name?”

Jake closes his eyes and scrunches his nose while he thinks. You put your hand over your mouth as a small laugh escapes your lips.

He raises his eyebrows, “What?”

You shake your head, “Nothing.” But you’re sure he can see the blush on your cheeks.

“How about Fate?” He says.

“Fate?

“Yeah, like how I said, it was fate he ran into you today.” He glances away, a shy smile on his face. Then quieter, “And maybe fate that I ran into you, too.”

Your eyes widen, and you’re about to say something when the dog, Fate, comes charging into the bathroom.

Jake immediately starts showering the dog with attention, “Aw, good boy, you heard your name!” He looks up at you, “I knew he’d like it.”

You smile back, “Fate it is then.”

Jake lifts him into the tub and starts the process. He does the washing while you hand him the shampoo and treats, so you don’t get your fresh bandages wet. Fate handles the bath surprisingly well, and the two of you decide he’d probably had an owner before. Maybe he just ran away?

After the bath, Fate climbs out, and you both rub him down until he’s mostly dry. Now that he’s free of dirt, his golden hair shines through, and you think that he looks like a mix between a lab and a terrier.

“Well, you’re a beauty, aren’t you?”

“Thanks, I know,” Jake says.

You shoot him a playful glare, “I was talking to Fate.”

“Sure, sure,” he smirks at you, his eyes lingering on your face before turning to gather the wet towels. 

You roll your eyes and start to help him clean.

“Don’t worry, I got it. You and Fate go downstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.” Jake says, waving you out the door.

You nod and are about to head downstairs when you spy a door cracked open at the end of the hall. You pause, you know you shouldn’t. But curiosity gets the best of you, and you slowly approach the door. Before you can push it open, Fate barrels between your legs to open it himself. You’re about to call after him, but your voice trails off as you take in the room. 

Behind the door is a bedroom, filled with posters and knick-knacks, complete with a desk and a full-sized bed. You step inside, a small smile forming on your face as you take in the soccer trophies on the desk and the BTS poster on the wall. The room had so much warmth and personality, perfectly representing the boy you’d been getting to know over the last couple of hours. You breathed in deeply, relishing Jake’s unique scent that seemed to be intoxicating you more and more by the minute.

“Didn’t take you for someone who walks into people’s rooms uninvited.”

You spin around at the voice, finding Jake leaning against the doorframe, a quizzical look on his face, his hair slightly messy from cleaning.

You ignore the butterflies in your stomach, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” You run a hand through your hair nervously, avoiding his gaze.

His expression melts into an easy smile, “I’m just messing with you, I was gonna ask if you wanted a tour anyway.” He walks into the room and leans down to pet Fate, who had already made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed.

Suddenly, you became hyperaware of the situation you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, skipping school, caring for a dog off the street, and standing in the bedroom of the school heartthrob. What were you thinking? What would your parents think? What would your teachers think?

A wave of panic starts to slip over you. “So this was really nice, but I-I should really go now.” You turn towards the door, but you only take a step before a hand wraps around your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turn your head to find Jake gripping your arm, a soft pleading look in his eyes. “Please stay.” After a second, he shakes his head as if snapping out of a trance and lets go of your wrist, taking a step back. He runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, if you want to go, I won’t stop you, I understand.” When you don’t answer, he continues. “I just really enjoyed spending time with you today and thought…” he paused, looking everywhere but your face, “...thought that we could hang out since we already skipped school and everything.”

You stare at him, too shocked to speak. The air stills as Jake holds his breath for your reply.

After a few seconds, you chuckle softly at the bashful look on his face. He meets your eyes. “I’d like that, Jake.”

After that, you guys decided to watch a movie. Jake gets the snacks ready while you gather pillows and blankets, stacking them on the couch in a huge pile.

“That seems a bit excessive,” Jake says.

You shrug. “I like comfort.” You settle onto your pile, pulling a blanket over you and snuggling into the fluffy mound.

He laughs when he sees you all curled up.

“What?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “You’re cute.”

You blush, sinking deeper into the couch as you half-cover your face with the blanket.

Jake doesn’t seem to notice, plopping onto the couch next to you and throwing another blanket over himself. “I love watching movies in the middle of the day.”

“Better than at night?” You ask.

“Yeah, I’m too tired to watch movies at night.”

“How early do you go to bed?”

He puts a finger on his lips as he thinks, and you can’t help but let your gaze linger a little too long…

Jake looks back at you, and you look away quickly. “Like 9 or 10,” he says.

“That’s really early.” 

“It’s not THAT early,” He says defensively.

“I went to bed at 1 am last night,” you deadpan.

“What can I say? I love being cozy.” He pulls the blanket tightly over himself and scoots closer to you, resting his head on your shoulder.

You feel your heart rate quicken and your face heating up in response. “Am I cozy?” You say softly.

“Yes,” he mumbles.

You look at Fate, who’s fast asleep at your feet, then back at Jake, who’s curled up next to you, scrolling through movies on the TV. 

You chuckle softly, “You really are like a puppy.”

Jake meets your eyes and grins, and for the first time, you notice a soft blush forming on his face. 

After some debate, you two finally settle on the first Spider-Man movie and hit play. During the first hour, Jake shifted several times. Every time his hair brushed your neck, shivers ran down your back, and when he laughed, his hot breath raced over your skin, creating more intense flutters in your stomach. 

Eventually, he sits back up and looks at you, a hint of nervousness in his eyes along with something else, something darker. “Do you…” He starts, a playful smile crossing his lips, “...do you want to be the puppy this time?” He opens his arms invitingly.

You feel your heart beating out of your chest, and nod slowly. 

Jake smiles and lifts the blanket so you can move beside him. You lean into his back as he places the blanket over you both. Tentatively, he wraps his arms around you, placing his hands over yours. 

His scent washes over you, and you find yourself fully relaxing against his chest, leaning your head back until you feel his chin resting on your head. He absently rubs circles on your hands, and after a few minutes, you gain the courage to intertwine your fingers with his. You feel him stiffen slightly, and you’re about to let go before he squeezes your hand in response.

Throughout the movie, his hands become more confident, tracing down your hands and up your arms before finally snaking around your waist. You can barely focus on the movie because with every touch, your body is set on fire, and it takes all of your self-control not to close the distance between you.

When the infamous upside-down kiss comes on screen, Jake lowers his mouth to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers throughout your body, and whispers, “Did I ever tell you you look really pretty today?” His arms around your waist tighten.

“No,” you manage to whisper back, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Well, you do, like you always do,” he places a soft kiss on your neck, just below your ear.

Your eyes widen, “Always?”

Jake stops and buries his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. “I guess my secret is out.”

You crane your neck to look at him, and he peers down at you shyly. “How long?” You ask, a smile creeping onto your lips.

He bites his lip, “Hmm, since the beginning of the year?”

You shove him playfully, “Five months??”

He tilts his head back, trying to hide his face from you out of embarrassment, but with you in his arms, he has nowhere to go. You think it’s adorable.

“You make the cutest faces when you’re trying to focus, and I was so impressed that you had perfect attendance. You never even get sick, I thought you were invincible or something.”

You giggle at his explanation, “I do get sick, but it’s usually only during school breaks.”

“So you’re not an angel or a descendant of some goddess?” Jake asks, a slight whine in his voice.

“Only to you,” you reply, booping his nose.

He ducks his head into your neck again, his face bright red. You laugh at his cuteness and turn your body so you’re sitting in his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck and start playing with the ends of his hair.

Jake pulls you close, his hands slipping under your shirt and resting on your stomach. He shifts his head and starts to place gentle kisses up your neck. He traces your jaw with his lips until he finally rests his forehead against yours. 

He stares into your eyes and licks his lips slightly. “y/n, can I kiss you?”

You stare back, your heart beating firmly against your chest. You nod.

With your confirmation, he leans in and softly places his lips against yours. His hand goes under your chin, tilting your head up for better access. The kiss is gentle and slow, filled with tender emotion.

You feel your body melt into him as you run your fingers through his hair. He sighs softly at the contact. The hand under your chin go to the back of your head, pulling you even closer, deepening the kiss. You smile against his lips, and he smiles back. 

Before you can even process what’s happening, he’s flipped you onto your back. You yelp in surprise, but he quickly silences you with his lips. One of his hands grips your thigh, and the other is braced beside your head as he holds himself over you.

His lips move from your mouth back to your neck, and you groan softly at the contact. He smiles and bites softly.

You gasp, “Jake! You’re going to leave a mark.”

He sucks on the same patch of skin, “But I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

You laugh softly, your heart melting at his words.

He stops and perches above you again, looking down into your eyes. “Once they know you’re my girl, no one will bother us anymore.” He pecks your lips.

“You mean your fan club? I’m pretty sure they’ll bother us more once they know you’re taken.” You say.

“No,” he moves down to your stomach, lifting your shirt slowly as he kisses you, “if they give you any trouble, I’ll tell them off.”

You stare up at the ceiling as he gets higher and higher up your torso. Your whole body is on fire. “Jake-”

You’re cut off as the doorbell rings. 

Both of you freeze and look at each other. The two of you sit up to straighten out your clothes. You run your fingers through Jake’s hair, doing your best to make it less messy. His eyes never leave you, affection seeping out of them. When you’re done, he kisses you once more, slow and deep, before standing up and heading to the door.

You stare after him, a smile plastered on your face that you’re sure can never be erased.

The door opens, and you hear Jake exclaim in surprise. Curious, you follow him to the door.

“Jay, what are you doing here?” Jake says. You reach the door to see the two boys greet each other. You recognize the boy from school and remember that he’s one of Jake's close friends.

“Well, I-” Jay freezes when he sees you come up to stand by Jake. His face breaks out in a smile, “No way, did you…?” He looks at Jake expectantly.

Jake smiles sheepishly and looks at you before wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. You flash Jay a shy smile.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it, how’d it happen? You were terrified to talk to her.”

Jake’s about to say something when Fate comes sprinting down the hall. He jumps onto Jay, whining happily.

“Cupid! There you are!” Jay immediately drops down and starts petting the dog.

You and Jake stare at the pair in shock.

“Cupid…?” You start. 

“It was my mom’s choice,” Jay said flatly.

“This is your dog, Jay? I didn’t even know you had a dog!” Jake said.

“Oh yeah, he’s new. We just got him from the shelter, but the night after we brought him home, he somehow got out.” The dog licked him enthusiastically. “I’ve been looking for him for a few days now.” He looked back up at the two of you, “That’s why I came over, one of your neighbors said they saw you with a dog that wasn’t Layla.”

You and Jake look at each other, and before you know it, you’re both laughing. Jay gives both of you a questioning look.

“Let’s just say, Cupid really lives up to his name,” You say.

Jake intertwines his hand with yours.

They talk for a little longer, Jay telling you all about how Jake couldn’t stop talking about you, but never had the guts to approach you. You never leave Jake’s side, and when it’s finally time to say goodbye, you kneel in front of Cupid and scratch his ears. “Thanks,” you whisper so the boys wouldn’t hear. The dog looks back at you, and you swear that you can see a hint of mischief in his eyes.

You and Jake stand on the porch and watch Jay and Cupid walk away. From behind, he wraps his arms around your waist and places his chin on your shoulder. When they’re out of sight, he places his mouth beside your ear and whispers, “I told you it was fate.”

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

“you guys are so horny tonight,” he laughs, running a hand through his messy hair. his voice is lower than usual, the one he uses when he’s already worked up. “i see all the requests… but i’ve been thinking about something different lately.”

you sit up a little straighter, biting your lip. jake leans closer to the camera, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“there’s this girl… my best friend,” he says, voice dropping a bit. “i’ve been thinking about inviting her to one of these lives. she doesn’t know i do this, or at least i don’t think she does. but i keep imagining her here with me.”

your stomach drops. heat floods your face instantly. he’s talking about you.

“she’s really pretty, you know?” jake continues, smiling shyly now, a rare soft expression crossing his face. “super sweet, laughs at all my stupid jokes, always takes care of me when i’m tired from schedules. i think she’d be so cute on stream… all shy at first but maybe secretly into it.”

the chat explodes. comments flood in — “YES INVITE HER”, “collab of the year”, “bet she’s hot”, “please jake we need her”.

jake reads a few out loud and chuckles, cheeks turning slightly pink. “you guys would like that? me and my best friend together? fuck… just thinking about it is making me hard already.”

he shifts on the bed, palming himself through his sweatpants. your breath catches as you watch him. he’s talking about you. your best friend of years. the same jake who brings you coffee and sends you memes at 3am is currently touching himself on camera while thinking about inviting you.

“she’s probably gonna say no,” he says with a soft laugh, but there’s a hopeful edge to his voice. “she’s a good girl, you know? all innocent on the outside. but sometimes i catch her looking at me a little too long… makes me wonder.”

jake pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his hard cock. he strokes himself slowly, eyes half-lidded as he keeps talking.

“imagine her sitting here between my legs while i’m live… or maybe me eating her out on camera while she tries so hard to stay quiet. shit— you guys would love her. she has the prettiest moans, i just know it.”

your hand slips between your own thighs without thinking, breath shaky as you watch him. he’s fantasizing about you. out loud. on stream. thousands of people watching while he tells them how much he wants his best friend.

“would y’all like that?” he asks the chat, voice breathier now as he pumps his fist faster. “me corrupting my sweet best friend on stream? teaching her how to take my cock while you all watch?”

the chat goes feral. tips are pouring in. jake groans, head falling back as he fucks his fist.

“fuck… i really want her here. maybe i’ll ask her tomorrow. worst she can say is no, right?”

he cums hard a few minutes later, moaning lowly as stripes of white land on his toned stomach. even after he finishes, he keeps talking about you — how pretty you’d look covered in his cum, how he bets you’d be such a good girl for him and the camera.

you close the laptop the second the stream ends, heart hammering wildly in your chest. your face is burning. your panties are ruined.

the next day jake texts you like nothing happened.

jake: heyyy cutie, you free tonight? wanna come over and watch movies? i’ll order your favorite food 🥺

you stare at the message for a long time, thighs still pressed together from the memory of last night. you know exactly what he was doing. you know he was talking about you.

and you’re starting to think you don’t want to say no.

you show up at jake’s apartment that evening wearing comfy clothes — oversized hoodie and shorts — trying to act as normal as possible. your heart is still racing from last night’s stream, but you keep your face neutral when he opens the door with that bright, familiar smile.

“there’s my favorite girl!” he pulls you into a tight hug, smelling like his usual fresh cologne and laundry detergent. “i ordered your favorite pizza and those fried dumplings you like. come in.”

the night starts innocently enough. you both settle on his big couch, the tv playing some new comedy movie. jake keeps the vibe light — feeding you bites of food, poking your side when you laugh too hard, throwing his arm around your shoulders like he always does.

but you notice the little things tonight. the way his hand lingers longer on your thigh. the way his eyes keep drifting to your lips when you speak. the way he shifts in his seat every few minutes like he’s restless.

halfway through the movie, jake suddenly pauses it. the room goes quiet except for the low hum of the city outside.

“hey…” he starts, voice a little hesitant. he scratches the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink. “can i tell you something? it’s kinda… weird.”

you turn to face him, trying to keep your expression innocent. “what’s up?”

jake bites his lip, then lets out a nervous laugh. “okay, so… i do this thing. online. i have this secret account where i… stream. like, adult stuff.”

your heart skips hard, but you stay quiet, letting him continue.

he watches your face carefully. “i’ve been doing it for a while. it’s just me, mostly. jerking off on camera, talking to people, you know? it helps with money and… i don’t know, it’s kinda fun.”

you nod slowly, pretending this is brand new information.

jake takes a deep breath. “last night… i was talking about you on stream.”

your thighs press together instinctively. “me?”

“yeah,” he admits, voice dropping lower. “i told them i’ve been thinking about inviting my best friend to join one of my lives. i kept talking about how pretty you are, how sweet you are, how i wonder what you’d sound like if i touched you on camera…”

he’s blushing hard now, but his eyes are dark as they meet yours.

“i couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole time. i came so hard just imagining you there with me.”

the air between you feels electric. you stay quiet for a moment, letting the confession settle, before whispering, “and what exactly did you imagine doing with me on stream?”

jake’s breath catches. he shifts closer, one hand gently resting on your knee.

“everything,” he says honestly. “i imagined you sitting between my legs while i played with you on camera. imagined eating you out until you’re shaking and trying not to moan too loud. imagined you riding me while thousands of people watch how pretty you look taking my cock.”

his hand slides higher up your thigh, thumb stroking your skin.

“i know this is a lot,” he says softly. “and you can say no. we can pretend i never said anything and just stay best friends. but… i’ve wanted you for so long. and after last night, i couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

you look at him for a long moment, then slowly climb into his lap, straddling him. jake’s eyes widen, hands automatically settling on your waist.

“i’ve watched your streams,” you confess quietly, finally letting it out. “for months. i knew it was you.”

jake groans, head falling back against the couch. “fuck… you’ve been watching me?”

you nod, rolling your hips once against him, feeling how hard he already is. “i touch myself while watching you sometimes.”

that seems to break something in him. jake pulls you down into a deep, hungry kiss, hands sliding under your hoodie to grip your bare waist. the kiss is messy and desperate, all the years of hidden tension finally spilling out.

“bedroom,” he mumbles against your lips. “now.”

he carries you there without breaking the kiss, kicking the door shut behind him. clothes come off in a rush — your hoodie, his shirt, your shorts. when you’re both in just your underwear, jake pushes you gently onto the bed and crawls over you.

“been dreaming about this,” he whispers, kissing down your neck. “my shy little best friend secretly watching me jerk off every night…”

he pulls your panties down and spreads your legs, groaning at how wet you are. “all this for me?”

before you can answer, his mouth is on you — tongue licking broad stripes up your pussy, sucking gently on your clit. you moan loudly, fingers threading through his hair. jake eats you out like he’s starving, moaning into your heat, hips grinding against the mattress.

“taste so fucking good,” he groans, sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue works your clit. “gonna make you cum on my tongue first.”

you do — hard and fast, thighs shaking around his head as you cry out his name. jake doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from sensitivity, then he finally pulls back, lips shiny with your arousal.

you push him onto his back and tug his boxers down. his cock springs free, hard and leaking. you wrap your hand around him and start stroking slowly.

“i’ve watched you do this so many times,” you whisper, leaning down to lick the tip. “always wanted to be the one touching you.”

jake’s head falls back with a loud moan. “fuck, baby… your mouth feels even better than i imagined.”

you take him deeper, sucking and stroking until he’s panting and gripping your hair. he eventually pulls you off and flips you over, settling between your legs.

“need to be inside you,” he breathes, rubbing his cock against your soaked folds. “can i? please?”

“yes,” you moan, wrapping your legs around him. “want you so bad, jake.”

he pushes in slowly, both of you groaning at the stretch. once he bottoms out, he stays still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours.

“you feel perfect,” he whispers, kissing you softly. then his hips start moving — deep, steady thrusts that quickly turn rougher.

“been wanting this pussy for so long,” he groans, pounding into you harder. “my best friend’s tight little cunt… fuck, you’re squeezing me so good.”

you’re both loud and desperate, hands roaming everywhere, mouths crashing together between moans. jake fucks you like he’s making up for lost time — deep, passionate, and a little filthy.

“gonna cum inside you,” he pants, thumb rubbing your clit. “you want that? want your best friend to fill you up?”

you nod frantically, nails digging into his back. “yes— please, jake. cum inside me.”

he thrusts a few more times before burying himself deep, moaning your name as he spills inside you. the feeling pushes you over the edge again, clenching around him as you cum together.

afterwards, jake collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard and sweaty. he peppers soft kisses across your face, suddenly gentle again.

“that was… insane,” he laughs breathlessly. “best night of my life.”

you smile, running your fingers through his damp hair. “so… about that collab you mentioned on stream?”

jake lifts his head, eyes sparkling with excitement and a hint of shyness.

“only if you want to,” he says softly. “no pressure. but fuck… the thought of having you on stream with me? i think i’d die happy.”

you kiss him slowly, already feeling him twitch inside you again.

“maybe next week,” you whisper against his lips. “but for now… i want you all to myself for a while.”

jake grins, rolling his hips lazily. “that sounds perfect to me, baby.”

the two of you spend the rest of the night tangled together — talking, laughing, fucking again and again until you’re both exhausted and happy.

your friendship had always been special.

now it's something even better.

-------

the week after that night is a complete blur of sex, affection, and nervous excitement.

the next morning you wake up in jake’s bed with his face buried between your thighs. he eats you out until you're shaking, then fucks you slow and deep while whispering how he can’t believe this is real. you spend most of that sunday naked, ordering takeout and christening every surface in his apartment.

by monday you're both back to your regular lives, but everything feels different. jake texts you during his schedules with the filthiest messages, telling you how hard he is thinking about you. you send him photos of your panties soaked through, making him suffer through dance practice.

on tuesday night he shows up at your place after a late rehearsal, pushes you against the wall, and fucks you right there in the hallway without even taking all your clothes off. wednesday you ride him on his gaming chair while he tries (and fails) to play a game. thursday he spends almost two hours between your legs, edging you until you're crying and begging before finally letting you cum.

the sexual tension is insane, but so is the sweetness. he still brings you coffee, still send you memes, still calls you “cutie” in that soft voice. the only difference now is that he can kiss you whenever he wants to, and he takes full advantage of it.

by friday, the collab stream is set.

you are nervous the entire day. jake keeps reassuring you, holding your hand and kissing your forehead while you both get ready.

“we don’t have to show your face if you don’t want to,” he says gently, sitting on the edge of his bed. “we can use the angle where it’s mostly your body, or you can wear a mask. whatever makes you comfortable, baby.”

you decide on a cute black mask that covers the top half of your face and agree that he won’t say your real name.

and that night, at exactly 11pm, jake starts the stream.

the chat immediately explodes when viewers see two people on the bed.

jake is sitting against the headboard, shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants. you are straddling his lap, wearing one of his oversized hoodies and nothing underneath. your face is partially hidden by the mask, but your body is fully on display.

