Nini🌻

You know your neighbors the way you know background characters in a movie you’ve seen too many times. Familiar. Unremarkable. Just part of the scenery.

Which is why it’s strange that you’ve never properly noticed the man in 3A. You’ve seen him, obviously. In passing. At the mailboxes. Once in the car park when you were both leaving at the same time and did that awkward thing where you both reached for the door simultaneously and then laughed and said sorry at the same time. He’s tall. Dark hair. Has a nice face in the vague way that you register nice faces without really looking at them.

He moved in about eight months ago. Keeps to himself. Quiet. You’ve never heard a peep through the wall you share, which you appreciate deeply after two years of listening to the previous tenant’s aggressive taste in late night television. You know his name is Jake because it’s on the mailbox.

That’s it. That’s the extent of your knowledge of the man in 3A. Until 6:58 on a Tuesday morning when someone knocks on your door.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You are not a morning person. You are, in fact, the opposite of a morning person. You are someone who sets four alarms and ignores three of them and considers getting out of bed before eight a personal attack. Your first class doesn’t start until ten. You were planning to sleep until at least eight thirty, mainline coffee until nine, and leave with approximately four minutes to spare.

So when someone knocks on your door at 6:58 AM you lie there for a full thirty seconds convincing yourself you imagined it. Then it happens again. Small. Rhythmic. Insistent. knock knock knock

You groan into your pillow. Drag yourself upright. Pull on the hoodie hanging off your desk chair and shuffle to the door, hair catastrophic, eyes barely open, prepared to be deeply unpleasant to whoever is on the other side.

You open the door. There is no one there. You blink. Look left. Look right. The hallway is empty and quiet and— “Hi.”

You look down. There is a child sitting on the floor outside your door. She is approximately three years old, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, wearing a yellow pajama set covered in tiny ducks. Her dark hair is escaping from two lopsided pigtails. She has a serious expression on her face like she has somewhere important to be and is merely pausing here briefly.

She is, without any competition, the most adorable thing you have ever seen in your entire life. You stare at her. She stares back. “Hi,” she says again, very patient, like she’s giving you time to catch up.

“Hi,” you manage. “Um. Who are you?”

She considers this question with great seriousness. “Mia.”

“Okay. Hi Mia.” You look up and down the empty hallway again. “Where did you come from?” She points at the door directly across from yours. 3A. “Are you—” You crouch down to her level. “Did you come out of your apartment by yourself?”

“Mr. Bunny is lost,” she explains, as if this answers everything. And apparently, in her world, it does. She stands up, remarkably steady on her feet for someone so small, and peers past you into your apartment with undisguised curiosity. “Is he in there?”

“Is who— Mr. Bunny? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I haven’t seen any—”

“Can I look?”

“I— well—” She’s already walking past you into your apartment.

You stand in your doorway, blinking slowly, watching a three year old you have never met toddle into your living room and start investigating with the focused energy of a tiny detective. She checks under the coffee table. Behind the couch cushions. She picks up one of your throw pillows, examines it, puts it back. “He’s not here,” she announces, sounding genuinely disappointed.

“I’m sorry.” You’re fully awake now, adrenaline doing what four alarms couldn’t. “Mia, does your dad know where you are?”

She looks at you. Blinks. And then, for the first time, something flickers across her face that isn’t complete confidence. Something small and uncertain. “Daddy’s sleeping,” she says quietly.

Oh no. Oh no.

“Okay,” you say, very carefully, going into full calm adult mode even though internally you are having a minor crisis. “Okay, that’s okay. Let’s go wake daddy up, yeah?”

You take her hand — she gives it to you immediately, tiny fingers wrapping around yours with complete trust, and something in your chest does something weird and unexpected — and you walk her across the hall to 3A.

You knock. Nothing. You knock louder. A crash. Muffled swearing. Footsteps. The door flies open.

Jake Sim, your neighbor from 3A, looks absolutely terrible. He’s in gray sweatpants and no shirt, hair destroyed, eyes wild with the specific panic of a parent who has woken up to find their child missing. There’s a pillow crease down his left cheek. He looks like a man who has just experienced the worst thirty seconds of his life.