“hey everyone,” jake greets, voice already a little husky as he wraps his arms around your waist. “i finally convinced this pretty girl to join me. say hi, baby.”

you wave shyly at the camera, cheeks burning. the chat goes absolutely feral.

chat: “OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE” “she’s so pretty wtf” “jake you lucky bastard” “please ruin her”

jake laughs, hands sliding under the hoodie to squeeze your ass. “she’s nervous, so be nice to her, okay? she’s my best friend… and now my girlfriend.”

he tilts his head up and kisses you softly at first, then deeper. you melt into it, hands resting on his bare shoulders. the kiss quickly turns heated. jake pulls the hoodie over your head, revealing your naked body to thousands of people.

“fuck, look at her,” he groans, hands cupping your breasts. “isn’t she perfect?”

he leans down and takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently while his fingers play with the other. you moan softly, hips grinding down against the bulge in his sweatpants.

“i've been waiting all week to have her like this on stream,” jake murmurs against your skin. he looks straight at the camera. “you guys have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.”

he flips you onto your back and spreads your legs wide, showing the camera how wet you already are. “look at this pretty pussy. she gets so soaked for me.”

jake eats you out like he's starving, moaning loudly into your cunt while his tongue works your clit and two fingers curl inside you. your moans are muffled by the mask, but still loud enough for the mic to pick up. your thighs shake around his head as you come hard, back arching off the bed.

“good girl,” jake praises, kissing your inner thighs. “think you can take my cock now?”

you nod desperately. he pushes his sweatpants down and rubs his hard cock against your folds before slowly sinking into you. the chat spams heart and fire emojis as he bottoms out with a deep groan.

“so fucking tight,” he breathes, starting to thrust. “this pussy was made for me.”

he fucks you in missionary first, deep and steady, then flips you onto all fours so the camera can see everything. the sound of skin slapping and your muffled moans fill the room. jake grips your hips hard, pounding into you while praising you nonstop.

“such a good girl letting everyone watch me fuck you,” he groans. “taking my cock so well on your first stream, baby. i’m so proud of you.”

you come again, clenching around him so hard he almost follows. jake pulls out at the last second and flips you onto your back again.

“want them to see me fill you up,” he pants, pushing back inside. his thrusts grow faster and sloppier. “gonna creampie my best friend on camera. you want that?”

“yes— please, jake,” you moan, legs wrapped tightly around him.

he comes with a loud, broken moan, burying himself deep as he pumps you full of cum. he keeps thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper while some of it leaks out around his cock.

after he pulls out, jake spreads your legs for the camera, showing the creamy mess dripping from your pussy.

“look what i did to her,” he says proudly, voice hoarse. he pushes two fingers inside you, fucking his cum back in. “so fucking pretty.”

you're still trembling when he ends the stream after proper aftercare on camera — gentle kisses, soft praises, and wiping you down carefully.

the second the stream turns off, jake pulls your mask off and kisses you deeply, holding you close.

“you were incredible,” he whispers against your lips. “so perfect. i’m so in love with you.”

you smile, exhausted but glowing. “i can’t believe we just did that.”

jake laughs softly and pulls the covers over both of you. “and we’re definitely doing it again. but for now… just you and me. no camera.”

he spends the rest of the night cuddling you, feeding you snacks, and whispering how happy he is that his best friend is now his everything.

your secret is out.

your friendship has evolved.

and the viewers are already begging for the next stream.

© jongst4r, 2026

Travel companies are a hoax. 

Relatively speaking, when someone books a holiday with their friends, they don’t do it to be ushered into a group of random people because they purchased the same package. 

“It wasn’t even mentioned on the website,” Jungwon’s voice chimes in, and rightfully so. 

Maybe the problem could have been bigger had you been stuck around some judgmental families or a group of old men maybe, but your merciful fate said otherwise as you observed the flock moving and chatting in whispers amongst each other. 

Well, it certainly is a group to look at—you with Jungwon and Karina, had claimed a shaded corner near the welcome drinks table. Across from you, a trio of guys who looked like they stepped out of a cologne advert and were laughing loudly. Then there was the loudest bunch—four people who seemed physically incapable of lowering their volume, currently arguing over who got the bigger room when they were all the same size.

Perfect, just what you needed. But hey, at least they were easy on your eyes, because you did come here to feast your eyes a little (a lot). 

Your tour guide was a jolly man called Chris, he kept on bouncing on his feet as if he was the one on the trip actually, “so nice to have you here! Lovely to see a group full of enthusiasm!” He said, making grand gestures. 

Jungwon pursed his lips to prevent a laugh from escaping, which turned into a yelp when you all got shoved into the lobby where more champagne is being served. The next hour is supposed to be like a mixer—get to know each other activity of some sort without any plan. 

Chris basically yeets everyone toward a long table loaded with champagne flutes and suspiciously bright (?) tropical snacks. “Share fun facts, become besties!” He cheers before vanishing. 

The three groups eye each other like rival gangs at a peace treaty signing that no one actually wants, it was clear that no one knew about this setting but oh well, you suppose it could be peaceful and civil if everyone tries. It did start that way with everyone introducing themselves, before it turns into an icebreaker attack by this guy named Hyuck, his friend Beomgyu vlogging everything for no apparent reason. 

So much for things being peaceful, though you are humoured enough when their friend Ningning smacks them on the back of their heads. Yeah, you will be befriending her soon. 

On the other hand, three guys were still trying to make sense of things, because obviously, no one expected to get dressed for the pool only to get roped into a low budget gathering. Jake wasn’t complaining though, none of them were actually, they looked rather jolly coming across beautiful females, especially Jake who keept glancing your way with a smirk. 

Sunghoon on the other hand was actually attentive as Jay explained the basics of how he can connect his phone to the hotel Wi-Fi. Karina nudged you to look at his biceps, which kept on flexing with each movement of his and you both exchanged a knowing smile—that man was your designated eye candy for the trip now. 

“You’re drooling,” Jay deadpans, which is much directed towards Jake, “can’t you behave for once?” 

“Can’t blame him,” Hoon adds, much to Jay’s dismay who’s trying his hardest to not make his friends appear ill mannered on the very first day.  

“What did I tell you guys about treating women with respect—”

Jake shoved his hand on Jay’s mouth, having heard the same lecture thrice in the airplane where he tried to garner the attention of a flight attendant, to no avail. But there’s a few things to note about Jake, starting with how he’s a shameless flirt, and two, no rejection is harsh enough to stop him from trying. His friends call it his foolishness, but he’s been plenty successful, courtesy of his face. 

You catch all of this from the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll on your phone. The dude is clearly on a mission. And unfortunately for him (and hilariously for you), that mission now has a target, you.

Chris eventually rounds everyone up like lost ducklings and marches the whole chaotic group number 3 towards the pool area. Now, this is exactly what you’d paid for, the sun is blazing, the kind of perfect summer heat that makes the water sparkle like it’s showing off. You ditch your cover-up, settle into a lounger with Karina on one side and Jungwon on the other, and finally let yourself relax. God knows you three need it, especially after the brutal week you all had at work. 

Jungwon shared his strawberry with chocolates, and you graciously took some, meanwhile the other guys didn’t waste much time in showing off their bodies. Jay pulled his shirt off first, revealing a surprisingly toned chest as he stretched his arms overhead with a sigh. Sunghoon followed quietly, peeling his shirt off in one smooth motion and tossing it onto a chair like it was nothing. Jesus, the man was carved. No wonder Karina had nudged you earlier, a low whistle leaving your mouth as Karina too took off her sunglasses and ogled. 

Jake, of course, made a whole production out of it. He grabbed the back of his shirt with one hand and tugged it off slowly, like he was in a damn commercial, shaking his hair out after. He caught you looking (again) and shot you a quick, cocky little smirk, flexing his arms not-so-subtly as he stretched.

You just raised an eyebrow and looked away, biting back a smile. So he’s the delusional kind, interesting. 

The deck was loud and alive, probably scaring off some families who too were planning on having a peaceful vacation. Hyuck and Gyu had already started their swimming competition, the one who manages most laps wins apparently, splashing around like idiots while yelling trash talk at each other.

You were still chewing your strawberry when two girls from their group wandered over—Ningning and Yunjin, both looking a little fed up with the noise.

“Hey,” Ningning offered a warm smile, plopping down on the lounger right next to Karina like she’d known you forever, “mind if we crash here? The boys are being a lot and we need a chill zone before I lose it.”

Yunjin sat beside Jungwon, flashing you a bright, friendly grin as she kicked her legs out, “I’m Yunjin. You guys look way more relaxed over here. Plus your snacks look better than whatever the guys are hoarding.” She leaned in a little, voice soft and sweet, “your swimsuit is adorable, by the way.”

Ningning nodded, bumping your arm lightly in that casual, already-friends way. “Yeah, and you three seem normal. We’ve been stuck with Hyuck and Gyu since the airport and I need actual conversation before my brain melts.”

You laughed, already liking them both, “Y/N. And please stay—we were literally just saying the same thing. Welcome to the so called safe zone.”

The four of you clicked fast. Karina started swapping little complaints about the surprise group thing, Jungwon shyly passed around more chocolate strawberries, and the conversation flowed easy. Ningning had this dry, funny vibe that had you all giggling within minutes, while Yunjin was genuinely sweet, asking about your jobs and what you were hoping to get out of the trip. 

You were mid-laugh at Ningning’s impression of Gyu hyping up the swimming race when Jake decided it was his moment.

He came strutting past your lounger, shoulders back, towel slung cockily over one shoulder, abs out and glistening a little under the sun. He was clearly feeling himself after that dramatic shirt removal, oh and worse, he caught you looking his way.

His whole face lit up with pure, delusional triumph. He stopped right in front of you, not even paying attention to where your eyes were, and did the most ridiculous thing you’d ever seen—slowly wrapping the towel around his waist like a shy maiden protecting her virtue, while still flexing his abs at the same time.

“What’s up, princess?” He called out with a smirk, “can’t keep your eyes off me, huh? C’mon, I don’t mind, you can stare.”

Wow, you’d seen your fair share of men who reeked of confidence, but this was new. Maybe you didn’t appreciate his insinuation of you staring his way, or simply his cockiness, so you rolled your eyes. 

You slowly pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, tilted your head, and gave him the most bored, deadpan stare you could muster. 

“Sorry?” You said flatly, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, moving your hand in a gesture that basically screams move aside. 

Then you proceeded to point your finger right past his shoulder, and it was rather adorable how Jake seemed like a confused little burrito with the towel still wrapped around him as he managed to turn around, his face showing clear implications that he’d be betrayed—betrayed by none other than one of his best friends. 

The sight was nice he supposes, Sunghoon in all his glory, casually knocking out pull-ups on the poolside rig like it was the most normal Tuesday activity, back muscles doing their thing without him even trying. The man looked like a sculpture that had decided to work out, a Greek god if you must. 

Jake’s expression went from cocky to completely short-circuited in half a second. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again like a fish that just realized it was on dry land. The towel slipped a little lower on his hips but he didn’t even notice. His cheeks flushed this cute, embarrassed pink that spread all the way to his ears.

Jay, who watched the scene unfold, could only muster a slow shake of his head with this long, exhausted sigh. God, he was cute when he did that—the whole gentleman looking guy with a sharp jawline thing really worked for him. You caught yourself staring a beat too long before snapping your eyes back to the main disaster.

“Oh my god, you absolute menace,” Karina wheezed, already tearing up from laughing.

Jungwon tried to hide behind the bowl of chocolate strawberries but his shoulders were shaking so hard he almost dropped the whole thing. Ningning and Yunjin slow-clapped, leaning over to bump your shoulder with a grin. 

Jake still hadn’t recovered. Then, in classic Jake fashion, he tried to save face the only way he knew how—with maximum drama and zero brain cells. He spun around dramatically and launched himself backward into the pool like he was auditioning for the Olympics. But, it was not Olympic worthy, much to his dismay. Jake showcased what youd possibly call the most tragic belly-flop you’d ever witnessed in your entire life. Arms windmilling, legs kicking everywhere, the splash so big it drenched you, Karina, Yunjin, and half the loungers like someone had set off a mini tsunami.

When he finally popped up, gasping and coughing, hair plastered to his forehead in wet, messy clumps like a sad golden retriever who’d been denied walkies, the girls around you completely lost their minds. Karina was cackling so hard she had to hold her stomach. Ningning was slapping her thigh. Yunjin leaned into Jungwon’s shoulder trying to breathe through her giggles.

Jay had decided to abandon this big dog and stay by Hoon, telling him exactly what went down on the other side of the pool, and well, Hoon could care less about Jake acting like a loser when he learns that you’d be staring his way. 

Regardless, Jake paddled straight over to the edge of the pool right in front of your lounger, folded his arms on the warm tiles, and looked up at you with those big, wounded puppy eyes. Water dripped down his face, but there was this reluctant, sheepish little grin starting to fight its way through all the humiliation.

He groaned, but like we’ve established, he didn’t give up, “I’m Jake, by the way, and I think you just murdered my ego in front of my friends, that’s not too fair, is it?”

You smirked down at him, wiping a few stray droplets off your thigh with the back of your hand. Maybe there were a few good things about Jake too, like his accent, and how he looked so—dramatically endearing in all his loser glory. 

“Y/N,” you introduce, tilting your head and taking another sip of your piña colada just to be extra, “honestly, you did that to yourself, and let’s—maybe not assume that every girl looking in your general direction is dying to see your abs. But hey, points for the splash.”

Jake bit his lower lip, eyes narrowing in that playful, competitive way even while he was still dripping wet and thoroughly humbled. He tilted his head right back at you, tongue playing with the piercing he had on the right side of his bottom lip. 

“Oh, this isn’t over,” he promises, and you wonder how he even got this confidence back within seconds, “not even close. You’re gonna be staring at me for real by the end of this trip, I swear, consider yourself seduced.” 

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm a little under your gaze, but he took that time to appreciate the beauty of your eyes—which led him to staring at you, shamelessly. Even Hyuck and Gyu had stopped to see this man make a fool out of himself. 

“We’ll see about that, Jake.”

He grinned then, and there you gave him another ten points for having a pretty smile, okay maybe he wasn’t bad to look at. He kept the smile, pushing off the edge and swimming backward a bit, still looking at you like you’d just become the highlight of his entire vacation.

You leaned back, the girls still giggling and teasing around you, sun warm on your skin, and tried (and completely failed) to wipe the stupid smile off your face.

Jay shook his head again from a few feet away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “absolute idiot” while shooting you a quick, amused little glance that made your stomach do another tiny flip. Good lord, being surrounded with such fine men was definitely not for the faint hearted. This trip was already a mess.

But damn if it wasn’t the funniest one you’d ever been on.

Turns out, a nap was exactly what you needed to get rid of jet lag, and it worked wonders, leading to the group being more energetic than before and deciding to have dinner together at this Italian restaurant they managed to find in the vicinity. 

It was a beautiful open terrace spot filled with the scent of garlic bread and wood-fired pizza. Amongst all this, the chatter felt normal like you were all good friends already, but you opted to sit next to Karina regardless, and you were about to sit down when Jake appeared out of nowhere, aiming straight for the empty chair on your right like a man with a mission. He was already sliding in with that cocky little smirk when you planted a hand on his chest and gave him a firm push back.

Quite frankly, it is rude, but it’s also funny to see Jake’s face when he’s presented with rejection of any sort. Jungwon seems to have been on the same wavelength as you, sitting down on your left—the place which Jake wanted. 

“Why’s he always around you?” Jake raises a brow, and Jungwon seems to lean closer to you, head touching your shoulder. 

“Take a wild guess?” Jungwon not so helpfully asked, making it very hard for you to control another chuckle which was threatening to escape. 

It was comical, really. Jake was also very gullible and not good at catching lies, resulting in his eyes going wide, “wait—he’s your boyfriend?” He shrieked, and took a step back. 

Jungwon nodded, ever the problem maker, and wrapped his arm around you with an adorable pout. Everyone else had stopped to observe Jake’s reaction, and also caught on to the simple fact that Jungwon was acting with you, but another thing about Jake—he can be oblivious towards the very obvious things. Gullible, yeah. 

“Okay, uh—” Jake doesn’t really get to complete his sentence because Sunghoon pulls him back and into a chair, sandwiched between Jay and him, sitting right across from you with a defeated sigh. 

Even Hyuck and Beomgyu point out how Jake appears to be a sulky puppy, golden retriever to be more precise, and he only throws two balled up tissues their way, which somehow ends up hitting the target. Then, he goes back to playing with the food on his plate while watching you chat with Yunjin and eating your share of pasta. 

“Are you getting the tingles again?” Jay muttered as he stared at Jake. 

“I am not spiderman,” he sighs, though he was getting a tingle indicating that something is not right. 

“You certainly do have reflexes for it,” Sunghoon adds before turning to wink at the pretty waitress who slid her number his way. Classic Sunghoon. 

Jake did end up trusting his reflex, though his ways were concerning. He saw the opportunity when you were indulging in a deep conversation with the girls about the new Met Gala outfits, leaving Jungwon behind with Jay, who’d somehow managed to befriend the younger man. 

One second Jay was walking ahead and explaining the origin of Pizza, and the other second he looked back to see that Jungwon had disappeared. Jake was responsible for it, of course, he’d dragged the poor boy into the alleyway despite his protests. Hyuck popped in his head the very moment Jake decided to open his mouth. 

“You swing both ways?” Hyuck asked with a smirk, “if yes then join me and Gyu tonight—”

Jake’s face was red as he pushed Hyuck out and returned his focus back on Jungwon, who was hissing like a cat (?), but yeah Jake had more important matters to discuss. 

“Are you actually dating her?” He managed to ask with a croak. 

Jungwon gave him an unimpressed look, “that’s what you dragged me for? Don’t tell me you fell in love with her at the first fucking sight?”

“Hey! I’m just curious. What’s wrong with love at first sight anyway?” Jake scoffed. 

Jungwon only rolled his eyes and proceeded to walk out, only to yelp as Jake put him in a light headlock. The conversation after that was interesting to say the least, leaving Jungwon pissed as he made his way towards your room, which was right across his room. 

You opened the door, and Jungwon wordlessly extended a piece of paper your way, “huh?” You took it from his hand. 

“God, I swear you always attract crazies,” Jungwon complained, “do you have a thing for eccentricities?” 

Well, you couldn’t deny that. The piece of paper had a number scribbled on it, and an equally messy writing that said, you’re single so we can mingle ;). 

Zero points for pickup lines truly. You had to apologize to Jungwon and hand him your favourite gummies for the torture he went through in that alleyway, and he was happy saying oh jelly! Despite it all, you felt your face heating up, Jake was truly a dork, and now you had to entertain his advances throughout the trip. 

It was adorable too. So, yeah maybe you should get your taste in men checked. 

Once Jungwon had retreated to his room for the night, you washed up and changed into your pajamas, mind still fixated upon that pout Jake held as he stared at you throughout the dinner without even blinking. You stood outside in the balcony, staring at the night sky which was blanketed with stars—something you couldn’t find in the city on a usual basis. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” 

You almost flinched, because of course it’s Jake’s room right next to you, with his balcony practically attached to yours. He looked beautiful in the moonlight, you could give him that much, yes. Hair a little tousled, a pathetic smile on his face that he deemed to be flirty. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He asked, leaning on the railing with his hand cupping his face, “or did you just miss me already?”

You let out a quiet scoff, turning back to the stars like they were far more interesting than the walking golden retriever next to you, “bold of you to assume I was thinking about you at all.”

“Liar,” he grinned watching the twitch of your lips, “you were smiling at dinner every time I looked over. I counted. Seven times.”

“I was smiling because Jungwon kept kicking me under the table trying not to laugh at you.” You shrugged, trying your best not to look his way. 

He clutched his chest dramatically, like you’d shot him, “ouch, right in the ego. Even after I gave you my number? C’mon I was waiting for a call, or a text.”

You finally turned his way, leaning closer so his breath hitched, eyes dropping to your lips because he couldn’t control himself—you looked so beautiful like this, especially in your comfy pajamas. 

“It’s been like half an hour, chill,” you chuckled. 

“A lot can be done in thirty minutes, y’know? Like kissing and falling in love and making babies.”

You raised your brow, “okay, let’s say I did text you, and it would take you two minutes to come to my room, then it’d take seven minutes for you to even initiate a kiss, twelve minutes to fall in love and another six minutes to talk about it. So, you’re saying you last three minutes in bed?” 

Jake’s eyes widened comically, “what—no! I have good stamina, I can last all night and have you—”

He rambled, and you simply stared at the grand hand gestures that accompanied him in the midst of him trying to tell you how he can fuck you so good you’d lose your voice. You nodded alongside with an amused expression to humour him, but he kept on going explaining his tongue skills and how foreplay is important in a relationship, what?

“Oh god,” you mumbled, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling him closer, which did cause him to stumble and press harder against the railing, but did he care? Certainly not when your lips brushed his enough to move his lip ring, “aren’t you getting way ahead of yourself?”

He breathed out a chuckle, wrapping his warm fingers around yours over his t-shirt, “just getting started. Call it future planning, and trust me, I can do way better than three minutes. Let me prove it?” 

You probably would let him, but not so easily, opting to tease him more with your hand sliding up, letting your thumb press against his plush lip where the piercing rested. No one had done that to Jake before, and you could physically feel the shiver that went through him at the touch. 

His breath caught sharp in his throat, a quiet, surprised “shit—” escaping before he could stop it. The cocky grin faltered, eyes widening as his grip on your hand tightened. His chest rose and fell faster, cheeks flushing deeper under the moonlight. It was cute how he looked stunned, a little dazed. 

You tilted your head, still pressing the piercing just enough to make the ring shift against his lip, “cat got your tongue now, Jakey?”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes half-lidded as he stared at you, “fuck—you’re actually evil,” he muttered, voice suddenly rough and way more breathless than before, “do that again and I’m not waiting for breakfast. I’ll climb this railing right now.”

You only leaned in to press a soft kiss right on top of his lips, however it wasn’t really a kiss when your thumb prevented the touch to happen entirely. Jake was fucked, god he truly was fucked. It was evident that you were not the shy kind, however he also did not expect such display of boldness. He also swore he fell in love a little and it didn’t take him twelve minutes by any means. 

On the other hand, your control was hanging by a thread and you couldn’t really blame yourself when the man in front of you had such nice, kissable lips. It is hard to even find men with such features so it really can’t be helped. Control, however, is the key. 

“Relax, Sim,” you whispered, almost reminding yourself to calm down as well, “you’re not climbing anything tonight.”

He let out a soft laugh, resorting to placing a peck on the pad of your thumb and holding your hand there, eyes fixated on you, taking in how you bit your bottom lip, “can’t blame a man for trying. Contrary to popular belief, I truly am trying to control myself.”

“Good, keep it up,” you murmured, managing to pull back with your fingers tracing his jaw in the process. Damn, he really is good looking now that you’re actually focusing on him. 

His eyes followed the movement, “you’re making it difficult, y’know?” He called out your name again before you could pull back entirely, “i’ll behave, okay? Just have breakfast sitting next to me tomorrow, please?”

He watched your face scrunching into a thinking one, “hm, are you gonna pay for the ice cream later then?”

“Deal,” he spoke in a heartbeat, a full blown smile gracing his face, “so worth it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at how quick he was to agree, “fine, don’t make me regret it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, hope you get dreams of me though,” he said, “cause I know i’ll see you in mine.”

You shook your head as his laugh followed you inside right as you shut the door, leaving him outside. 

The breakfast was going to be interesting. 

When Jake asked for you to sit next to him, he did not expect Sunghoon to be sitting on your other side. 

Of course everyone had gathered for the breakfast together, it was included in the trip package, so skipping it was baseless. Okay, maybe him sitting there wouldn’t have been as bad had Sunghoon just managed to shut up and not divert your attention. But no, he was cracking jokes (which weren’t funny) and you were laughing. Might as well have laughed at Jake’s misery. To add on to it, Jungwon and Karina were glaring his way from across the table. A possible reason would have been him cornering Jungwon last night and tickling him till he confessed that you, in fact, are single. 

Either way, he had to get your attention back somehow, and Jake did promise to behave but promises are meant to be broken, right? 

Breakfast was basically over, plates were being cleared, chairs scraping, everyone already stretching and chatting about the private boat tour that started in twenty minutes. Perfect timing, Jake decided. While the group was half-standing and distracted, his hand snuck under the table and landed high on your bare thigh, fingers giving a confident little squeeze, and you almost choked on your last sip of cranberry juice. 

Jake didn’t even glance at you, pretending to be deeply invested in whatever Jay was saying about the snorkeling schedule and how he hoped the boat would be a good budget one. But that smug, tiny smirk tugging at his lips? Dead fucking giveaway.

Sunghoon, still mid-sentence on your other side, paused, “you good?”

“Yep,” you bit the inside of your cheek, “just realized that breakfast is done and some people have zero sense of timing.”

Jake didn’t mind the jibe as his thumb started tracing lazy circles, “what? Can’t I say good morning properly now?” He leaned closer so only you could hear, “took me a while to get your attention.”

“Yeah, long enough for everyone to stand up,” you pointed out towards Beomgyu who was recording everything (again) and wait—was he zooming in on Jake’s hand?

He was whispering for sure and you caught some words including, “—day two, Jake has finally initiated physicality under the table like a horny teenager—” It was then when Ningning smacked the back of his head and grabbed his phone to delete the recording. 

Jake, the absolute menace, didn’t even flinch. He just gave your thigh one last affectionate squeeze before finally pulling his hand away, all innocent smiles, “what? I’m being romantic. Breakfast is over, technically. No rules broken.”

You shoved his shoulder, glancing at how veiny his hands were, clenching around nothing. Great, now your body had started reacting to him, “you’re so dead later.”

“Promise?” He whispered, eyes sparkling.

“Oh god,” you mumbled, getting up and linking arms with your best friends as you made your way towards your room to change and grab a bag full of essentials for the day. Maybe there was something in that juicy concoction because your skin was still tingling where Jake had touched (groped actually) you. 

In midst of your thoughts being full of Jake, you managed to change into a swimsuit and cover-up, and stuffed your bag with sunscreen, towels, a waterproof phone pouch, and snacks. The concept of time felt weird because one second you were in your room, and the next second Hyuck and Jungwon were dragging you, and you were on a boat. Oh wow, they really did have a great budget given how decent the price was for the trip package. 

The private yacht was honestly prettier than the pictures—sleek white hull, wide shaded deck with plush loungers, a small bar already stocked with fresh fruit platters and chilled drinks, and water so turquoise it looked edited, almost. As much as you were skeptical about the group merging, you sure were enjoying watching Karina barking sunscreen orders like a drill sergeant, Ningning and Yunjin claiming the best tanning spots upfront, Beomgyu already setting up his vlog rig, and Hyuck hyping everyone up with a speaker blasting summer hits (he was playing Justin Bieber). 

And then Jake came into view as if he’d been waiting to spot you (he was), offering his hand with a deeply exaggerated bow, “milady, allow me to assist you to the bar. Your safety is my utmost concern.”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh or comment upon his theatrics, so you simply took his hand as he walked you for like, ten seconds. He didn’t let go just yet, eyes shamelessly taking your outfit in and only a lewd whistle was left for the scene to be considered as a harassment case. 

“Eyes up here,” you said with a raised brow, truly basking in his attention because, come on, who wouldn’t want this especially on a trip?  

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice dropping into that flirty rasp as he finally released your hand, though his gaze stayed glued to you a second longer.

With a shake of your head, you sat down on the bar stool which was attached firmly to the floor, Jake followed like a magnet as Jungwon looked at him, not impressed still, before going back to sharing his chipotle with Jay. He was about to claim the seat next to yours to finally talk to you without much disturbance. 

Before he could, you patted the stool on your other side and called out sweetly, “Hoon! Come sit with me?”

Sunghoon, who had been quietly leaning against the railing a few feet away applying sunscreen to his ridiculously toned arms, looked up. A slow, amused smirk spread across his face the second he realized what you were doing. Now, Jake was his friend but he wasn’t gonna miss an opportunity to tease him, and so he sauntered over and dropped into the seat you’d offered, long legs stretching out comfortably. 

“You can’t be serious,” Jake almost whined, mouth hanging open. 

You only stifled your laugh, “what are you planning on drinking?”

He leaned an elbow on the bar, gaze flicking over you appreciatively, “was thinking of some vodka shots, wanna take them with me?”

“Im literally standing right here,” Jake announced his presence, voice pitching higher with disbelief. Jake was shirtless too, he had abs too, and pretty good arms he’d say, which had been appreciated plenty by other girls for being veiny, so why weren’t you looking at him? 

Sunghoon didn’t glance his way, flagging the bartender, “three vodka shots please, One for each of us. Unless Jake’s too busy pouting to join.”

Jake made a strangled noise, he was very close to throwing Sunghoon off the boat. Imagine being cockblocked by your own best friend, deliberately at that. The shots were served in no time, and Jake just took the other seat next to you, planning on other ways to woo you. He had been rejected by people before, yes, but to this extent? Especially after that kiss (wasn’t a kiss) last night? 

Sunghoon smoothly slid one of the chilled shot glasses your way the second they arrived. His fingers brushed yours on purpose when he handed it over, oh he had nice hands too, “bottoms up, pretty.”

Jake was highly considering pushing Hoon into the water, even more so when he clinked his glass against yours, completely ignoring Jake, then threw his shot back with that annoyingly cool, effortless tilt of his head, groaning like an uncle for some reason. You followed suit, tasting the slight sourness of the liquid, which was pleasantly satisfying on your tongue and throat, “not bad.”

Before Jake could comment upon it, Karina came to your rescue, appearing out of nowhere with Ningning and Yunjin flanking her like bodyguards, “we are stealing her. She came on this vacation with me.”

Ningning didn’t even wait for permission—she grabbed your arm and started pulling you off the stool with surprising strength, “let’s go.”

Yunjin looped her other arm through yours, grinning wide, “sorry, boys. She’s ours for the next forty minutes. Go play with your little ducklings or something.”

You did look back for a second and the sight was genuinely funny with both guys on the floor, Jake had successfully pulled Hoon down into what appeared to be a very weak fist fight, all giggles and laughter. Silly silly boys. Jake looked cute, okay? 

The girls didn’t even give you a chance to enjoy the show. Karina yanked you forward harder, laughing. “Nope, eyes front, babe. No more watching those idiots roll around like toddlers.”

“It’s actually funny though, we’ve been watching you guys and it feels like everyone has this unspoken agreement to make this trip insufferable for Jake, but he should not be around you this much,” Yunjin added with a chuckle. 

You couldn’t lie, you could already feel a soft spot building in you for the man, “it’s so easy to mess with him.”

It was easy to sit down with them and just chat about their lives. You did learn that Ningning and Yunjin worked in the fashion industry, and how their company paid for this trip, and their flatmates—Hyuck and Beomgyu, simply tagged along. 

“So, do you like him?” Jungwon asked, Jay lurking behind him like a worried dad. 

“It’s not even been two days, c’mon,” you mumbled, eating another grape and wow, it was sweet, “he’s entertaining for sure, and kinda cute when he’s not hovering around like a menace.”

Jay let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms, oh his biceps, “that’s one way to put it. I’ve known Jake since we were kids and I’ve never seen him this worked up over someone. It’s actually kind of funny to watch.”

Karina raised an eyebrow, still rubbing sunscreen on her arm, “funny or concerning?”

“Both actually,” Ningning chimed, “from what i’ve seen, Y/N seems to enjoy him making a fool out of himself.”

Jay shook his head with a chuckle, sitting next to you, “yeah, just go easy on him though. He’s harmless, really.”

Jake had decided it was the right time to make an appearance, “I can hear every single word by the way.”

“So you did hear the part where we said you shouldn’t be around her?” Yunjin grinned. 

Jake only looked at you, “nah, I only focused on the praises, and I’m very glad to learn that someone finds me cute.”

“You’re impossible,” you added but there was no bite to it. 

“Impossible to resist,” he says, and everyone groans in unison, but Jake doesn’t mind when he gets to see you smile, or laugh, or just see you in general really. 

Either way, you all managed to converse in a civil manner, talking about the new Toy story movie coming up and how Jake resembled Woody. Also, Jay was really fun to talk to, he seemed to have knowledge about everything, almost like a walking encyclopaedia, dropping random facts about the reef they were about to snorkel and the history of the islands. The conversation flowed easy, the sun warm on your skin, the boat rocking gently underneath you.

Time passed quickly like that, and you saw the cove coming into view, and Chan came into view, how did he even get on here? He greeted everyone with the same enthusiasm, grabbing masks and fins to go snorkeling. Everyone was quick to discard their cover ups, and jump into the water which was slightly cold, and you jumped in with the girls, who were quick to explore the surroundings. 

It was as if you were floating on liquid glass, taking a deep breath before ducking your head under the water, which led you to a different world altogether. Soft corals in every shade of purple, pink, and orange swayed gently with the current. Schools of tiny neon fish darted past in perfect formation, flashing silver and yellow. Bigger ones—parrotfish, angelfish, ones you didn’t even have names for, cruised around beautifully. You felt calm, water was always a calming presence for you. Between your usual work and getting no time for yourself, you’d almost forgotten how it feels to just breathe. 

Ironically, you felt like you could breathe under water, savouring every breath, every moment of it. And to no one’s surprise, Jake wanted to savour his with you. He appeared by your side, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, especially when you caught him looking at you from behind the masked goggles, eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave a small nod, then pointed down and to the right with one hand.

A little octopus was tucked into a crack in the coral, skin shifting colors as it tried to disappear. You tapped his arm to get his attention and pointed at a pair of electric-blue fish chasing each other around a brain coral. Jake’s grin was obvious even with the mouthpiece in—he nodded hard, then did this smooth little roll underwater, showing off without trying too hard. You couldn’t help watching him more than the fish for a second, because he seemed like a really good swimmer, almost like he lived in water. 

Soon enough, you kicked towards the surface to breathe again, yanking the mask off for a bit with Jake before you both joined the group yet again to explore further, and it was lovely, you didn’t wish to leave. 

However, your legs were starting to ache from all the kicking and your fingers were properly pruney by the time Chris started yelling from the boat that lunch was ready. You surfaced one last time, pulling your mask off and taking a deep breath of the warm air.

Jake came up right beside you, hair slicked back, water running down his face. He looked at you for a second, “best part of the trip so far,” he said quietly, and he was aware that there had been others around, but for him, it felt like he was exploring another world solely with you. 

You nodded, still a little breathless at the honesty in his tone, “yeah, same.”

“Ready to go back?” He asked with a crooked smile, as Hyuck swam past him woohooing. 

You nodded, “hm, kinda tired now.”

Jake laughed under his breath and fell in beside you as you both started kicking toward the boat. Karina and Ningning were floating a little ways off, arguing over who found the prettiest fish. Sunghoon was just chilling on his back like a human raft. The whole cove felt alive with noise and laughter.

And when Jake felt your eyes on him, he smirked, “I see now you’re looking my way—”

He should have kept his mouth shut, because it led to a very unfortunate situation where Jake got stung by a jellyfish. 

“Ow—fuck!” Jake yelped, yanking his mask off so fast it nearly flew into the water, “something just stung me! Shit, it burns!”

You turned toward him instantly, “wait, what?”

“It’s right here—on my leg!” He was already paddling harder toward the boat, half swimming, half flailing, even though he was a strong swimmer and could’ve easily made it on his own, but to Jake it almost felt like a shark had taken a bite out of him. 

Karina started cracking up so hard she swallowed water, “Jake, it’s a baby jellyfish! Chill the fuck out!”

Ningning and Yunjin were losing it too, “oh he’s got the worst luck ever.”

Jay, who had been floating a little further out, kicked over fast with this long-suffering sigh you were starting to recognize as his default Jake-mode, “alright, move over,” he said, grabbing Jake’s other arm while you kept hold of the first, “stop flailing like you’re in the Titanic, man. You’re making it worse.”

“I’m not flailing, I’m dying!” Jake whined, but he let the two of you tow him anyway, legs still kicking dramatically like he was trying to outrun the sting, “it feels like it’s spreading, oh god.”

“It’s not spreading,” Jay deadpanned, voice calm but clearly fighting a laugh, “you’ve had worse paper cuts. Y/N, you got him on that side?”

“Yeah, I got him,” you said, trying not to crack up as Jake leaned into you with a pout, jutting his bottom lip out. 

Between the three of you, you basically wrestled Jake up the ladder like a very dramatic, very wet sack of potatoes. He collapsed onto the warm deck the second his feet hit wood, sprawling out with a theatrical moan, water pooling everywhere.

“It’s the worst pain of my life,” he groaned, clutching his calf. “I can feel it going up my leg. Someone call my mom. And maybe kiss it better just in case—”

“Absolutely not happening,” Jay said, already grabbing the first-aid kit the crew had left out. He knelt down and dabbed some vinegar on the tiny mark with the patience of someone who’d done this a hundred times, “It’s barely even red, you’ll survive.”

You dropped down beside Jake, still dripping, and poked the speck gently, “it’s literally the size of a dot. You’re such a baby.”

“Still hurts,” he muttered, but his eyes went all soft when he looked up at you, shifting enough to rest on your lap

Chan shrieked from somewhere, “no, no, no—I can’t have a guest dying—”

“He’s literally okay—”

“—what do we do, someone needs to pee on it.”

Wait, what? Jake froze and everyone stopped to stare at the man who was pacing around thinking that Jake was dying (he was okay). The silence lasted for a second before everyone started laughing, and Jake leaned in further to hide his embarrassment. 

Beomgyu, who had been filming the whole time, lowered his phone just enough to grin at you. “Y/N should do it. She’s the one he’s been chasing all day. Makes sense, right?”

Jungwon, who had just climbed up the ladder, deadpanned without missing a beat, “why? So she can mark him up as hers?”

You burst out laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth. Jake’s head was still in your lap, and he let out a loud, dramatic groan, covering his face with both hands.

“I hate every single one of you,” he said, voice muffled, “it fucking hurts, okay? And you’re all just—suggesting piss therapy.”

Jay shook his head, capping the vinegar bottles, “we’re not peeing on anyone. It’s already looking better. You’ll be fine in ten minutes, you big idiot.”

Jake peeked through his fingers at you, eyes all big and pitiful even though the corner of his mouth was twitching, “you hear that? I’m wounded and they’re bullying me. You’re my only ally here.”

You brushed some wet hair off his forehead, realizing that you didn’t mind his dramatic ass as much. It was rather funny because Jake was indeed still a stranger, you didn’t know much about him other than the fact that he was loud, shameless, and somehow really fucking good at making you laugh even when he was being an absolute idiot.

“You’re the one who jinxed yourself by bragging two seconds earlier. Karma’s fast, huh?”

He let out a soft laugh, “can’t complain much when it led to this,” he smirked, clearly enjoying the warmth your thighs offered, and he squished his face further into it, content with the setting. 

Only for Jungwon to drag him away from you. 

Doesn’t it feel like you’re astral projecting when walking on the warm sand while the breeze flows through with a tinge of coldness? Because that’s exactly what you were feeling at the given moment. 

Jungwon was walking beside you, shrieking and hissing like a cat each time the cold water touched his feet. Everyone was spread out indulging in their own activities after the lunch—which had been peaceful for a change. You even learned that Hyuck is an amazing singer and Jay is an amazing guitarist as they did an impromptu performance, and Jake hummed alongside them. 

When Jungwon jumped again, you laughed and pulled him further away from the water, “it’s cold as fuck,” he whined, hopping sideways now. 

“You’re the one who wanted to check the water temperature,” you pointed out with a chuckle, still holding onto his arm so he wouldn’t bolt back toward the dry sand like a startled cat.

Jungwon dramatically flung himself against your side, “I changed my mind, i hate the ocean, i hate everything wet and cold. Why did I think this was a good idea?”

You shook your head, glancing back to notice how Jake was walking a little behind the boys, almost side by side with Karina, brows a little furrowed as if engaged in a deep conversation of some sort. He kept on nodding, serious for once, though his fluffy hair made it seem adorable regardless. You looked forward again before he could catch you staring his way. 

A few minutes passed like that as Jungwon made you click his pictures so he could post and boast about this vacation, and the beautiful sunset view, of course. Jungwon’s expression changed as if he already got the phantom feeling that he would be mistreated again, which wasn’t wrong actually because Yunjin and Ningning jumped out of nowhere and dragged him away despite his weak protests. 

“We need him for a second,” Karina giggled and grabbed his phone from your hand before rushing away. 

“What now—” 

To say you were confused would be an understatement, especially with the winks they sent your way. Oh, so this was related to Jake. The man had immaculate timing, because he fell in step with you right that second, turning you around so you’d stop looking at Jungwon. You were about to ask him what’s going on, but he was quick to hold up two ice cream cones with a smile. 

“I believe I owe you an ice cream,” he shrugged casually. 

It was your favourite flavour. And to your absolute delight, it was just what you’d been craving—something about having a cold treat in chilly weather, y’know?

“How’d you know?” You asked, genuinely surprised, reaching out to take it.

Jake’s fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, the cold from the cone mixing with the warmth of his skin for a second. It was such a small thing, but enough for you to notice how soft his fingers were. 

“Took a wild guess,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he knew he’d been caught.

You narrowed your eyes at him, and then realized. Well, the timing of Karina winking and the girls dragging Jungwon away was arguably the dead giveaway, “you asked Karina, didn’t you?”

Jake’s grin turned guilty, he didn’t even try to lie, “maybe.”

“You asked my best friend?”

“Had to make sure I got it right,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly as you started walking again, a small smile stretching at the cute gesture. 

The sand was cooler now under your feet, the breeze carrying that nice evening chill against your sun-warmed skin. Another thing you learned about Jake, that he kept his promises despite this one being a small promise. Another ten points for that, and five points for the flavour, which seemed heavenly on your tongue, making Jake stare at you, mind definitely elsewhere. Don’t get him wrong, he was more than happy to be the recipient of your smile, but he was only a man, eyes dropping to your mouth, the way your tongue licked a streak off your lower lip. 

You raised an eyebrow, “what?”

He only leaned, thumb brushing against the corner of your lip where the cream had smeared. Good lord, your breath hitched and a shiver pathetically traveled down your spine. You blamed it on the cold. 

“You had some right here,” he murmured, voice lower than before. His thumb lingered for half a second longer than necessary, the pad of it warm against your skin, before he slowly pulled it away.

You swallowed, “you could’ve just told me.”

“Could’ve,” he agreed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours, there was a lazy smirk on his face, “but then I wouldn’t have had an excuse to touch you.”

You clicked your tongue, trying to play it cool even though your pulse had kicked up, “smooth, Sim.”

You took another deliberate lick of the ice cream, letting your tongue linger just a little longer than necessary, and watched his throat bob as he swallowed.

“Evil,” he muttered, almost to himself, “you’re actually evil.”

You smirked, licking your lips slowly, “you started it by staring like you wanted to eat me instead of the ice cream.”

Jake let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his messy hair, only if you knew, “can you blame me? You’ve been torturing me all day—first with the swimsuit, then saving my life from that jellyfish, now this—” he gestured vaguely at your mouth, “I’m only human, Y/N.”

“Keep talking like that and I’m throwing the rest of this cone at you.”

He grinned, but his eyes were still dark, still fixed on your mouth like he couldn’t help it. The two of you kept walking until the wooden railing along the path came into view. Without saying anything, you hopped up and sat on it, legs dangling toward the sand. Jake followed right after, dropping down beside you so close that his thigh pressed warm against yours. Others had retreated back to the resort, and somehow they thought it was a good idea to push the narrative of you and Jake actually being a thing by the end of the trip. 

Were you complaining? You aren’t too sure. To be fair, you didn’t wish to ponder about the future, so living in the moment was the only option, and it wasn’t all that bad, because though he was clumsy, his smile and advances (creative ones) made it better, another story to add to your journal.

So, eventually you decided to humour him and gather some random information, “favourite colour?”

Jake was caught off guard, tongue shoved deep in the cone as he stared up, “uh—blue?”

“Favorite late-night snack?”

“Ramyeon. Why are we—”

“Biggest turn-off in a person?”

Jake let out a surprised laugh, “you’re really doing this right now?”

You just raised an eyebrow, waiting, licking another stripe of ice cream while keeping eye contact.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking equal parts amused and flustered, “Uh—people who don’t like dogs. I don’t know, this feels like a trap.”

“So if i say i’m a cat person, you’ll stop chasing me around?” You challenged and you swore he looked like a puppy now. 

“Probably not,” he admitted, “i’d suffer in silence knowing you won’t like my pet.”

It was so apt for Jake to be a dog dad, and you were sure you’d like his pet. You only laughed at his pouty expression while Jake took in your beauty, enjoying his time with you way more than he expected. Of course, Jake was used to being around women, but then he never chased them like this, not because he had ego, god no, but because he never found himself wanting to get to know them, not like he wants to learn about you. 

You kept going, “favourite movie snack?”

“Popcorn with way too much butter,” he confessed, and before you could speak up again, he continued just so he could take the lead, “you ever let someone go down on you so slow it feels like they’re trying to memorize every inch?”

Oh my god. Out of everything that could’ve come out of his mouth, you did not expect that, granted the conversation was still light hearted and you weren’t sure how to deal with the duality of this man. He could only stare at your parted lips as if he wanted to find the answer himself. Jake knows he’s mostly clumsy and the kind people don’t take seriously, but he wasn’t lying when he said he’s good in bed, which also includes the dirty talk, so the point still stands. 

He leaned closer, “cause i’ve been thinking about it since the balcony last night. Wondering how you’d sound, how you’d taste, how long you’d let me stay there before your legs start shaking.”

Those filthy fucking words. You’d only read them in fanfics or books as such, wondering if you’d be the recipient of it someday, not knowing it’d be on a beach, during the sunset on your trip with a stranger who was more than open and willing to provide you with such pleasure. 

Jake only continued, knowing well of the effect he had on you now, “tell me, hm? Are you the type to grab my hair and pull me closer, or the type to try and stay quiet until you can’t anymore?”

How he kept on saying it so naturally was a mystery to you, but you did know that if you’d stay here for a second longer, you’d probably pounce on him, or worse, beg him to show you. Which is why you jumped up, surprising Jake who watched you. 

“Race you back to the resort!” You shouted, already bolting down the path, cheeks burning and laughter bubbling out of you from pure flustered panic.

Oh Jake was delighted, a big smile gracing his face as he got the exact reaction he wanted out of you, “fuck—get back here!” He screamed, already sprinting after you, sand flying under his feet. 

He was fast, faster than you’d expected, which was a dumb assumption given how athletic he appeared to be. You heard him closing in, his laugh getting louder, closer, until suddenly his arm wrapped around your waist from behind. You let out a surprised squeal as he lifted you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing, spinning you around as his bright laugh rang right in your ear.

“Got you,” he said, still chuckling as he set you back down, but he didn’t let go right away. His arms stayed looped around you, chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard from the run.

He swore you fit perfectly in his arms, and you bit your bottom lip, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. He finally loosened his hold, stepping back just enough to look at you, eyes bright and full of that same mischievous warmth. 

“Next time,” he added, tapping your nose lightly, “I’m not letting go so easy.”

“Who says there’s a next time?” You asked, a little breathless. 

Jake only leaned in, thumb gently pressing against your lower lip the same way you’d done to him last night. His eyes stayed locked on yours, “I do.”

He was tempted to do this without the interruption of his thumb, to actually feel the warmth of your lips, to taste the lingering taste of ice cream on you, but he contained his need, opting to press his plush lips upon yours but not fully touching, simply a hint of brush against yours. Regardless, you both closed your eyes for that split second, letting it linger for a while while your heart raced with this newfound warmth. 

A few seconds later, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, thumb still lingering on your lip.

“Next time,” he whispered, emphasis on the absolute confirmation of it, “I won’t stop at almost.”

He stepped back with that bright, cocky grin, eyes sparkling like he knew exactly what he’d just done to you.

“Race is over, baby,” he smirked lazily, “and I win.”

You were no stranger to Jungwon’s childish antics and his over protectiveness when it came to his friends. It was clear in the way he practically acted like a bodyguard, or well, a blanket as he wrapped himself around you, escorting you towards the jeep just to make sure Jake doesn’t hover around you again. 

Poor Jungwon had been tortured too much, between Jake’s relentless flirting and the way the golden retriever had spent the entire previous day finding new and creative ways to get under your skin (and hands on your waist), Jungwon had apparently decided enough was enough. He clung to your side like a koala with separation anxiety, dramatically shielding you from any potential Jake-shaped threats as you walked.

“He’s not going to kidnap me,” you sighed, trying to drink your coffee, but Jungwon made it impossible for you to move.

He sneered, “he literally did that yesterday.”

“It was just to give me ice cream, c’mon,” you sighed, and immediately grinned as he loosened his hold so you could take another sip. 

“At the cost of me being dragged away! God forbid i want to spend time with you and Karina on our holiday,” he whined, staring back to glare at Jake—who almost tripped. 

It was a rather bright morning with everyone chattering excitedly about the waterfall, amongst other activities that Chan had planned for you all. Everyone was in various stages of hike-ready—loose clothes, backpacks slung over shoulders, sunglasses on, the easy lazy energy of people who had nowhere to be except exactly here.

“Male loneliness epidemic can’t be that bad—”

“I can hear you, y’know,” Jake called out cheerfully as he jogged to catch up, “can you not plot my demise this early in the morning? That’s cold, Jungwon, I thought we were friends.”

That earned him a glare, “you’re the enemy.”

“Y’know they say it’s better to keep your enemies close, also—hey, princess! You look beautiful,” Jake started and you bit your inside of the cheek to prevent a laugh from escaping.

Thankfully, you’d reached the jeeps that waited for the group in the driveway with coolers and extra water bottles stacked in the back. Chris was doing his usual enthusiastic headcount as if it was a school trip while everyone started piling in without much order.

You climbed into the middle row of the second jeep first, sliding toward the window. Sunghoon immediately dropped into the seat right beside you, stretching his long legs out “morning, this seat’s mine now.”

Before Jake could even make a move to claim the spot on your other side, Karina slid in smoothly from the other door and settled on your left, flashing you a wicked little grin as she adjusted her sunglasses. Now, Jake did try to follow, but Jungwon was faster. He grabbed the back of Jake’s t-shirt with both hands and started dragging him backward toward the first jeep like an angry mother cat.

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Jungwon declared loudly, “you’re riding with me, menace. I’m not letting you sit next to her for twenty whole minutes of thigh-touching and whispering. Boundaries, Jake. We’re enforcing boundaries today.”

Jake let himself be dragged, laughing the entire way, but he twisted around dramatically to look at you, “i’ll be there soon, don’t miss me too much,” he screamed as the door slammed shut behind him.

It was a bumpy ride, full of investigation from Karina, meanwhile Sunghoon tried to click a few selfies but—he almost appeared to be a grandpa (?) with how he handled his phone. 

“Let’s click one together to torture Jake,” he mumbled, holding the phone way too far from his face like he was trying to read a menu in the dark, “come here, he’s gonna lose his shit when he sees this.”

The photo came out perfect but Sunghoon wasn’t even done there, “yeah I should post this, it’ll ruin his whole day.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be your friend?” Karina asked with a laugh.

“This is how friendship works,” Sunghoon shrugged, taking his shades off to show how serious he was, and truly, it was kind of funny. 

By the time the jeeps pulled up at the trailhead, the air was already warm and heavy with the smell of wet leaves and flowers. Everyone spilled out stretching and complaining about the ride. Jake was waiting near the path like he’d been counting down the seconds, and the second he spotted you he was already walking over—until Sunghoon casually showed him the phone screen.

Jake stopped mid-step. His eyes narrowed at the photo, then flicked to Sunghoon, then back to you. It was evident he was trying not to pout, yet he couldn’t resist smiling when he saw a gentle, teasing smile on your own face. Yeah, he wasn’t going to let Jungwon or Sunghoon steal you away anymore. 

“Wow, okay,” Jake said, letting out a dramatic breath as he walked over, “I get kidnapped by Jungwon for one ride and you guys are already taking couple selfies?”

Sunghoon slipped his phone back into his pocket with a lazy shrug, “what can I say? We make a cute trio.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Jake muttered, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. He reached for your hand without hesitation, lacing your fingers together, “you having fun torturing me or what?”

You squeezed his hand once, looking elsewhere on purpose, “a little bit.”

Jungwon was about to intervene (again) but thankfully, Jay grasped his attention (Jake thanked the lords) to talk about the latest F1 race, the two of them started walking ahead, deep in conversation, which gave you and Jake a moment of peace.

Then again, there wasn’t any peaceful time with Beomgyu around, who zoomed in specifically to click pictures of your intertwined fingers, and giggles from the girls who truly believed that you and Jake would be together by the end of the trip. Whatever happened to summer flings, oh and by the way, this wasn’t even a fling so far. 

The hike began in earnest after that. The trail wound lazily through dense, sun-dappled jungle, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, blooming orchids, and distant salt from the sea. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in shifting golden coins, painting dappled patterns across the dirt path. Jake never once let go of your hand. If anything, his grip grew more secure as the trail narrowed, his thumb occasionally brushing slow, absent circles against your skin.

Regardless of how that little action made your heart flutter, you ended up in a conversation with Hyuck, and Jake didn’t mind the fact that you weren’t paying attention to him, only because you weren’t pulling away from his touch either. The trail eventually opened into a small clearing where a fast, silver-veined river cut across the path. The only way forward was a precarious line of moss-slicked stepping stones, water rushing white and cold around them.

Chris clapped his hands with his usual boundless energy, “okay let’s do buddy system! Cross safely everyone!”

You practically witnessed Jake’s eyes sparkling, his bottom lip bitten as he crouched down. Ignorance must truly be a bliss because this man wanted to carry you to the other side, on a path that was full of moss and slick. 

“You cannot be serious, Jake, that’s fucking dangerous!” You exasperated. 

Right then, as if to prove you wrong, Jay passed by you both with Jungwon on his back—and he appeared way to jolly, moving way too much for Jay’s liking but he managed, somehow. 

“See?” Jake grinned up at you, eyes bright with mischief. “Even Jay’s doing it. Just trust me, okay?”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but Jake was already rising smoothly, hands locking beneath your thighs before you could properly protest. The cold spray misted your skin as he stepped onto the first stone with deliberate care. His back was warm against your chest, steady despite the treacherous surface beneath his feet. Halfway across, he turned his head just enough for his cheek to brush yours.

“Enjoying the ride?” He asked, trying to mask his own enjoyment. 

You muttered something under your breath about reckless golden retrievers, but you didn’t tell him to put you down. Instead, your arms tightened slightly around his shoulders, and Jake’s answering chuckle vibrated through both of you. When you finally reached the other end, he was gentle to put you down, however not letting go of your waist.

“What?” You raised your brow, amused yet again while also reeling with aftershocks of his strength. 

“Pretty,” he mumbled with his lazy smile. 

Your smile widened, a finger reaching out to boop his nose, which surprised him, even more so when your lips brushed his ear, “you’re prettier.”

Jake tries to maintain his composure but it seems as if you don’t make it an option for him, as if his blush can’t be helped with that gentle smile of his. It’s such a lovely colour on his face, causing your own smile to turn gentler, well, before Karina coughs loudly and drags you away, again, much to Jake’s dismay. 

He doesn’t intrude again, not when you settle into another deep conversation with the girls and smile wider. Jake assumes that he’s simply gone mental with how endearing his stare is towards you, not having felt this level of devotion (that’s what he names it) for anyone before. 

As he continued to dote on your beauty, Jay and Sunghoon came up from behind to grab him and drag him a bit far to have some man to man talk, whatever that meant honestly? 

“Bitch, are you in love?” Jay asked bluntly the second they were out of earshot, arms crossed while Sunghoon leaned against a tree with that signature knowing smirk.

Jake sputtered, cheeks flaring even redder, “what? No—I mean, maybe? Shut up, it’s too early to say so.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing back toward where you were laughing with the girls.

“Whatever happened to we’ll fuck like there’s no tomorrow on this trip?” Sunghoon questioned next, now walking forward as the waterfall came into view. 

“Last time I checked, you guys haven’t been getting laid either, and i’m a changed man” Jake deadpanned. 

The boys stopped, staring at each other with a sigh, and the only way to divert attention was to tease Jake yet again, “yeah, you’re basically cooked. Can’t believe you’re in love on a vacation when you’ve never even had a girlfriend before.”

“He’s never been with a girl before?” 

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop by any means, but their voices carried just enough on the breeze as you walked a few steps ahead with the girls. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh, pretending to be very focused on adjusting your swimsuit strap under your top. Jake’s flustered sputtering was adorable.

Before the teasing could escalate further, Jake’s eyes locked onto yours across the small distance. A mischievous glint replaced the embarrassment in a heartbeat. He broke away from his friends mid-sentence and jogged over to you, grabbing your hand with zero warning.

“C’mon,” he grinned, clearly to distract you from his non-existent exes, “enough talking. Let’s make this memorable.”

You barely had time to yelp as he tugged you toward the edge of the rocks overlooking the deep pool beneath the main cascade. The waterfall roared beautifully ahead, mist sparkling in the sunlight, “Jake—wait, what are you—”

“Trust me!” He laughed, squeezing your hand tighter. Without another second of hesitation, he jumped, pulling you with him.

Like you’d said before, there was never a boring moment with Jake because now, you both were jumping off the low cliff together and into the turquoise water with your arms wrapped around each other and a big splash. The shock of the cold made you gasp as you surfaced, laughing breathlessly. Jake popped up right beside you, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes sparkling with pure delight as he shook the water out like a happy dog.

Chris was horrified to say the least, “what the fuck are you two doing?” His voice boomed from above, poor man looked as if he was one second away from fainting, “this is not the designated jumping zone! Oh god, my guests are in danger. My blood pressure—”

Sadly, no one was interested in safety. In fact, they were riled up seeing the scene and were more interested in following suit. Hyuck and Beomgyu immediately followed, cannonballing in and creating even bigger splashes. Ningning and Yunjin were giggling as they jumped more carefully, while Karina dragged a shrieking Jungwon along. Even Jay and Sunghoon jumped in, shaking their heads at Jake’s antics but clearly entertained.

Jake, when he swam closer with that wicked, playful glint in his eyes, “cold?” He teased, voice low as his gaze shamelessly dropped to where your wet clothes clung to your body, “or is that just me making you shiver?”

You splashed him right in the face, “keep staring like that and I’ll drown you myself, Sim.”

He wiped the water off with a dramatic gasp, then grinned like an idiot, shaking his hair out again and sending droplets flying toward you, “worth dying for. Have I mentioned how fucking good you look all wet?” His tone was pure mischief, but the way his eyes lingered a second too long sent a spark of heat through you despite the cold water.

Before you could retort, Hyuck yelled, “Chicken fight! Losers buy dinner!”

Jake’s eyes lit up, “you’re riding me,” he declared, not even bothering to word it well, already ducking underwater so you could climb onto his shoulders. His hands gripped your thighs firmly as he stood, way steadier than he had any right to be. The position put your core right against the back of his neck, and you could feel every shift of his muscles.

“Hands lower, pervert,” you warned, tugging his hair lightly, making him groan, or was it a moan?

The chicken fight turned into glorious warfare. Jake moved with surprising agility, laughing as he dodged Beomgyu and Hyuck’s clumsy attempts to unseat you. You clung to his head, thighs squeezing around his shoulders for balance, he looked rather pleased with that, both of you shouting and splashing like children who had discovered freedom for the first time. Water flew everywhere, rainbows shattering in the spray, until Hyuck finally toppled backward with a dramatic yell and the game dissolved into breathless laughter.

Eventually, Chris started rounding everyone up, his cheerful energy now laced with mild panic as he took in the state of his group—dripping and entirely too pleased with themselves.

“Oh no—oh no, no, no,” Chris muttered, eyes wide as he surveyed the scene, “you’re all soaked. The jeeps, the seats are gonna be a mess I swear.”

The trek back was a soggy, hilarious affair. Everyone’s clothes clung uncomfortably, shoes squelched with every step, and the jungle path felt twice as long when you were leaving a trail of water behind like a pack of mischievous river spirits. Jungwon kept complaining about his ruined socks, while Karina, Ningning and Yunjin were already planning how to salvage their hair.

Jay, being the gentleman he is, came up to you, “let me carry your bag,” he offered, hand already extending to grab it from you. 

Before you could even respond, Jake huffed—an actual, audible huff, and snatched the bag from where it had been slung over your shoulder, “I got it,” he said quickly, already speeding up a few steps ahead like he was on a mission, “no need, Jay. I’m stronger anyway.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, “possessive much?”

“Protective, big difference,” he spoke, not bothering to turn around, clearly interested in speed walking all of a sudden. 

You could only stare, because Jake was odd. He was odd in this endearing way that made you wanna squish his cheeks and tease him to no end. No, no. You need to contain yourself instead, and so you did (you tried, at least). Lunch became an impromptu picnic on a sun-warmed outcrop overlooking the sea—slightly damp sandwiches, sweet mango slices passed hand to hand, and you wondered just how much storage Beomgyu’s phone had to be clicking these many pictures. 

It was a good day, a great day even, almost cinematically inspirational for the ones who were a sucker for positive vibes and slow motion captures of laughs and smiles, because that’s how everyone felt—you more than others with that one smile constantly being in front of you. What a pretty fucking man. 

By the time you reached the resort, the sun had done its work. Everyone was finally dry, hair wild from the wind, bodies heavy with that good kind of exhaustion that comes from a day well spent. The group split off toward their rooms with tired goodbyes and loose plans for dinner.

You had barely stepped out of your bathroom after a well deserved warm shower when a soft thud was heard coming from the balcony. You tightened the towel around your chest and padded over, still dripping a little. Jake was already there, one hand braced on the railing, looking ridiculously at ease in a loose black tank and shorts, hair messy from the wind. The second he spotted you, his face lit up. 

He reached for the handle of the sliding glass door and gave it a gentle tug. Locked, you didn’t move to open it, in fact, you watched him try with amusement. 

“C’mon, let me in for a sec,” he said, grinning as he pressed his forehead lightly against the glass, “I’m not even dripping water anymore.”

You leaned against the doorframe on your side, arms crossed, “nice try. You can stay right there.”

“Gosh, still so hostile towards me? And here I thought we were getting somewhere,” he mumbled in fake sadness, eyeing you up and down, knowing he was going to start mumbling praises mindlessly, “you look good, fresh out of the shower, pretty, yeah.” 

“Flattery’s not getting the door unlocked, Sim.”

He pouted, “alright, fine. Stay in there then, but meet me downstairs in thirty? The others are probably gonna drag everyone to that overpriced restaurant, and I don’t wanna share you tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile, “why should I ditch them for you?”

“Because I’m more fun,” he said simply, like it was obvious, “and I wanna walk around with you without Jungwon glaring holes in my head or Beomgyu taking pictures every two seconds. Just—you and me.” He paused, tilting his head, “say yes. I’ll even let you pick the weirdest souvenir.”

You didn’t answer right away, just watched him through the glass. He waited, patient for once, eyes steady on yours, but he wasn’t all that patient when he stepped closer, right up against the door, and pressed his lips to the glass in a soft, lingering kiss—right at your eye level, mumbling please. When he pulled back, he gave you that crooked little smirk, already stepping away toward the railing like he was about to hop back to his own balcony.

Oh Jake Sim, he was too good at this, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he’d been in multiple relationships before. You smiled, biting your lip hard, and before he could turn fully, you leaned in and pressed your own lips to the exact same spot on the other side of the glass. The faint fog of your breath bloomed there for a second.

Jake caught it. His eyes widened, then crinkled with the biggest, dumbest grin you’d seen all day. He touched two fingers to his mouth, pointed at you, and laughed quietly as he swung one leg over the railing.

“Thirty minutes,” he called back, “don’t stand me up, princess.”

Jake was nervous, however he was also good at hiding his nervousness, but can you blame him when you knocked his breath away each time you smiled his way. Just like now. 

You’d changed into a breezy sundress that caught the warm evening breeze, and every time you glanced over at him with that easy, teasing smile, Jake felt his chest tighten in the best possible way. He kept his hands in his pockets, playing it cool, but his heart was doing laps.

Maybe he was overthinking, testing his luck if you must, but he wished to kiss you tonight—consensually of course. He’d been riding the high of your almost kisses from the past few days, those charged little moments that left him replaying them in his head like a loop. But he wasn’t about to push. Not when things felt this good already.

The path to the night market wound along the edge of the resort, lanterns flickering softly overhead. Jake stole another glance at you, the way the dress swayed around your legs, and cleared his throat.

“You sure you’ve not done this before?” You asked, bumping his shoulder as you walked.

He blinked once to break his train of thoughts, “done what?”

“Never had a girlfriend before,” you shrugged, “cause you sure know what you’re doing.”

“Is that to say you’re my girlfriend?” Jake smirked all up in your face.

That earned him a roll of your eyes, “blasphemous accusation. I didn’t even mean it that way, you know it.”

Jake clicked his tongue, “well, I’ve never had a relationship before, I only know how to charm people, just as i’ve been charming you.”

“Who says I’m charmed?” You shot back, challenging him. 

He opened his mouth with some retort ready, but you were quick to tease him further, “whatever happened to your plan of fucking a new girl each night here, hm?”

Now, that caused Jake to almost trip over nothing, “what—”

“Jay told me,” you shrugged with a chuckle, “and c’mon, I’m not judging you, I lowkey wished the same for me—well, before you decided to ruin it.”

“Me?” He stopped dead in the middle of the path, eyes wide. Did you really wantJake as much as he wanted you?

“Yeah,” you said, concealing your laughter to be as serious as you could muster, “I wanted to fuck Hoon.”

Oh absolutely not. Jake didn’t hide his disdain as he furthered away from you, “out of everyone, you wanted my best friend, seriously? That sucks to hear.”

Behind all those smiles and laughter, Jake was a bit insecure, granted he forced himself in your life, forced himself to be there so you’d notice him without much knowledge of what you truly wanted. Did he mix up your signals? Got too much into his head or lucid dreamed it all?

You hurried after him and caught his wrist, “hey, wait.” He slowed but didn’t turn around right away, so you stepped in front of him, and gosh he was actually clenching his jaw and looking elsewhere, almost like throwing a tantrum. Regardless, you wanted to clear things up.

“You’re such a baby.” You went up on your toes and kissed his cheek softly, letting your lips stay there for a second, feeling his body loosening up at your display of affection, yet he didn’t turn around right away, eyes fixed off to the side.

You didn’t let go. Instead, you cupped his cheek gently, turning his face toward you, “c’mon, look at me.” Your thumb brushed his skin, “it was a stupid joke. You know, it lasted not even an hour when you jumped into the pool. I spent the whole day with you, didn’t I? Laughing my ass off, letting you carry me across that river like some dramatic prince, almost kissing you like three different times already. I saved your ass from that jellyfish, not Hoon. Remember that?”

Jake’s jaw unclenched a little. The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a smile and you took it as a yes. He was internally cooing at how adorably you took it upon yourself to reassure him when he damn well knew it was a joke, so he let you continue. 

“Exactly,” you beamed, “so why the hell would I want anyone else when I’ve got you being all golden retriever and annoying in the best way?” You leaned in closer to his ear, “you’re the one I keep saying yes to, dummy.”

That finally cracked him. A real smile broke through, small at first, then that full crooked one you loved, eyes softening as he looked at you properly, “you’re actually the worst,” he muttered, but there was no bite left in it.

Before he could say anything else, you rose up again and kissed him properly on the cheek one more time, dangerously close to his lips, your mouth brushing the edge of his in a teasing almost. Jake’s breath hitched.

He gave in completely then, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, pulling you flush against his chest like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. His chin rested on top of your head for a moment, “I’m not letting you go tonight,” he murmured against your hair, you could already imagine him pouting, “not to Hoon, not to Jungwon, not to anyone. You’re mine for the rest of this market, yeah? Maybe longer.”

You laughed softly into his shoulder, hugging him back just as tight, “possessive much?”

“Can’t be helped,” he said, squeezing you once more before loosening just enough to look at you, that recipient of that smile back in full force

You grinned and the two of you started walking again, his arm staying firmly around your shoulders like he needed the contact. The jealousy had melted away, replaced by that warm, clingy energy you were starting to get addicted to.

Jake steered you toward the food stalls, still a little extra touchy. You loaded up on fried chicken, chili-lime corn, and of course, ice cream. Eating while walking got messy fast, full of stolen bites and quiet laughter.

At the dart stall he got stupidly focused, “bet I win you that giant turtle.”

He missed most shots. You laughed so hard you had to hold onto him. One lucky throw got him the silly blue octopus keychain instead.

“Dr. Otto,” you named him proudly, “I like this better anyway,” you chimed, making Jake chuckle.

“You like spiderman?” He asked, already greedy to know more about you.

You nodded, popping another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth, “yeah, since I was a kid. Something about swinging around the city looks fun as hell.”

Jake’s eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the best gift ever, “no way, me too! I used to watch the old movies on repeat. My brother and I would fight over who got to be Spider-Man when we played.” He bumped your shoulder gently, his hand lingering on your lower back as you walked. “Guess I’m dating a nerd now. Good to know.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile, “dating? Bold assumption, Sim.”

He only shook his head with an endearing smile, walking alongside you. It wasn’t anything fancy, but you both didn’t need fancy, it was the company that mattered, and right now, you couldn’t have asked for a better one. 

The conversation kept flowing as you wandered deeper into the market. Jake’s hand stayed on your lower back most of the time, warm and steady, thumb occasionally tracing small circles through the thin fabric of your sundress. Every little touch sent a quiet spark through you.

You stopped at a small jewelry stall where delicate shell necklaces and charms caught the lantern light. Jake picked up one with a tiny starfish pendant, holding it up to your collarbone without putting it on. His fingers brushed your skin, light but deliberate, sending goosebumps down your arms.

“Looks pretty on you,” he mumbled mindlessly, causing your lips to twitch up, “it pulled me towards it, just like you’ve been pulling me since the day one.”

Your lips parted at how proud Jake was at that line, not even realizing how cheesy it sounded. At the end of the day, you were more than happy to indulge in his whims and fancies, “you’re really going all in tonight, huh?”

He bit his lip, tongue playing with his piercing as he paid for the necklace without thinking twice, stepping closer. He fastened the necklace for you, nimble fingers careful against the back of your neck. His breath ghosted warm over your skin as he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear for a second, “looks perfect on you.”

You turned to face him fully. The air between you felt thicker, charged. You reached up and adjusted the starfish so it sat right, your fingers brushing his chest. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice softer. For a moment you just stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the phantom feeling of all those almost-kisses making your pulse race.

In hindsight, moments like these made everything feel effortless. Can’t be helped when he looked at you like that.

Eventually the crowd thinned and you reached the wooden railing where the market met the beach. Waves rolled in dark below, fairy lights twinkling behind you. Jake leaned beside you at first, then pulled you in front of him, arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. Fuck—you liked it. You liked the heat he held in his body and heart, you liked how solid and warm he felt pressed against your back, like he was anchoring you to the moment.

His breath tickled your ear as he murmured, “this is nice. Just you and me and the ocean, no one interrupting for once.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken up so soon, jinxing his peace in the process as your phone started ringing, causing him to groan and for you to stifle your laugh. The caller ID displayed a cat emoji, it was Jungwon’s call. 

You answered with a sigh, “hey, Won.”

“Where the hell are you?” Jungwon’s voice came through sharp “we’re all sitting at dinner and Karina said you vanished right after your shower, Jake is missing too. Did Jake kidnap you again? I swear to god, if that idiot is—”

Jake’s arms tightened around you instantly. You could feel his smirk against your shoulder before he even moved. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the side of your neck in a warm kiss. The cool metal of his lip piercing brushed your skin first, sending a shiver racing down your spine. Your eyes drifting close at the feeling of Jake, and you swore he was out to kill you.

“I’m fine, relax,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m just at the night market. It’s loud out here, sorry—”

Jake didn’t give you a chance to finish. He kissed lower, open-mouthed and slow, sucking gently right below your ear. You wondered why did he have to be so skilled with his mouth, making you breathe harder with barely two kisses. 

“What was that?” Jungwon asked immediately, suspicion thick in his tone, “Y/N, are you okay? Is he with you right now?”

“Nothing—just tripped on the sand,” you managed, but your voice was already breathier. Jake’s nimble fingers spread across your stomach, pulling you tighter against him as he found that sensitive spot again and sucked harder, his piercing dragging teasingly with every movement.

A tiny, involuntary whine slipped out of you.

Jungwon went quiet for half a second,“was that—oh my god. He’s doing something, isn’t he? I fucking knew it. Jake, if you’re listening, I’m going to murder you—”

You tried your best to not react, to not embarrass yourself further, you really did try, but Jake had a point to prove. He moved to the curve where your neck met your shoulder, lavishing it with filthy, open-mouthed kisses. He sucked deep enough to leave marks, one of his hands slipped just under the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the expanse of your hip. A proper, breathy whimper tore from your throat before you could bite it back.

Before Jungwon could scream again, you mumbled breathily, “gotta go, talk later.” Another gasp left your lips as you hung up. 

The second the call ended, the night air felt ten degrees hotter. You spun around in Jake’s arms so fast it made your head spin, “you absolute fucking menace,” you hissed, clearly looking fucked out, and Jake swore he could get used to this. 

His grin was lazy as he licked the piercing slowly, eyes blown black with want, “looked inviting, couldn’t stop myself,” he rasped, “you sound so fucking pretty when you’re trying not to fall apart for me, fuck.”

Before he could say anything else, you shoved him back hard against the railing. Your hands fisted in his shirt as you attacked his neck with the same filthy hunger he’d shown you. Your mouth latched onto the warm, salty skin under his jaw, sucking hard, tongue swirling as you marked him right back. Jake groaned deep in his chest, the sound guttural and raw, one hand flying to grip the back of your head, fingers threading tight in your hair.

You kissed lower, open-mouthed and desperate, sucking bruises along the strong column of his throat. When you reached the junction of his neck and shoulder you bit down, then soothed it with long, wet strokes of your tongue. Jake’s hips jerked forward, pressing his hard cock against your stomach with a low, wrecked moan.

You both should’ve been thankful it was an empty area, not that you cared anymore, but to focus on anything else was a bit tricky at the moment. 

Jake groaned, “you’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You pulled back just enough to hover right in front of his lips. Your mouths were so close that every ragged breath mingled. His pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed dark. The thick outline of his cock throbbed against you through his pants. That phantom feeling of all the almost-kisses burning between you felt so carnally torturous you could barely think straight. Yeah, you were both completely fucked.

You stayed right there, teasing, your mouth so close but never quite closing the gap. Jake made this desperate, broken sound in his throat, leaning in like he was dying for it. You pulled back just enough, smirking against the edge of his lips, your fingers slipping under his shirt to rake your nails lightly down his abs.

“Payback,” you whispered, voice husky and dripping with want.

Jake’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, a low groan rumbling in his chest as your nails dragged over his skin. His hands flexed hard on your waist, hips pressing forward once more so you could feel exactly how affected he was. Then you stepped back, both of you breathing hard, faces flushed, lips swollen.

Jake ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to pull himself together, “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, eyes never leaving yours, “you’re really gonna kill me.”

It almost felt like an edging session with how many almosts you’d managed to have so far, but it also made things interesting. 

You bit your lip, feeling the heat in your own face, your thighs still pressed tight together, “come on, we should head back before Jungwon actually comes looking with that taser he’s got.”

“He’s got a taser?” 

“Well, let’s not ask why,” you chuckled, letting Jake interlace your fingers with his. 

The walk appeared peaceful for the onlookers, who were completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. You just prayed it wouldn’t reach to the point you’d drag Jake into your bedroom yourself, like some horny rabbit. Regardless, you both were good at pretending and that led to some normalcy where Jake learned more about you, your job, the little cat you have, the food you like, the drinks. Basically, everything one discusses on their first date. Was this a date? It felt like one. 

Jake was beaming, swinging your hands together with his boyish smile when he realized that you lived one hour away from him, already planning on meeting you once you go back (you didn’t wish to leave this place), but his enthusiasm warmed your heart, enough that you weren’t opposed to the idea of continuing whatever this was after the trip. 

“Your lips are swollen,” you pointed out, wondering how they even got so plump and kissable. 

Jake touched his lips, “if you keep pointing shit like that then I’m not gonna make it back to the resort without dragging you into the trees somewhere.”

The words sent another pulse of heat through you, but you both kept walking like everything was perfectly fine. Like your panties weren’t ruined and his pants weren’t tented.

“You’d like that too much,” you teased, glancing sideways at him. The fairy lights were behind you now, but the flush on his cheeks and the way his jaw kept tightening were impossible to miss.

“Way too much,” he murmured, pulling you closer to him. 

“Jake, we’re supposed to be walking back normally, remember? Pretending we’re not both stupidly turned on right now,” you managed to let out. 

Jake glanced at you, eyes dark, “yeah? How’s that going for you?” His thumb stroked the back of your hand, sending sparks up your arm.

“Terribly,” you admitted with a breathless laugh, “you’re hard, aren’t you?”

He groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “painfully. And you’ve got my marks all over your neck. Looks fucking good on you, by the way.”

The walk back felt endless in the best and worst way. Every brush of shoulders, every shared glance, every quiet laugh carried heavy tension underneath. Jake kept stealing looks at your lips, at the necklace he’d given you resting against your collarbone, at the way your dress moved against your thighs. You couldn’t stop staring at the fresh hickeys you’d left on his throat, the way his tank top clung to his chest, the obvious bulge he kept adjusting when he thought you weren’t looking.

By the time you reached your rooms, thankfully not running into Jungwon, Jake looked at you expectantly. Your heart was racing, and god knows every cell within you was aware that you’d grown to like Jake more than you intended. 

You stepped closer, rose onto your toes, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, right at the corner of his mouth.

“Good night, Jake,” you whispered against his skin, letting your lips brush there for a second longer than necessary. Your hand rested on his chest, feeling how fast his heart was pounding.

He nodded, swallowing hard. His eyes were dark, lips parted like he wanted to say something important—maybe stay, maybe fuck this, come here, maybe something even more dangerous. But nothing came out as he just stared at you, jaw tight, that desperate hunger written all over his face.

You gave him one last small smile and slipped inside, closing the door behind you. The second you were alone, you leaned against it, trying to catch your breath, body still buzzing.

Barely two minutes passed before you heard the soft thud on your balcony. Then a knock—hesitant at first, then firmer, and it kept on going as you walked over, heart hammering, and slid the glass door open along with the curtains.

Jake stood there, breathing hard, hair messy from the wind, eyes wild. He didn’t wait for an invitation. The second the door was open wide enough, he stepped inside, cupped your face with both hands, and slotted his lips against yours like he’d been starving for it. You didn’t think twice before kissing him back just as fervently, feeling the warmth of him, the cool metal of his piercing, the lingering taste of ice cream on his lips. It felt perfect, igniting a hunger within you. 

His mouth moved against yours with raw need, tongue sliding hot and demanding past your lips as he backed you further into the room. A low groan rumbled in his chest when you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

One of his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped your waist, pressing your body flush against his. You could feel how hard he still was, thick and insistent against your stomach as he walked you backward until your back hit the wall.

When you moaned into his mouth he lost it a little more, hips rolling forward, grinding against you with a broken sound that went straight between your legs.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.

“Couldn’t fucking wait,” he rasped, “not another second.”

“Don’t stop then,” you whispered, pulling him into another kiss, lips parted as he sucked into your mouth hungrily, your hands roaming under his tank top, nails dragging down his back.

“Let me stay the night,” he begged against your skin, “i’ll be good, jus’ wanna kiss you, hold you.”

He leaned in again before you could answer, and you laughed breathlessly into his mouth, and he was savoring every second.

“Jake—”

Another kiss, softer but no less hungry.

“I promise,” he murmured, lips brushing yours with every word, “just you and me in that bed. My arms around you, kissing you right here.” He pressed his mouth to the corner of your lips, “and here,” another kiss, deeper, “all night if you let me.”

You were trembling against him, heat pooling low in your belly, “okay,” you whispered, “stay.”

The relief in his eyes was instant. He kissed you hard, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you toward the bed. He laid you down gently, crawling over you without breaking the kiss, his body settling between your thighs.

For the rest of the night, he kept his word—mostly.

You had consumed your fair share of holiday romance movies before, and each time you were left wondering how anyone could fall for someone within such a short span of time. That’s probably the beauty of human connections—the universe just pokes your heart and says, yes, that’s the one. 

Jake was pretty sure he felt that in his bones, though the initial strategy was to seduce you, he somehow managed to make an absolute fool out of himself each time, and yet you stayed with him with that pretty smile of yours, causing him to stay undeterred on his mission. 

Regardless, now that the sunlight had managed to creep in your room, and your eyes had adjusted enough to find Jake’s sleeping figure clinging onto you, you didn’t know what to feel. He was beautiful in the ways the poems are beautiful to readers. It scared you, how he wore his heart on his sleeve, how he didn’t hesitate to provide you with his undivided attention, how he simply wanted and basked in your attention. 

It was the inevitable outcome really, especially because Jake stayed true to his word and didn’t go beyond kissing despite how much he craved it. He kissed you as if he couldn’t breathe without breathing you in, and somewhere along the lines, he managed to drift into dreamland with his lips pressed against yours. You had to maneuver his head to rest against your neck instead, and even through the sleep, he managed to snuggle closer as if you’d been his home all this while. 

Now, looking at him, you can’t help but trace his features with the tip of your finger, starting from his eyebrows, down to his pretty cheekbone, and the perfect slope of his nose. Your actions were soft, well timed so as to not disturb him, yet it was hard when you traced his bottom lip, the piercing that you still feel the ghost of on your lips.

With a deep breath, you moved your hand back only for Jake’s fingers to wrap around your wrist and bring it back. You gasped softly at how fluffy he appeared, smiling faintly as he pressed a lingering kiss on the pad of your thumb, urging you to cup his cheek with a smile and you complied without much hesitation. No words were exchanged, no promises of what was to come, but the actions were enough for your mind to solidify that it was more than a holiday fling.

It was the perfect morning. 

For Jungwon, it was borderline preposterous. While Jake was beaming, chomping on his omelette on the other table with the guys, Jungwon and the girls had managed to arrange yet another interrogation session with you, this time demanding answers for the hickey(s) on your clavicle. The answer was obvious, but it’s the details they wished to gather. 

“You could’ve informed us,” Jungwon huffed, tearing the bread into two and offering you one, “abandoning us on a holiday, wow!”

“I don’t understand how you still treat her like a kid when she’s always around doing one night stands,” Karina deadpans, successfully making Jungwon huff, but that’s the least of her worries. Wiggling her eyebrows, she leans in, “was he good? Is he big? Does he moan?”

You almost choked out a laugh at how serious they were, even Yunjin and Ningning had leaned in now, as if you were giving out classified information. 

“We literally just kissed, and yes his lips are as soft as they look, and no the piercing doesn’t hurt me, and yes he gave me those hickeys, and no we didn’t go beyond that, and yes he moans,” you answered, and they seemed satisfied at how you managed to answer all questions without them even asking half of them. 

Ningning sighed dreamily, “it’s so romantic! It would have been better if you were with a girl, but I guess he’s as pretty as one,” your whole group looked his way and he almost choked and still managed to smile, making you chuckle, “as long as you’re happy. Oh you’re growing up so fast.”

Karina shakes her head at Ningning, “it’s not even been a week since we met,” and then smiles, “but i’m glad we did.”

Yunjin chuckled, “you guys are like my sisters already.”

While this adorable conversation went on, you looked back at Jake, who was struggling as Beomgyu and Hyuck opened up a few buttons of his shirt to tease him about the possessive marks you’d left all over him. This group was truly hilarious. 

After that, you didn’t find much time to be around Jake, much to his dismay, as you and Karina got ready together for the day. The group reconvened at breakfast with Chris dramatically announcing the plan for the final full day.

“Water sports extravaganza, babies! We got Jet skis, banana boats, parasailing, the works. Last day means we go out with a bang!” Everyone cheered, already buzzing with energy despite the slight hangovers from last night’s chaos (they’d gone clubbing).

Jake’s eyes found yours across the table immediately, that bright, hopeful grin breaking through even as Jungwon tried to wedge himself between you two on the walk to the vans, “you’re riding with me on the jet ski, right?” Jake called out, ignoring Jungwon’s glare.

“Obviously,” you shot back, and the way his whole face lit up made your chest feel warm.

The beach was breathtakingly beautiful, full of energetic people who probably had the same plans to enjoy their own holidays. Somehow, you managed to look into Jake’s eyes, they were so expressive, shining bright in a way that you felt pretty under his gaze. Jay had told you that Jake dotes on you, not caring about the timeframe you shared here, he was gone. And maybe, so were you. 

It didn’t take much time for your group to go and rent out everything, while Jake stood on the side doing mental gymnastics before dragging Jay and whispering something in his ear, joining his hands in a pleading action, which caused Jay to sigh. So, when Jay came over to distract Jungwon and take him away, you weren’t shocked, but amused. 

Jake wasted no time, grabbing your hand with undeterred enthusiasm and practically dragging you toward the jet skis. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath, that sweet desperation bleeding into his voice as he helped you onto the back of the bright red machine. His hands lingered on your waist a second longer than necessary, thumbs pressing into your sides like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Missed me already?” You teased, “we literally slept together.”

“Not enough,” Jake breathed out, “maybe if you touched my face for longer,” he drags out, making you roll your eyes. But hey, Jake loved that feeling, loved your gentle caress—it was something he’d never felt from anyone before.

He helped you sit on the Jetski, not that you needed help, he simply wanted an excuse to touch you. Then, he swung in behind you, pressing his chest firmly behind you as he reached around to grip the handlebars, arms bracketing you completely, locking you in his own little world. 

“Ready?” He asked, lips brushing your ear.

You nodded, turning around to see Karina and Hyuck smirking, you only winked their way, “yeah, let’s go.”

 The engine roared to life, and the sudden burst of speed had you laughing as the jet ski cut through the sparkling water, wind whipping your hair and salt spray cooling your skin.

For a while he just drove, letting you enjoy the rush, but you could feel the tension in his body, the way his thighs bracketed yours. Eventually he slowed the jet ski in a quieter stretch of water, far enough from the group’s screams that their shouts were just distant echoes.

“Turn around for me,” he murmured against your ear, your breath hitching with how you felt it down your spine. 

You shifted carefully, swinging your legs over so you were facing him, knees on either side of his hips. Jake’s hands settled on your waist, steadying you as the jet ski bobbed gently on the waves. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and so close you could count the droplets clinging to his lashes.

“Been wanting to do this since we left the room,” he breathed. His thumbs traced slow circles on your hips, sending warmth pooling low in your stomach, “you have no idea what you do to me. Call it astral projection—like my soul leaves my body every time you smile at me like that.”

You laughed softly, but it came out a little breathless, “you’re so dramatic.”

“Only for you,” he chimes in with a crooked grin, nose brushing yours, “merciful fate, I suppose, that you ended up on this trip with me. Otherwise I’d still be wondering what it feels like to have you this close.”

“Let’s not think about that,” you mumbled, “cause i’m here, with you.”

His hands slid higher, wantonly possessive as they traced up your sides under the edge of your life vest. The kiss that followed was slow and deep, full of desperation and all the tension that had been building since last night. His lip piercing dragged cool against your bottom lip as his tongue slipped into your mouth, one hand cupping the back of your neck to tilt your head exactly how he wanted.

When you moaned softly into the kiss, Jake groaned in response, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his. The jet ski rocked beneath you with the gentle waves, but neither of you cared. His forehead stayed pressed to yours even when the kiss broke, both of you breathing hard, lips brushing with every exhale.

You’d lost the count of how many times Jake had kissed you already, but it was never enough, never. 

The distant shouts from the group eventually pulled you both back to reality. Jake helped you turn around again, arms wrapping securely around your waist as he drove back toward the main area, his chin resting on your shoulder and lips occasionally brushing your neck just to make you shiver.

When you rejoined the others, the group was already hyped up and moving on to the next activity. Beomgyu and Hyuck were wrestling over who got to drive the banana boat while Chris yelled instructions no one was listening to. You did feel bad for Chris, so you ended up listening and he spoke with his hand on his heart, touched. 

“Banana boat time!” Karina called, waving you over, whispering urgently about the movie-esque stunt you and Jake pulled. Jungwon immediately appeared at your side like a loyal shadow, grabbing your arm. “You’re sitting with me,” he declared, shooting Jake a pointed look, “safety reasons.”

Jake’s jaw tightened for half a second, but he forced a grin, “sure, man. Safety first.” The petulant resolve in his eyes said otherwise.

The banana boat was pure chaos. You ended up sandwiched between Jungwon and Jake somehow—Jungwon on your left looking determined to protect you, Jake on your right with his thigh pressed firmly against yours. The second the boat started speeding, everyone was screaming and laughing, gripping the handles for dear life.

Every sharp turn sent the whole group sliding. Jake used every opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist, steadying you while his fingers slipped under the hem of your life vest, tracing warm circles on your skin. Jungwon kept trying to wedge himself closer, muttering, “don’t you dare let go of the handle, Y/N.”

You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, water spraying everywhere as the boat whipped around. Jake leaned in during one particularly wild turn, lips brushing your ear, “this would be a lot more fun if it was just us,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.

When the boat finally flipped (as banana boats always do), Jake made sure to pull you up first, hands lingering on your waist in the water, bodies pressed close for a second longer than necessary while Jungwon sputtered nearby, wiping water from his face and Yunjin dragging him away. 

The rest of the afternoon blurred into more water sports. Parasailing had you and Jake soaring high above the ocean together, wind in your hair, his hand tightly holding yours as he whispered how he didn’t want the trip to end. Chicken fights in the shallows had you on his shoulders again, thighs clamped around his neck while he gripped you steady, smug every time you helped take down another team. Flyboarding attempts turned into comedic disasters—Beomgyu failed spectacularly, providing endless entertainment for everyone.

Through it all, Jake stayed close, finding excuses to touch you, to pull you aside for quick kisses when the group was distracted, his glances making heat pool low in your stomach. By the time you were going back, Jungwon was clinging onto your left arm, Jake mirroring him on the right. Beomgyu capturing every bit of it with the biggest smile he could muster. 

The group trudged back to the resort, everyone was exhausted, sunburned, salty, and glowing with that particular brand of vacation happiness that bordered on melancholy. You barely had time to rinse the sea from your skin and slip into an acceptable dinner dress before a knock sounded at your door. Jake stood there, looking unfairly devastating in a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair still slightly damp and tousled, a small bouquet of wildflowers in hand.

You tried not to show your excitement but failed miserably. He had been clear that he wished to dine with you, alone. So by default, you ended up telling Karina to make sure Jungwon doesn’t follow, and sadly, Sunghoon had caught Jake as he was getting ready. The chances of them appearing there were high now, yet you didn’t know what Jake had planned. 

“You look—” Jake took a deep breath as you leaned against the doorframe, urging him to continue, “—you, uh, fuck—so pretty. You look beautiful.”

The words tumbled out of him like he’d been holding them in all day, raw and unguarded. His eyes traced over you slowly, from the way the dress hugged your figure to the faint marks he’d left on your collarbone, lingering there with a flicker of possessive heat. He stepped closer, offering the wildflowers with slightly shaky hands.

“You’re gonna kill me tonight,” he added, “I’ve been thinking about this since the jet ski. Just us.”

You took the bouquet, the sweet scent of the flowers making you smile up at him, “you don’t look too bad yourself, Sim. Ready to finally have me alone?”

He looked rather hungry as he spoke, “more than ready.”

He extended his hand, and when you placed yours on top of his, he lifted it up to kiss your knuckles. You swore if he kept on doing this, you’d have to kidnap him and take him home with you. The walk was quiet, also because Jake appeared to be nervous, glancing your way every few seconds to sense any sort of discomfort. 

The path wound down toward a secluded curve of the beach, lanterns flickering like fireflies caught in the palms. The distant hum of the resort faded behind you, replaced by the rhythmic hush of waves and the soft rustle of leaves. Jake’s thumb kept stroking the back of your hand in slow, absent circles, his grip warm and steady despite the slight tremor of nerves.

When the spot came into view, your breath caught. A small table had been set intimately in the sand, draped in soft linen and illuminated by strings of fairy lights woven through the palm fronds overhead. They cast a warm, golden glow that danced across the waves like scattered stars. Your favorite dishes from the trip waited along with a chilled bottle of wine. Soft music played faintly from a hidden speaker, something gentle and romantic that blended seamlessly with the ocean’s murmur.

“Oh my god,” you whispered in awe. Jake had managed to arrange this in the midst of the busy day you had, and you were truly rendered speechless. 

When Jake realized that you, in fact, liked it, he proceeded to pull your chair out for you, helping you get comfortable before he proceeded to sit right across from you. Well, he wished to sit right next to you, but then he wouldn’t be able to look at your face, which would be a problem, so he chose to be right in front—which appeared to be another problem simply because now he couldn’t hold your hand comfortably or kiss you. 

Jake couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so clingy, so handsy. Of course, his friends can attest that he likes to hug, likes to cuddle, but in a romantic aspect, Jake had never gotten a chance to do so. So he stared, almost as if he was gravitating towards you, and how you styled the necklace he’d gotten for you. He had to bite down his smile seeing the accessory adorn your neck. 

It was only then he realized that he should probably get up and serve you wine, your eyes following his moves. It felt like the old movies that did not have audio, the storyline being purely based on acting and how much their actions can convey. Now, it was your turn to stare at how serious Jake was, passing you your drink, pushing your plate towards you and filling it up with small portions of dishes, also keeping a bottle of water on the side, and coconut water just in case you didn’t wish to consume alcohol. 

That’s how Jake was fundamentally at his core—affectionate and kind, the guy who had somehow managed to become the subject of your affections in such a short span of time. When he finally saw how you sat with sparkly eyes, your face resting on your palm, he almost felt shy. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, finally sitting down again, while also asking you to proceed to eat first. 

You stare at him for a moment longer, “you’re just beautiful,” you whispered, and he froze, not expecting any compliments, especially being called beautiful. 

“Where’s this coming from?” He chuckled, but the faint pink on his ears completely betrayed his nonchalance.

You shrugged, “just saying.” It was true though, and before he could start stuttering, you managed to stab a piece of pasta and extend your hand as he helplessly stared at it with his pulse spiking, because how did such a small gesture make him so nervous. 

He did proceed to eat it, pointedly looking into your eyes, the intimacy of the moment wrapping you both in a warm bubble. Only then he started to act like his own self with a point to prove. You had fed him, so he made it his personal mission to do the same tenfold. 

“You’re just feeding me,” you chuckled, and he nodded with painful seriousness. 

“Of course, that’s what I’m here for,” he replied earnestly, making you fall for him a little more, “besides, that’s the whole point of dinner.”

“You have to eat as well, baby,” you mumbled with a smile, watching the exact second he realized that you’d used an endearment for him.

So, Jake did what he had to since he couldn’t bear the distance anymore—he dragged his chair towards you and plopped down right next to you with a huff, gulping as he stared at you, “you’ve got something—”

He didn’t bother pointing it out, simply leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, swiping his tongue with a gentle caress to clean the sauce. Your eyes drifted close at the sensation, because each kiss with Jake felt like a new feeling altogether, “Jake,” you breathed out, grabbing his arm.

“Yeah,” he whispered against your lips, not pulling back in sweet desperation of breathing the same air as you. 

However, a very obvious flash caught your eyes, and Jake didn’t have to know who was behind it, so he groaned, dropping his head on your shoulder as you turned your head to look at the source of your disruption. 

It was a sight truly—Beomgyu half-crouched behind a palm tree, phone raised like a spy on a mission. One by one the rest emerged from their terrible hiding spots—Jungwon looking guilty, Karina and Ningning giggling behind another tree, Hyuck with a triumphant grin, Sunghoon leaning casually against a rock, almost acting as one, and Jay trying to drag everyone inside but to no avail.

Much to Jake’s dismay, you laughed and they took it as an invitation, suddenly sprinting towards your table, minus Jay who was walking with a headache forming. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jake groaned yet again, wrapping his arms around your waist possessively, pulling you closer as the group swarmed in with zero shame, dragging extra chairs and stealing plates (where did they even get that from?), “I hate every single one of you right now.”

And just like that, Jake’s perfect dinner date with you turned into a group karaoke session. 

It took five minutes and several pinky promises that appeared to be more serious than the unbreakable vow before Jake succeeded to monetize your time by offering these idiots his card and permission to use it at the bar.

He’d also tamed Jungwon with a private conversation that apparently went well enough for Jungwon to walk over to you stiffly and give his blessings (what was that about?). Overall, you were thoroughly entertained watching Jake go around and try to make sure the night worked out well while you chatted with girls. 

“He’s—actually so lovely,” you’d mumbled with warmth, and they pulled you in a hug. 

Karina got emotional, “i’m so happy for you, you deserve the best,” she’d murmured softly, Yunjin and Ningning nodding alongside. But then they proceeded to treat you like a kid and talk about protection, and so you’d grabbed Jake’s hand and pulled him away from the group, which by the way, continued to scream your way in crazy enthusiasm about how to spend the night together. 

“Run,” Jake mumbled, grabbing your hand and pulling you away. You only chuckled and followed him along with butterflies in your stomach, as if you’d turned into your teen self and were experiencing your first hand holding session with your crush. 

“This feels more like a chase than a date,” you breathed out, finally stopping. 

Jake only gave a tired smiled, “I swear, these idiots won’t let us live in peace,” he muttered, pulling you closer with a serious look, “I just wanna spend time with you.”

“Now you can,” you whispered, letting him rest his head on your shoulder yet again. 

“At this rate we won’t go beyond kissing,” he groaned and you almost laughed at how wounded he sounded, “I haven’t even touched your erogenous zones yet—”

You pulled away, horrified, “you did not just say that—”

“Why not? I didn’t wanna sound crude—”

“So what’s next? You call your dick a phallus?” You teased, amusement swirling in your eyes and it was Jake’s turn to be appalled. 

“What—no!” Jake burst out, eyes wide with mock horror as he clutched his chest like you’d just insulted his firstborn,“I have standards. It’s called a cock, thank you very much. Or Jake Jr. on special occasions.”

You snorted so hard you nearly choked on your own laughter, doubling over on the narrow trail. The rest of the group had finally disappeared, leaving the two of you alone (finally) in your hallway. 

“Jake Jr.,” you repeated with your brow raised and a slow nod, “please tell me you don’t actually call it that in bed. I’ll drown myself in the next river.”

He stepped closer, that signature cocky grin returning full force, “only if you’re very, very good and ask nicely. Otherwise it’s just the reason you’re gonna walk funny tomorrow.”

“Like you have been? You look cute all blue balled,” you poked his chest, still grinning.

Jake clutched the spot like you’d wounded him mortally, “wow, i’m being insulted instead of being rewarded?”

Lord help you, you’d grown to actually love his dramatics, and how he had no trouble taking jokes upon himself, furthering them even with nothing but wide smiles—really fucking pretty smiles, “you’re such a saint,” you whispered, pulling him back and closer.

“A very horny, very patient saint who just wants to spend time with you without an audience. Is that too much to ask?”

You fished your keycard out, waving it teasingly in front of his face, “then stop monologuing and get inside before someone sees us.”

He practically vibrated with giddy energy as the lock clicked open. The second you were both through the door he kicked it shut, spun you around, and pressed you gently against it with a bright, infectious laugh, “finally. No Jungwon, no Sunghoon, no Gyu vlogging our every move. Just you and me.”

You looped your arms around his neck, matching his smile, “poor Jake Jr. must be thrilled.”

Jake’s cheeks flushed with that happy, horny glow as he nuzzled into your neck, peppering it with quick, silly kisses that made you squirm and giggle, then he mumbled your name with such warmth, you couldn’t help but look into his eyes lovingly. 

“I really like you,” he confessed, looking ready to attack you. 

You can’t get enough, you really can’t, “show it then, Jakey.”

With your head falling back against the door, Jake wastes no time in sucking a mark on your neck. He wants to mark every bit of you, claim every inch of you. His mouth is hot and eager, sucking hard enough to pull a breathy laugh from your throat that dissolves into a moan when he grinds his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how thrilled his now half-hard cock is. 

“Fuck—finally,” he laughs against your skin, the sound giddy and wrecked at the same time, like he still can’t believe he gets to have you like this. His hands roam everywhere, sliding under your dress to squeeze your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he rolls his hips in slow, teasing circles, “been dying to do this without someone fucking interrupting us.”

You tug his hair, yanking his mouth back up to yours, and the kiss that follows is long and messy—open-mouthed and desperate, tongues sliding wetly, teeth clacking when you both grin too wide mid-kiss. There’s nothing elegant about it, simply pure, giddy hunger. You consume each other, licking into each other’s mouths like you’re trying to taste every laugh, every teasing word from the entire trip. Jake groans happily when you suck on his tongue, that little piercing cool against your own.

He tastes like sugar and salt from the beach, and he kisses like he’s been holding back for days—which he has. You still can’t get enough. Your hands push his shirt up and off, nails dragging down his back as he shoves your dress higher, palms greedy on your thighs. Every touch makes you both laugh breathlessly, little giggles breaking through the moans because he keeps making these delighted, happy noises every time his fingers find a new inch of skin. He is happy and not shy to show it. 

“You want me?” Jake murmurs hotly, trying to coax you into confessing something that’d sooth his nerves. 

He looks undone, a man at your command, lips parted and swollen and so very inviting. You feel drunk, licking into his mouth, “need. I need you.”

The reaction was instantaneous because how can Jake not obey you? He wants to see you cry out of pleasure, to reduce you into a puddle just for him. Nevertheless, his hands travel right up, tracing up your thigh, hand splayed enough to avoid the spot where you needed him the most, only travelling all the way up your backbone, tracing it with his knuckles as you leaned into him further, letting him wander freely. 

He unclasps your bra with a flick of his fingers, the fabric loosening under your dress, and lets out a low, shaky exhale when his palms slide beneath it to cup your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, thumb brushing over your nipple until it tightens under his touch. He pushes the dress higher, bunching it around your ribs so he can mouth at your chest through the loosened bra, tongue hot and insistent, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand works the other. The cool metal of his piercing drags over sensitive skin with every slow swirl of his tongue, making your back arch sharply.

“Your body is burning,” you gasped, carding your fingers into his hair. 

Jake hummed against you, the sheer possessiveness of his hold grounding you, “fucking feel feverish, all because of you,” he mumbled, nipping at your sensitive nipples.

Your eyes stayed locked on his face, one of his hands wrapping around your thigh to hold you in place—it was then you realized you’d been squirming, arching and urging him to take more of you, offering yourself on a silver platter if you must, “already? What will you do when you fuck me, hm?” 

Jake smirks, pinching your nipple in a manner that had you moaning openly, a sound so heavenly in the midst of an act so sinful. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of pleasure. “When I fuck you?” he repeats, voice low and rough, thumb still rolling the sensitive peak slowly. “I’m gonna take my time with you first, spread you open and use my mouth until you’re dripping down my chin and begging for more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing, your control slipping. Jake only pushed your thighs apart to accommodate for the intrusion that was to happen. 

“Then,” he continues, the words vibrating against you, “I’ll slide in so fucking deep you feel me for days. Slow at first, so you can feel every inch, then harder when you start falling apart around me.” He nips at your nipple, then soothes it with his tongue. “I want to watch your face the whole time. Want to hear exactly how you sound when you fall apart on my cock.”

His hand on your thigh tightens for a moment, then begins to roam—sliding slowly upward, fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner thigh, brushing teasingly close before moving higher. He cups you over your panties, feeling how soaked the fabric is, and lets out a low groan against your breast as his palm presses firmly, rubbing slow circles right where you need it.

You’re breathing fast, fingers twisted in his hair, hips shifting restlessly. Jake lifts his head just enough to look at you, lips wet and swollen, eyes burning.

“Sounds good to you, hm baby?” He murmurs, voice hoarse, thumb still circling your nipple, “or do you want me to be more specific?”

You knew it, you knew Jake was good at talking, especially in the bedroom. The words so utterly filthy, almost as if you were dreaming of this, but no. Jake was real, and smitten with you, absolutely ready to please your whole being and soul, because that would bring him just as much pleasure if not more, “k—keep going, fuck—”

Jake stood up straight, lips brushing yours, “the sky looks pretty, doesn’t it?” He offers, confusing you to no ends at how the conversation shifted to that.

“What?” You let out a broken sigh, his grip on your pussy tightening in a squeeze.

“We shouldn’t miss it, baby,” he chuckles, pulling you into him, and suddenly, you were being lifted up and carried toward the open balcony doors. The cool night breeze hit your heated skin as he stepped outside with you wrapped around him, your legs locked at his waist, dress bunched high around your hips.

He pressed your back against the cool metal railing, the ocean stretching out dark and endless below, the sky above scattered with stars. One arm stayed wrapped under your ass, holding you up effortlessly, while his other hand stayed between your thighs. Eventually, you sat down on the thick and sturdy railing. It was only then Jake stepped back to admire you. 

“Fuck, look at that view,” he murmured, unbuttoning his shirt as you appreciated the view right back. 

To Jake, he saw a painting. The dark blanket of sky twinkling with stars all around, moon brightening up the sky. From Jake’s angle, it was right behind your head, making it appear like a halo, “you’re so damn stunning,” Jake found himself breathing hard, your disheveled state doing it for him, sitting there with legs spread, dress bunched up, bra halfway down revealing your tits he’d left bites all over. 

Perfect. You were perfect, carved out perfectly to fit into Jake’s arms, his hands, his fucking heart. You shivered at how dark his gaze was, or maybe the chilly winds, you didn’t know anymore. He bit his lip so hard he tasted metal. 

He stepped back in, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wider on the railing. The cool breeze made you shiver as his warm palms contrasted against your skin. Without another word he leaned in and consumed your mouth, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to taste every moan you’d ever made for him, you only licked the blood off of him. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. In one sharp tug he tore the lace apart, the sound of fabric ripping cutting through the night air. You gasped against his mouth, breaking the kiss.

“Jake—someone could see us,” you whispered, voice shaky with both panic and arousal, glancing toward the other balconies. You were sure there had been other couples who did this, but for you, being semi public and so bare was a first. 

He only chuckled, like the possibility amused him more than it worried him, “let them,” he murmured, nipping at your bottom lip, “let them watch how fucking pretty you look when I touch you.”

He pulled you down from the railing, spun you around in one smooth motion, and pressed your front against the cool metal. His open shirt fell against your bare back, the warm skin of his chest and stomach flush to you, heat bleeding through the thin fabric of your bunched-up dress. One arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, while his other hand slid between your legs from behind.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned into your ear, two fingers gliding through your folds before pushing inside you in one smooth thrust. He curled them immediately, finding that spot that made your knees weak, “look at the view, baby. Look at the ocean while I fuck you with my fingers.”

You moaned, head falling back against his shoulder as he started pumping slowly, your hand grabbing his arm to hold on to something, fingers digging in so deep, your nails left crescent marks all over. 

The cool railing pressed into your hips, his open shirt warm against your back, the contrast making every sensation sharper.

“That’s it,” he whispered hotly against your ear, fingers thrusting faster, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles, “I want you to remember exactly where you were when I made you cum for the first time, yeah?”

You whimpered, hips rocking back against his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you mixing with the distant waves, “Jake— fuck, it’s too much, someone’s gonna hear—”

“Good,” he groaned, biting down gently on your earlobe as he curled his fingers harder, “let them, they’d thank me for it, such pretty moans for me, fucking hell. You’re clenching around me so fucking good, baby. You like this? Being fucked open right here where anyone could look up and see you falling apart for me?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you gasped, one hand gripping the railing, the other reaching back to clutch his thigh. “Don’t stop.”

Jake groaned, pressing his hard cock against your ass, grinding slowly as his fingers kept thrusting, “I can feel how close you are,” he rasped into your ear, voice filthy, “cmon, baby. Let go all over my hand while you stare at the ocean. I want to feel you soak my fingers.”

His words, the steady thrust of his fingers, the way his open shirt kept brushing your bare back—it all pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around his fingers as pleasure crashed through you in heavy waves.

Jake didn’t stop, fucking you through it with slow, deep strokes, murmuring praise against your neck until you were trembling and breathless against the railing, “so fucking good for me,” he whispered, kissing the side of your throat as you came down, thighs still twitching around his hand. He slowly eased his fingers out, bringing them to his lips and licking them clean with a low, satisfied groan. Then he turned you around, cupped your face, and kissed you deep—letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he walked you backward into the room.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the urgency took over. You stumbled together, lips locked, hands roaming. Your hip knocked into a side table, sending a glass and a small lamp crashing to the floor. Neither of you cared. Jake kicked the debris aside with a laugh against your mouth, pushing you further until the back of your knees hit the bed.

You fell onto the mattress together, still kissing, tongues sliding hot and messy. Jake sat up just long enough to shove the rest of your dress up and off, tossing it somewhere behind him, “you’re so needy,” you chuckled. 

Your bra followed next, “yeah, fuck i’ve been waiting.”

His fingers were quick and eager as he finally stripped you completely bare as if he was possessed, “then wait a little more.”

You didn’t let him stay in control for long. The second he leaned back down, you pushed at his shoulders, flipping him onto his back beneath you. Jake let out a surprised but delighted sound as you straddled his hips, your bare cunt pressing against the hard bulge in his pants.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hands instantly gripping your waist.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned down and dragged your mouth across his chest, kissing and licking every inch of warm skin. When you reached one of his nipples, you sucked it into your mouth, tongue swirling before you bit down gently. Jake hissed, hips bucking up against you.

You moved to the other side, sucking harder, leaving a dark mark right above his heart. Then lower—you dragged your teeth and tongue across his abs, sucking possessive bruises into the defined lines there, marking him the way he’d marked you.

“Shit, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding into your hair, “you’re gonna leave marks all over me.”

“Good,” you whispered against his skin, sucking another bruise just below his ribs, “I want everyone to see them tomorrow.”

You sat up slightly and slid your hand down his torso, palming the thick, hard outline of his cock through his pants. Jake groaned deeply, head falling back against the pillows as you rubbed him slowly, feeling him throb under your touch.

“Fuck—your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips rolling up into your palm, “been so hard for you all day. You have no idea.”

You squeezed him through the fabric, stroking him firmly as you leaned down to kiss him again, “I think I have some idea,” you murmured against his lips, squeezing him a tad tighter, “you’ve been pressing this against me every chance you got.”

He was flushed the prettiest shade of pink. No touch, no kiss had made him feel this fucked out before, and you were just getting started, sitting up on him with a fucking goddess bestowed upon him to bless his body. He groaned, eyes shifting to the night stand, a bottle of red wine kept there, “baby, I’m thirsty,” he bit his bottom lip, “won’t you help me?”

You followed his line of sight to see what he was hinting at, wondering if he wanted to drink wine before furthering the act, only for him to stare at your mouth, followed by your cunt, licking his lips to insinuate the meaning behind his words. 

“You’re such a freak, Sim Jaeyun,” you breathed, half laughing, turned on beyond belief, “just how many people have you done this with?”

Jake only chuckles, grabbing your thighs and switching positions in a second, towering over you now, “you’d be the first, if you let me, my love.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he didn’t let you ponder much as he chased your lips again. It was admirable how Jake couldn’t, for the life of him, stay away, as if addicted to the feeling of your lips, or maybe just you. He’s a simple man, he knows what he wants and goes for it.

“Tell me you don’t want it and i won’t do it,” Jake offered like the gentleman he is, his eyes however, not so gentle. 

You shifted onto your back against the rumpled sheets, heart hammering a wild staccato as you drew your knees up and parted your thighs in deliberate invitation. He knelt between your spread legs like a man at the altar. His hands, large and veined, smoothed reverently up the insides of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until your muscles quivered beneath his touch. His dark eyes tracked every movement, lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them as he watched you reach for the bottle of deep crimson wine.

“God, you’re really going to do it,” he breathed, voice rough with awe, “look at you—so fucking good for me.”

You held his gaze as you tilted the bottle, letting the first slow, chilled stream pour into the warm valley between your breasts. The wine traced a decadent path down your sternum, pooling in the delicate dip of your navel before splitting into teasing rivulets. A shiver tore through you at the stark contrast, making your breath catch in a soft, needy gasp.

Jake’s hands gripped your thighs tighter, thumbs pressing deep into the flesh as he leaned in closer, mouth hovering just above your dripping core. He waited, eyes locked on the glistening trail with predatory focus, every muscle in his shoulders coiled with anticipation, watching the ruby wine cascade directly over your cunt. The first cool drop kissed your swollen folds, sliding languidly between them.

The second it reached there, his mouth was there. A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat as he slurped the wine straight from your pussy, tongue dragging broad and slow through your slick heat, chasing every crimson droplet mixed with your arousal. The obscene sound of him drinking you down sent a violent jolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Fuck—Jaeyun,” you moaned, back arching sharply off the bed. Your fingers tangled harshly in his hair, hips rolling instinctively against his face as he devoured you. His tongue plunged inside you, curling, stroking, then flicked up to circle your clit with precision that made your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

You poured again, slower this time, watching the wine flood over your pussy and drip down to your ass. Jake groaned in pure bliss, the vibration traveling straight to your core as he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, two thick fingers sliding deep into your clenching heat without warning.

“Shit—yes, just like that,” you gasped, voice breaking, “god, you look so fucking pretty drinking from me.”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny and stained dark red, eyes glassy with lust, “pour more, I want to drown in you, I need to.”

Your hand shook slightly with arousal as you obeyed, tipping the bottle once more. The chilled stream hit your clit directly this time, making you cry out sharply. Jake was ready—mouth open, tongue extended, catching every drop before sealing his lips around your throbbing bundle of nerves again. His fingers curled relentlessly against that perfect spot inside you, stroking with devastating rhythm while he drank you down like fine wine.

“The housekeeping will be horrified tomorrow,” you managed between broken moans. 

Jake chuckled darkly against your cunt, “I’ll apologize to them in person,” he rasped, voice wrecked and dripping with filthy promise as he thrust his fingers deeper, faster, “maybe I’ll even let them watch how beautifully you fall apart for me. But right now?” He sucked your clit hard, then released it with a wet pop, “focus on me, princess. Let me ruin this pretty pussy with my tongue until you forget every name but mine.”

And he was successful truly, because you couldn’t remember any other name. His name was the only one on your lips, breathed out in a chant as if it were a mantra. 

He poured the next stream himself this time, controlling the flow so it dripped slowly over your clit while his mouth followed instantly, slurping and licking with renewed hunger. The sight was too hot, the feeling too intense for your body to not react. Your orgasm hit like a tidal fucking wave—back bowing, thighs clamping around his head as you came with a sharp, breathless cry, pulsing hard around his fingers while he drank every last drop of wine and release like a man starved.

Even as you trembled through the aftershocks, Jake kept licking softly, savoring you, eyes never leaving your face. Your body was still humming, every nerve singing as he gentled his mouth against your oversensitive folds, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your dripping slit like he couldn’t bear to part from you. A soft, broken whimper escaped your lips when his tongue flicked one last teasing stripe over your clit before he finally lifted his head.

Jake crawled up your body, his chest brushing against your wine-slicked breasts as he settled between your thighs. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your face to his while the other traced lazy, possessive patterns over your hip and waist. His lips found yours instantly, wine-drenched. He licked into your mouth with the same devotion he’d shown your cunt, tongues sliding together in a slow, filthy dance that left you dizzy.

“You did so well for me, y’know?” He whispered, “fucking perfect for me, just for me.”

“Just for you,” you confirmed in a breath, staring at the man who’d made you cum so easily, granting you the best orgasm you’d ever had. 

“Gonna ruin you for everyone else,” he promises in a chaste kiss.  

“Jake—” you breathed against his mouth, rolling your hips up to chase his touch, “I need more, I need you.”

A smile curved his lips as he sat back on his heels, eyes locked on yours with molten intensity. Without breaking the gaze, he shoved his pants and boxers down his thighs, kicking them aside impatiently. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed a deep red, the head glistening with precum and veins standing out prominently along the impressive length. It twitched under your hungry stare.

Jake wrapped a hand around the base and leaned forward again, pressing his forehead to yours. He dragged the heavy head of his cock through your soaked folds in one slow, deliberate stroke, coating himself thoroughly in your cum. The slick, obscene glide made you both groan.

“Never got so hard for anyone before, it fucking hurts,” he groaned, his tip nudging your clit with every pass. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head as he rolled his hips in teasing circles, the thick head catching at your entrance before sliding back up.

“Don’t make me wait then, yeah?” You all but begged, trying to sound confident but your voice gave it away. 

“Patience has never been my virtue,” he murmured, leaning down, claiming your mouth in a slow kiss while he dragged the heavy, flushed head of his cock through your soaked folds one final time, coating himself thoroughly in your slick and the remnants of wine.

“Please—fuck,” you groaned as he pushed inside, stretching your entrance with a burning, delicious pressure that made your breath hitch sharply. Jake groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he paused, letting you feel every ridge and vein as he worked the thick head inside with shallow, careful rocks of his hips.

“Shh—easy, baby,” he whispered, rubbing soothing circles on your clavicle, his breath warm against your parted lips.

You exhaled shakily, fingers digging into his shoulders as the thick head stretched you open, “you’re too fucking big.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips, “I’ve got you. Just relax for me.” He rocked forward gently, feeding you another inch. The stretch burned sweetly, your walls yielding reluctantly even as you dripped around him. Jake groaned softly into your mouth, the sound raw and intimate, “fuck—you’re gripping me so tight. So warm inside.”

You moaned quietly against his tongue, legs tightening around his waist, “deeper,” you whispered when he paused, “I want all of you.”

Jake’s breath hitched. He kissed you again, slower this time, as he pushed forward, sinking another thick inch, “you’re taking me so well,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, “feel how deep I’m going?”

He did, hips rolling in a measured glide until the last thick inch disappeared inside you. When he bottomed out, pelvis flush against yours, balls pressed tight to your skin, a shared shudder ran through both of you. The fullness was obscene, a heavy pressure that made your cunt flutter wildly around his entire length.

“Jesus,” Jake whispered, voice wrecked, mouth claiming yours in a filthy kiss full of tongue and teeth, “you’re squeezing me, baby.”

You rolled your hips experimentally, drawing a guttural moan from him. “Move,” you demanded softly against his lips, “I need you to fuck me.”

He started with devastating control—long, luxurious drags of his cock that pulled almost completely out before sliding back in to the hilt. Each thrust stirred your insides, the thick head dragging along every sensitive ridge within you. The wet, obscene squelch of your arousal coating his shaft grew louder with every plunge.

“Like this?” He groaned low, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, tilting you open wider for him. “Feel how easily you’re sucking me back in every time I pull out?”

“Yes,” you gasped, meeting his rhythm with rising urgency, nails scoring down his back, “harder, Jaeyun. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping with more force. The bed creaked beneath you as he drove deeper, pounding into that spot that made white-hot sparks explode behind your eyes. Sweat slicked your bodies where they joined, the lingering scent of wine mixing with raw sex in the air.

He brought you to the edge once with relentless precision, faster thrusts, thumb circling your clit until your thighs quaked and your moans turned sharp and desperate. Then he slowed to a torturous grind, keeping his cock buried deep while circling his hips, rubbing firmly against that devastating spot without mercy.

“Not yet,” he breathed against your mouth, stealing another deep kiss, “I want you aching for it. Feel how your cunt is trying to pull me deeper even now?”

You whimpered, hips chasing his, body trembling with need, “please, I’m so close.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice dark with lust as he kissed along your throat, sucking a mark into your skin, “hold it for me. Just a little longer.”

“So fucking mean,” you whined, actually whined and Jake found immense pleasure in that. 

“You have no idea how good you sound when you whine like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough, dragging his teeth lightly over the fresh mark he’d left, “all breathless and so frustrated because I won’t let you have it yet.” He kept that cruel, grinding rhythm, cock buried to the hilt, hips circling in slow, deliberate presses that rubbed relentlessly against the spot that made your vision blur. Every rotation sent sparks racing up your spine, keeping you balanced on that agonizing knife-edge.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, “oh my god,” you gasped, hips rolling desperately against him, chasing more friction, “you’re enjoying this way too much—”

Jake chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. He captured your mouth in a messy kiss before pulling back just enough to speak against your lips, “guilty. The way your body keeps tightening around me, like it’s begging even when your mouth is complaining.” He gave one sharp thrust, then returned to the torturous grind, “tell me exactly how it feels.”

You shuddered, “feels so good, Jakey, want more.”

His eyes darkened with satisfaction, “good girl,” he whispered, rewarding you with a series of deeper, faster strokes that had the bedframe protesting. He pushed you right to the brink again—hips snapping, thumb working your clit with devastating precision until your back arched clean off the mattress and your moans turned into broken, high-pitched gasps.

You let out a genuine sob of frustration, nails raking down his back, “Jake! I fucking swear—”

He kissed the corner of your eye, licking up your tear, “one more time,” he promised, voice strained with his own restraint, “I need to feel you right on the edge like this. So close I can taste how badly you want to cum.”

He built you up again, slower this time, drawing it out until every nerve in your body felt electrified. Your skin was fever-hot, slick with sweat, the remnants of wine sticky between your pressed bodies. When you were shaking uncontrollably, walls fluttering wildly around his thick cock, he finally gave in.

“Turn over,” he said suddenly, voice rough with urgency, “face down. I want that ass in the air while I fuck you properly.”

You barely registered the command before his hands were on you, strong and decisive. He flipped you onto your stomach and yanked your hips up high, pressing your chest and face into the pillows. The position left you utterly vulnerable—back deeply arched, knees spread, cunt exposed and dripping. Jake knelt behind you, spreading your cheeks with both hands so he could watch as he lined up and drove back in with one powerful thrust.

The new angle punched the air from your lungs. He felt even thicker, reaching impossibly deeper, the head of his cock dragging against places that made your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.

“Fuck—this is insane,” you moaned into the pillow, pushing back against him.

Jake groaned loudly, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks as he started a brutal rhythm. “This is what I wanted,” he panted, watching mesmerized as his glistening cock disappeared between your cheeks with every thrust. 

He fucked you with long, punishing strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your muffled moans. One hand slid up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest pinned down while the other reached around to rub your clit in firm, relentless circles.

You were babbling into the pillow, words slurring together, “right there. I’ve never felt anything like this.”

“Neither have I,” he admitted, voice breaking on a groan as he leaned over you, chest to your back, hips snapping relentlessly. 

He kept you suspended on that final edge longer than before, slowing whenever you got too close, grinding deep while whispering filthy observations against your ear. Your thighs were soaked, sheets ruined beneath you, body trembling violently from the prolonged denial.

When he finally let you cum, it hit you like nothing before, pure unadulterated pleasure, just the greatest feeling ever. Your walls convulsed around him in powerful, rhythmic spasms, a raw, shattered moan tearing from your throat as pleasure flooded every cell in your body. Jake fucked you through it without mercy, hips stuttering but never stopping, drawing out every last wave until you were a quivering, gasping mess.

Only then did he pull out.

With a guttural groan he flipped you onto your back again and knelt between your spread legs. His fist flew over his swollen, dripping cock, eyes locked on your flushed, pulsing pussy. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted across your skin—painting your swollen folds, your sensitive clit, and your mound in messy, glistening streaks. He stroked himself through every pulse, milking out every drop until you were thoroughly marked and shining with him.

You lay there utterly spent, chest heaving, body limp and buzzing. Jake collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, pressing slow, tender kisses to your damp forehead and swollen lips as you both fought to catch your breath.

Minutes passed in heavy, satisfied silence, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest. Then you felt it—his cock, already twitching and hardening again against your thigh. 

“Jake, what the fuck?” You asked, horrified. 

Jake let out a low, breathless laugh against your neck, nipping the skin gently, “c’mon, Jake Jr. likes you.”

“No, absolutely not. I’m tired,” you huffed, though your body said otherwise as you pushed back against him, “besides, we still have half a day tomorrow.

Jake gasped, losing character as if offended, “half a day? You do realize that i’m not gonna leave you alone for like, forever, right?” He implored more than anything, turning you towards him.

Maybe you wanted to hear that, maybe that’s why you even worded it out so clearly. His eyes were softer now, the intense lust easing into something gentler as he brushed damp strands of hair away from your face. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly along your jaw while the other rested possessively on your hip, thumb tracing small circles on your skin. 

You leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips, “yeah,” you whispered against his mouth, and for once, you really wanted it to work out, “I want that too.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He pulled you closer, wrapping you in his arms, his fingers trailed soothingly down your spine, grounding you as your breathing finally evened out.

But then that familiar hunger crept back into his touch. His hand slid lower, squeezing your ass as he pressed his now fully hard cock against your thigh again.

“So, round two?”

It felt like déjà vu, sitting on the lounger by the pool with Jungwon eating his strawberry dipped in chocolate. This time, however, your eyes kept drifting towards a certain person, and you weren’t shy about it, borderline ogling even, because he displayed all the marks on his body oh so proudly. 

Some seemed as if an animal had scratched him, you being the animal in this situation. 

Standing across the deck, Jake was putting on another performance with his towel slung low around his hips like some bashful maiden guarding virtue (again) while shamelessly flexing every line of his torso. The same ridiculous confidence, the same dramatic flair. Only now it landed differently. 

When he caught you staring, he let out a bemused smile. How the turn tables. He abandoned the group mid-sentence and walked straight toward you, shorts slipping dangerously low on his hips with every step.

“Well, well,” he drawled when he reached your lounger, “you’re finally looking at me.”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes drift deliberately over his marked-up chest, “maybe I like what I see now.”

Jake’s playful mask slipped for a moment, revealing absolute molten adoration in his gaze. He leaned down, one hand bracing on the back of your lounger, the other gently catching your chin.

“Don’t say things like that unless you want a crazy, obsessive boyfriend.”

Ah, the label. Was it early? You couldn’t say much, granted whatever went down on this trip wasn’t exactly a slow burn. So, you didn’t bother answering with words. Instead, you reached up, fingers brushing one of the marks you’d left on his skin.

That was enough.

Jake closed the distance and kissed you all saccharine in its sweetness. It wasn’t the frantic hunger of stolen nights, but something quieter, heavier with promise. His lips moved against yours like he was savoring every second, thumb stroking your jaw with tender reverence.

When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, you only smiled at him. 

“I think i’d like that, Jakey.”

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The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.

It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.

“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”

The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.

“You love George Eliot.”

“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.

The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.

You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.

Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.

Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.

You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.

“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.

“I know.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”

She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”

You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.

You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.

Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.

“You’re doing maths,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”

“I’m making a drink.”

“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”

“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”

“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.

“I’m Jake.”

“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.

“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”

“Also a person,” you say.

That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”

You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.

He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.

Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.

At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”

You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.

“Okay,” you say.

His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.

He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.

You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.

He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.

Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.

He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.

He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.

His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.

“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.

You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.

He does it again. Slower.

His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.

“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.

“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.

He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.

He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.

He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.

The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.

He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.

You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.

He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.

He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.

“Jake—”

“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.

The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.

He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”

“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”

“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.

His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.

The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.

That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.

Possibly both.

Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…

“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.

You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.

Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.

He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.

You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.

“Bye, then,” you say.

“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.

You close the door behind you.

The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.

I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—

You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.

You text Mina. still up?

The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?

You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.

Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”

“Okay—”

“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”

Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”

“He absolutely did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said bye then and closed the door.”

“Bye then?”

“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”

You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”

“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.

“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”

Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.

You’re fine. You’re completely fine.

The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.

You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.

You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.

Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.

This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.

Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.

You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.

He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.

He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.

You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.

The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re not fine by Thursday morning.

The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.

“You’re not drinking your coffee.”

“I’m not feeling it today.”

Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.

By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.

Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.

You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“What kind of something.”

“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”

She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.

“Since Wednesday morning.”

“And it’s worst in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t drink coffee.”

“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.

“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”

The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.

“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.

“No.”

“Stressed about something?”

“When am I not stressed about something.”

“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”

“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”

Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.

“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”

“You used a condom?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re not a hundred percent.”

“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”

Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”

By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.

You text Mina. can you come over

She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.

The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.

The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.

The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.

Two minutes.

“It’s probably negative,” you say.

“Probably,” Mina says.

“The condom—”

“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”

“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”

“Stop,” you say.

One minute.

You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.

The timer goes off.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.

Two lines.

You look at it for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, finally.

“Yeah,” Mina says.

The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.

“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.

—

You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.

You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him today either.”

“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”

You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.

“Don’t come with me,” you say.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”

The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.

Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.

And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.

You wait.

You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.

He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.

“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.

“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.

The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.

You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you repeat.

“That’s — okay. How far—”

“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”

He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.

The corridor goes even quieter somehow.

You look at him. “What did you just say.”

“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”

“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.

“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”

“Look, I just—”

You slap him.

You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.

“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”

He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.

“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.

You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.

You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”

You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.

“How did you—“

“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.

He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”

“No,” you say.

“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.

“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.

He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”

“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”

You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”

Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”

“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.

You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.

“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”

You look at him. “Which part.”

“All of it.”

He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”

Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.

Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”

“How stupid.”

“Significantly.”

A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.

“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”

“Yes.”

“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”

“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”

“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”

She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”

You look at the money on your nightstand.

You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.

The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.

“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”

“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”

You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”

“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”

“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”

You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”

“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”

You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.

“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”

You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.

You tell Jake two days later.

You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.

“I’m keeping it,” you say.

He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.

“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”

“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”

“Money isn’t the same as involved.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”

You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”

You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”

“To what.”

He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.

Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”

“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.

“Are you—” Jungwon starts.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Then what.”

Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”

“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.

“I don’t know her,” Jake says.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.

“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.

Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”

“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.

“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”

“Should she?”

Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”

Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.

—

The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.

He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.

It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.

The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.

Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.

You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.

Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.

He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Five minutes.”

You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”

Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.

“I know. You texted me.”

“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”

There it is.

You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”

“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”

His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.

“I miss you,” he says.

You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.

You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.

But you also know what he did.

You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”

He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.

“I look what.”

“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.

You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.

There’s no reason to.

You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.

He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling

You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.

that’s good

A pause. Then: do you need anything?

You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.

I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.

He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.

You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.

You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.

It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.

You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”

“We’re not together, Mina.”

“I know.”

“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”

“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.

The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.

You are allowed to have feelings about it.

You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.

You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.

You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.

“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.

“Okay,” she says.

—

Jake texts you on Sunday.

heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good

You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.

A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?

You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.

It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.

okay, he says. no pressure.

You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.

Later, you think. All of it later.

He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.

Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

“Fine,” he says.

The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.

Beside you Jake goes very still.

You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.

You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”

“Yeah,” you say.

He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.

You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.

“Okay,” you say.

He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“What,” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.

“You too,” you say, and go inside.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.

Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.

You don’t reply.

He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?

You stare at it for a long time.

You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not going to,” you say.

He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.

You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Sunghoon.”

“I just want to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”

You glance at him. “Fine.”

“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”

“Thanks,” you say, flatly.

He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.

“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”

He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”

“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”

He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.

“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”

And he lets you go.

But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.

The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.

You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.

You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.

He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.

You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.

You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.

The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”

His voice.

You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.

“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.

“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.

The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.

You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”

You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.

He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.

“I needed air,” you say.

“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”

“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”

The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.

“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.

“Then walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”

He doesn’t go inside.

He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.

“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.

“That’s not your business,” Jake says.

“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.

His eyes find yours. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” you say.

“Are you pregnant?”

The step goes very quiet.

Jake goes very still.

You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.

“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”

“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”

“Sunghoon—”

“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”

“You stay out of it—”

“She told you it’s none of your business—”

“I’m talking to her—”

“Then talk to her with some respect—”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”

“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”

A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”

“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.

“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth.

And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.

It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.

But you make a sound and stumble back.

Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.

“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”

“Are you okay? The baby—”

“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”

Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”

“No.”

You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”

You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.

Behind you, you don’t look back.

Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay

You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.

He sends: I’m sorry again

Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.

You don’t text him back.

He tries on Sunday.

A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.

Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.

Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.

You text back: stop.

He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.

You put the phone in your drawer.

He doesn’t stop.

Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.

You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.

You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.

On Tuesday he’s outside your building.

Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.

You stop on the steps. “Jake.”

“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.

Good, says a part of you.

The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”

You look at him. “It was an accident.”

“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”

The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.

“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”

He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.

“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”

“Then be consistent.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.

“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”

“Done.”

“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”

“Jake.”

“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”

You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.

“The grapes were good,” you say finally.

Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.

You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.

“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”

You go.

He tells his father that evening.

He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.

Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:

“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.

Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.

“How far along,” he says.

“About eight weeks.”

His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.

“Tell me about her,” he says.

Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”

“The woman. Tell me about her.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.

“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”

“How.”

Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.

His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.

“Do you like her?” he asks.

Jake looks up.

“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.

“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”

“That’s not what I asked, son.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”

His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.

“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.

Jake looks at him.

“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”

Jake absorbs this.

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”

Jake looks at the menu.

“Dad,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”

His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”

Jake picks up his menu.

He end up ordering the carbonara.

—

The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.

Jake shows up.

That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.

He remembers things.

This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.

He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.

And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.

Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.

Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.

Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.

“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.

“A little,” you say.

“How do you feel about that?”

You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”

Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”

“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”

Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.

He notices on Saturday.

You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.

Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”

“I know.”

“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”

You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”

“I meant it.”

“Jake.”

“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”

The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.

You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.

He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.

For now that’s okay.

The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.

He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.

You do not examine why you listen to it twice.

Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.

You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.

I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.

He sends a single: you too.

And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.

You feel lighter, after.

Jake finds out about the dissertation.

Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”

“Like what.”

“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”

You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”

“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”

You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.

“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.

“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”

“You said that.”

“Because I mean it.”

You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.

There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.

The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.

“I should go in,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Neither of you moves.

You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.

“Jake,” you say.

“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.

“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”

He looks at you. “Is it not?”

You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.

Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”

“Okay.”

“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.

At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.

You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.

You change it to Jake.

Just Jake. Nothing else.

You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.

—

He asks you out on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”

You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Did you want me to make it complicated?”

You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”

“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”

“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”

You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.

“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”

He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.

The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.

You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.

“What,” he says, catching you looking.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”

“From what?” He laughs.

“From who you were in September.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”

He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”

You look back at your pasta.

Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.

Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.

You let him.

You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.

“Come up,” you say.

His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”

“I just asked, didn’t I?”

He follows you up.

Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.

It’s different from September.

September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.

This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.

“Hi,” you say back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

“Jake—”

“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.

He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.

He goes to his knees.

You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.

“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” you manage.

He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.

He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.

He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.

His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.

“If you don’t—” you start.

He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.

He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.

Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.

He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.

He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.

You start laughing.

He looks at you confused. “What.”

“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.

He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.

“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.

“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.

He flips you over.

Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.

“You good?” he asks.

“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”

“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.

His head drops back.

You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.

“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”

The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.

You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.

Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.

“Come to my game next week,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”

You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.

He turns his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”

The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.

—

The following week is small moments.

Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.

Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.

Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.

You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.

Friday morning he’s at your door.

In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.

He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”

You take it from him.

You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.

You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.

When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.

“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.

“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.

Someone sits down on your other side.

You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.

“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.

“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”

He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”

You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.

“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.

“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.

“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”

You watch Jake on the ice.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

The Wolves win.

Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.

After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.

And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.

You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?

The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.

“Oh my god,” Mina says.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Are you — are you going to—”

And then he’s there.

Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.

“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.

You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.

When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.

“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”

He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.

“Good,” you say back.

Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.

—

Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.

The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.

Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.

“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.

“Hey,” you say.

“You good?”

You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.

You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.

Good, you think. I’m more than good.

Yes, even at age of four you still took baths together. It wasn’t anything bad, he was your best friend and his mom thought you both looked so cute with a glittery blue bath bomb staining your skin and the tub.

“Really?” You ask him like it was a crazy question, “never ever?”

He shook his head, taking a moment to try and think about it. “Only in porn.”

“So you’ve never been… touched before?” Your words came out carefully, mentally slapping yourself on the head for such a blunt question. There’s some things people don’t bring up and this was one of them, but you were curious. You’ve known him your entire life, and yes, you thought he was attractive, so obviously other girls had too!

“Nope, only by my own hand,” he said as if it was nothing. It wasn’t just nothing, why was he so nonchalant about this? He took the opportunity to unzip his black jacket, lifting just enough to take off of and tossing it somewhere else. “What about you?”

“Just with a…” You sucked in some air, eyes closing in embarrassment, “…toy.”

His expression stayed neutral, not changing even slightly because of your confession. “Not even by your hand?”

“I mean, I tried but I never finished.” The porn became background noise as this point, the high pitched moaning coming from the girl becoming second to the heated silence.

“Do you want help?” He finally turned to look at you, his brown eyes looking into yours. There wasn’t a sign of joking in his expression, only serious concern.

“You mean like—“ you pointed to the video, where the busty blonde sat on her male colleague’s lap to ride him.

“Not really sex, just… touching each other, yunno?” He asks like it’s the simplest answer to the dilemma. Like he didn’t get to point F from the start at point A.

“You want to help me?” If you could show you were more shocked, you would. Your mouth was slightly agape while you took in this information. The Jay you’ve known since you were born, the Jay who pecked your lips on the field in ninth grade because everyone else was getting their first kiss and you felt left out, the Jay who packed you lunch every now and then for work. He is the one who wants to touch you, and not doing that, but help you finish?

“I mean, you could be helping me too,” he moved his hands down his body, unbuttoning the top of his jeans and pulling down the zipper. His cock came out right after, letting you see it in all its glory. “It’s not like it’s sex, come close.”

You slowly get up and move closer, watching it grow with every small move. Veins all along the base and such a pretty pink on the tip. “What do I… how do…”

He grabs your hand and places it at the top of his shaft, then he moves your hand down and back up. He repeats the motion atop of your hand before letting go for you to do it alone. His eyes close feeling your hand moving on its own, his hips moving up every so often as he felt you.

Your eyes widened when he moaned, not a fake one either. A real life moan that came from the throat. It was quiet and you wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t listening, but part of you felt proud for making stoic Jay moan under you. “Fuck,” he moaned out, adding onto his previous. His hips bucked into your hand, using his own strength to help your speed. “Please, baby.”

Your face turned red at the name, your hand squeezing tighter against him while heat pooled in your underwear. You continued listening to his desperate breaths. He was trying his hardest to help you, his hips moving at a pace you weren’t familiar with yet. His moans grew louder, telling you to grip tighter or move faster. He even grabbed the back of your head and shoved it down on his fat cock. Wasting no time, he held your head while he fucked your throat.

You’ve never seen him like this, so needy. Jay’s tip hits the back of your throat every time. You gag every single time, trying your best to handle all of him.

He spills his seed in your mouth soon after, his throats slowing down. You can feel it, the way it’s convulsing while shooting out. The way it’s Salty going down your throat, that itself almost made you gag.

He takes a moment to breathe before reaching to your own buttons, his basketball shorts on your body since you just spent the night. He unties it as fast as he can, pulling it and your underwear off with one fluid movement. His hands guide your body, making you lay down while he positions his mouth. His fingers separate your folds, letting him get a good look at you.

“Not sex, right?” You ask nervously, watching him stare at your most vulnerable.

“Not unless you want to,” he leans forward, using a test lick to see how you taste. Your eyes shut tight, taking in the feeling of his warm tongue on your body.

He licks again, trying to make his tongue go even deeper than before. You let out a soft moan, feeling him come back more continuously. His tongue lapped at your folds, nose hitting your clit in the right angle.

Your hands find their way in his hair, pulling at it and ruining its style. You wonder how long it takes for him to do every morning and how easy it was for you to ruin.

Jay’s obsessed with your taste, obsessed with being this close to you, obsessed with the heat that was radiating out of you and how it keeps pulling him in. He didn’t stop, he couldn’t. Moaning into you the same way you were.

“Tastes so sweet,” he mutters against you, widening his mouth as much as he could. A knot formed in your stomach, tightening while he continues. He knows you’re close when you clench around him and he gets a reminder of he’s seen before in porn.

His mouth moves to suck your clit, bringing you even more sensation than just his nose. His fingers come close, sticking two into your hole.

“Fuck—“ You started, but interrupted with a moan. His fingers now pumping and curling into you at a pace that was better than just you.

Sucking and pumping, all of it too overwhelming for you. The pleasure is getting to be much, making your senses go into overdrive when the knot finally releases.

His fingers and the bottom of his face gets covered, a clear liquid that’s so obviously there. His fingers pull out of you, bringing them to his lips.

He moans tasting it, scooping more and bringing it to your own so you can taste, too. You suck on his fingers, bringing your tongue to lick between, in the sides — everywhere you can.

He laughs breathlessly, placing his head down on your thigh. All he can say is “fuck” because fuck, was that good. “Do you want sex?” He asks like it’s nothing.

You bite your lip, thinking hard about whether or not you should accept it. “Maybe?”

“i’ve been thinking,” sunghoon says casually from his spot on the armchair, long legs stretched out. he’s nursing a beer, eyes flicking between you and jake on the couch. you’re curled into jake’s side, his arm draped around your shoulders, fingers playing lazily with the strap of your tank top.

jake raises an eyebrow, teeth flashing as he smiles. “dangerous words coming from you, hoon.”

sunghoon’s gaze lingers on you a second too long, then shifts to jake. there’s something darker in his eyes tonight, a curiosity that’s been building for weeks. “i want to watch.”

the words drop like a stone into still water. you freeze, heat flooding your face. jake’s hand stills on your shoulder.

“watch,” jake repeats slowly, voice low. “what? us?”

sunghoon nods, not backing down. his cheeks are faintly pink but his jaw is set. “yeah. you two. i know you’re fucking. i’ve known for a while. and i… i’m curious. about how it looks. how you are with her.”

you swallow hard, glancing at jake. he’s watching sunghoon carefully, but there’s no anger there — just intrigue, and maybe a spark of something hotter. jake has always been open, playful in bed. this wouldn’t be the first boundary you two have pushed.

“you sure?” you ask sunghoon softly. “it might… change things, or make them weird.”

“i’m sure,” he says, voice steady. “if you’re both okay with it.”

jake looks at you, searching your face. you bite your lip, then nod. the idea sends a thrill through you — sunghoon’s intense stare on you while jake touches you. you’ve always found sunghoon attractive, tall and sharp-featured with that quiet intensity. knowing he wants to see you like this… it’s intoxicating, to say the least.

“okay,” jake says, grinning that charming grin. “but you stay in the chair unless we say otherwise.”

sunghoon settles back, legs spreading a little wider, beer forgotten on the side table.

jake turns to you first, cupping your jaw and pulling you into a slow kiss. it’s familiar, warm, the kind that always makes your stomach flutter. his tongue slides against yours lazily, deepening it as his hand trails down your neck, thumb brushing your collarbone. you sigh into his mouth, already melting.

sunghoon’s breathing is audible across the room.

jake peels your tank top off slowly, exposing your bra. he kisses down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot he knows drives you crazy. you arch into him, fingers threading through his soft hair. when he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, letting it fall away, you hear sunghoon shift in his seat.

“fuck,” sunghoon breathes. his voice is rough already. “she’s gorgeous.”

jake smiles against your skin. “isn’t she?” he palms one of your breasts, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens. you moan softly, eyes fluttering open to look at sunghoon.

he’s watching intently, lips parted, one hand gripping the arm of the chair. his eyes are dark, fixed on every movement.

jake lays you back on the couch, stripping your shorts and panties down your legs. you’re completely bare now, and sunghoon’s gaze drags over you like he's physically touching you — your breasts, the curve of your waist, the wetness already glistening between your thighs.

“touch her,” sunghoon says quietly. it’s not a demand, but there’s hunger in it.

jake chuckles softly and spreads your legs, settling between them. he kisses down your stomach, then lower, tongue flicking out to taste you. you gasp, back arching as he licks broad stripes over your clit, sucking gently. your hand flies to his hair, hips rolling against his mouth.

sunghoon leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. his eyes are glued to where jake’s tongue is working you open. “does she taste good?” he asks, voice strained.

“so fucking good,” jake murmurs against you, the vibrations making you whimper. he pushes two fingers inside you slowly, curling them just right while his mouth stays on your clit.

you’re moaning louder now, eyes locked with sunghoon’s. the way he’s watching you — like he’s starving — pushes you closer to the edge faster than usual.

but then jake pulls back, stripping his own shirt off. sunghoon’s gaze shifts immediately to jake’s toned chest, the way his abs flex as he moves. jake catches it and smirks, but doesn’t comment. he sheds his pants and boxers, cock hard and leaking as he strokes himself once.

sunghoon’s breath catches audibly. his eyes widen a fraction, pupils blown as he stares at jake’s length, then at the way jake lines himself up with your entrance.

“ready, baby?” jake asks you, but his eyes flick to sunghoon too.

you nod desperately. jake pushes in slowly, stretching you open with that perfect burn. you moan loudly, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out. he starts thrusting, deep and steady, the wet sounds of your bodies filling the room.

sunghoon is breathing harder. his hand presses against the front of his jeans, palming himself openly now. but it’s not just you he’s staring at. his eyes keep darting to jake — the flex of his back muscles, the way his hips snap forward, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the low groans he makes every time you clench around him.

something shifts in sunghoon’s expression. realization. heat. confusion and want all at once.

“jake…” he whispers, almost to himself. his hand slips inside his jeans, wrapping around his own cock as he watches his best friend fuck you. the sight of jake’s cock disappearing into you over and over, glistening with your arousal, combined with your breathy moans — it’s too much.

he’s hard as steel, throbbing in his own grip, and the arousal hitting him while watching jake is undeniable. he always knew he liked you. the little attractions, the lingering hugs, the way he’d get jealous when jake touched you. but this — the way his stomach tightens seeing jake’s flushed chest, the veins on his forearms, the way his jaw clenches in pleasure — it’s new. overwhelming. bi awakening crashing over him like a wave.

“hoon,” you gasp, reaching a hand toward him. “come closer.”

sunghoon hesitates only a second before standing, jeans open, cock heavy in his hand as he moves to the edge of the couch. up close, he can see everything — the way jake’s cock stretches you, the slick sounds, your face twisted in ecstasy.

jake slows his thrusts, looking up at sunghoon with dark eyes. “you like watching me fuck her?”

sunghoon swallows hard, nodding. his voice is wrecked. “yeah. fuck, i do. both of you… i didn’t expect—”

“it’s okay,” you whisper, cupping his cheek. your thumb brushes his lower lip. “touch yourself while he fucks me. or… touch us.”

that breaks the last of his restraint.

sunghoon leans down and kisses you first — hesitant, then hungry, tongue sliding against yours as jake starts thrusting again. you moan into sunghoon’s mouth, one hand on his chest, the other reaching down to wrap around his cock. he’s big, hot, leaking precum as you stroke him in time with jake’s movements.

“shit,” sunghoon groans against your lips. “your hand feels so good.”

jake watches the two of you, hips snapping harder. “he’s pretty when he’s desperate, isn’t he, baby?”

you nod, dazed, squeezing sunghoon’s cock a little tighter. sunghoon’s free hand finds your breast, pinching your nipple while he kisses you deeper. then, almost shyly at first, his other hand reaches out to touch jake’s shoulder, sliding down his back, feeling the muscles move as jake fucks you.

jake shivers under the touch but doesn’t pull away. if anything, he leans into it.

then, the dynamic shifts. jake pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your hands and knees so you’re facing sunghoon. “suck him while i fuck you from behind.”

you don’t hesitate. you take sunghoon into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as he groans loudly, hand gently guiding your head. jake thrusts back into you, deeper in this position, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. every thrust pushes you further onto sunghoon’s cock, and the sounds are obscene — wet gagging, skin slapping, broken moans from all three of you.

sunghoon’s eyes are fixed on jake now too, watching his best friend pound into you, hands gripping your hips. “jake… you look so fucking hot like this,” he admits breathlessly, the words spilling out in the heat of it. “both of you. i can’t— i didn’t know i wanted this too.”

jake reaches over your back, grabbing sunghoon’s free hand and pulling it to your hip, then lower, guiding sunghoon’s fingers to where his cock is sliding in and out of you. sunghoon groans at the feeling — the stretch, the wetness, the way you flutter around jake.

“touch me too,” jake says roughly.

sunghoon does, hesitant at first, then bolder — palming jake’s balls, then wrapping fingers around the base of jake’s cock as it moves. jake moans loudly, hips stuttering.

the three of you move together like that for what feels like hours — a messy, perfect rhythm that blurs time and leaves the room thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

you’re on your hands and knees on the couch, mouth full of sunghoon’s cock as you suck him sloppily, spit dripping down your chin while your tongue swirls around the head and takes him deeper with every forward rock of your body.

jake is behind you, fucking you in steady, deep thrusts that punch the breath out of your lungs every time he bottoms out. the wet, obscene sound of his hips slapping against your ass mixes with your muffled moans and sunghoon’s low, broken groans.

sunghoon’s hand is gentle in your hair, not forcing but guiding, his thumb stroking your cheek almost reverently even as his cock twitches on your tongue. his other hand keeps wandering — brushing over your back, then reaching further to touch jake wherever he can reach. fingers tracing the flexing muscles of jake’s shoulder, sliding down the sweat-slick line of his spine, then lower, palming jake’s ass as he thrusts into you. every new touch makes sunghoon’s breath hitch harder, like he’s still shocked by how much he wants this.

“fuck… look at you,” sunghoon murmurs, voice wrecked and awed. “taking both of us so well.”

jake groans in agreement, one hand gripping your hip tightly while the other reaches around to rub your clit in tight circles. “she’s perfect. so fucking wet for us. you feel how tight she gets when you touch me, hoon? she loves it.”

sunghoon nods shakily, eyes locked on where jake’s cock disappears inside you over and over, glistening with your arousal. the sight combined with the heat of your mouth around him is driving him insane. his hips start twitching forward more desperately, fucking your throat a little deeper as his usual cool composure completely unravels.

eventually jake slows his thrusts, pulling out with a wet sound that makes you whine around sunghoon’s cock. he flips you gently onto your back, spreading your legs wide. “your turn, hoon. fuck her while she strokes me.”

sunghoon doesn’t need to be told twice. he moves between your thighs, eyes dark and hungry as he lines himself up. he pushes in slowly at first, savoring every inch, jaw dropping at the tight, wet heat enveloping him. “oh my god… baby,” he breathes, the pet name slipping out naturally. he bottoms out with a shudder, staying still for a moment just to feel you clench around him.

you reach for jake, wrapping your hand around his slick cock and stroking him steadily. jake leans down to kiss you messily, tongue sliding against yours while sunghoon starts moving — gentle, rolling thrusts at first, like he’s memorizing the feeling. but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. his control snaps, hips speeding up until he’s thrusting deep and hard, the couch creaking beneath you. every snap of his hips forces broken moans from your throat.

sunghoon pants, moaning both your name and jake’s in the same breath like he can’t separate the pleasure anymore. “feels so good… both of you.”

jake kisses you harder, then pulls back just enough to lean over and capture sunghoon’s mouth in a kiss — tentative at first, testing, lips brushing softly. sunghoon freezes for half a second, then surges forward into it, turning the kiss deep and filthy, tongues tangling as he keeps fucking you harder. the sight alone makes you clench around him.

it’s overwhelming. it's fucking perfect. the air is thick with moans and gasps and the wet sounds of bodies moving together. sunghoon’s hand finds one of your breasts, pinching your nipple while jake’s fingers return to your clit, rubbing fast. you’re caught between them, pleasure building impossibly high until it crashes over you.

you come first with a sharp cry, back arching clean off the couch as your walls flutter and squeeze around sunghoon’s cock. the intensity triggers his own orgasm almost immediately — he buries himself deep, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a loud, broken moan of your name mixed with jake’s. his whole body trembles through it, face buried against your neck.

jake follows seconds later, stroking himself furiously over your bodies. thick ropes of cum paint your stomach, your breasts, and sunghoon’s chest where he’s still leaning over you. jake groans deeply, milking every last drop as he watches the mess he’s made on both of you.

after that, the three of you collapse in a tangled, sweaty pile on the couch. limbs are everywhere — sunghoon’s head resting heavily on your stomach, breathing hard against your skin, while jake sprawls half on top of both of you, one arm wrapped protectively around your waist and the other draped over sunghoon’s back. the room feels warm and hazy, hearts still racing as the high slowly ebbs.

sunghoon’s breathing is still shaky as he processes everything, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. after a long silence, he lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“that was… my bi awakening, i think,” he admits quietly, voice hoarse. “i knew i liked her. i’ve liked her for a while. the way she laughs, the way she fits between us… but watching you, jake — fuck. the way you moved, the sounds you made, how you looked fucking her… i didn’t expect to want that too. want you too.”

jake presses a gentle kiss to sunghoon’s temple, then leans over to kiss your forehead, his dimples soft and warm. “good. because we’re not done tonight. not even close. we’ve got all night to figure this out… together.”

you smile sleepily, contentment settling deep in your chest as your fingers card gently through sunghoon’s damp hair. the three of you — best friends who have always been a little too close, a little too intertwined — finally feel like something more. lovers. a unit. whatever this is now, it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be this way.

and there are many more nights ahead where curious eyes turn into wandering hands, shared pleasure, and something that feels a lot like love.

© jongst4r, 2026