He looks down at Mia standing beside you, her hand still in yours, looking up at him with the expression of someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong. The relief that crosses his face is so profound it’s almost painful to witness. “Mia.” His voice comes out wrecked. He drops to his knees right there in the doorway, gathering her up, holding her against his chest. She pats his back tolerantly. “Mia, I— you can’t— how did you—”

“I was looking for Mr. Bunny,” she explains into his shoulder, very reasonable.

“You can’t leave the apartment by yourself, baby, I’ve told you—”

“But Mr. Bunny—”

“I don’t care about Mr. Bunny right now—”

“Daddy.” She pulls back to look at him, deeply offended. “Mr. Bunny cares.”

You press your lips together very hard to keep from smiling. Jake looks up at you over Mia’s head, and he looks so mortified you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would be easier to feel sorry for him if he didn’t look — even rumpled and panicked and creased from sleep — really quite unfairly attractive. You file that observation away to examine later, when a child is not present.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, she’s never done this before, I don’t know how she got the door open—”

“She knocked,” you tell him. “Very politely.”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh god.”

“I used my reaching stool,” Mia informs him helpfully. “For the handle.”

“We’re getting rid of the reaching stool,” Jake tells her.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Daddy, no—”

“Mia.” He pulls back to look at her properly, and his voice goes soft but serious. “You scared me. Really scared me, okay? You cannot leave without waking me up first. Ever. Do you understand?”

She looks at him. Her lip wobbles, just slightly. “I just wanted Mr. Bunny.”

“I know, baby.” He pulls her back in, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I know. But you have to wake me up. Promise me.”

“Promise,” she mumbles into his neck.

He holds her for another moment, and you feel like you’re witnessing something private. Something that belongs to them. You take a small step back. “I’ll let you—”

“Wait.” Jake stands, Mia on his hip, and looks at you with an expression that’s somehow equal parts exhausted and sincere. “I really am sorry. And thank you. Genuinely, thank you for— I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if she’d gone downstairs instead of just across the hall.”

“She was perfectly safe,” you say. “She was very focused on her investigation.”

“Mr. Bunny is lost,” Mia reminds both of you gravely.

“We’ll find him,” Jake tells her. Then to you: “I’m Jake, by the way. Since apparently we’ve been neighbors for eight months and I’ve never actually introduced myself, which is—”

“Terrible,” you supply.

“Yeah.” He winces. “Yeah, it really is. I’m sorry about that too.”

“Y/N,” you tell him. “3B.”

“I know. I’ve seen your name on the mailbox.” He shifts Mia on his hip. She has turned to look at you with renewed interest, the Mr. Bunny crisis temporarily suspended. “I kept meaning to knock and introduce myself properly but then time just—”

“It does that,” you agree.

He smiles. It’s a tired smile, still coming down from the panic, but it’s genuine. It does something to his face that you also file away for later. Mia is still staring at you. “You have pretty hair,” she announces.

“Mia—” Jake starts.

“Thank you,” you tell her seriously. “Yours is very pretty too.”

She reaches up and touches one of her lopsided pigtails, considering. “Daddy did it,” she says, with the tone of someone being very diplomatic about a disappointing situation.

You look at Jake. He looks back at you. The pigtails are genuinely quite bad. “I’m working on it,” he says.

“We could—” You stop yourself. You don’t even know this man. You’ve spoken to him for approximately four minutes. “Never mind.”

“No, what?”

“I was just going to say I could show you. If you wanted. It’s not— it’s easy once you know the trick.” You gesture vaguely. “But you probably have things to—”

“I would love that,” Jake says immediately. “Genuinely. Every morning is a disaster. She came home from daycare last week and her teacher had written a note that said ‘we love Mia’s creative hairstyles’ and I’m pretty sure that was a polite way of saying—”

“Daddy can’t do hair,” Mia explains to you, very straightforward.

“I cannot do hair,” Jake confirms.

You laugh. Actually laugh, fully awake now, standing in the hallway at seven in the morning in your old hoodie with your own hair catastrophic, and it surprises you a little. How easy it is. How natural. “Come over tomorrow morning,” you find yourself saying. “Before daycare. I’ll show you a couple of things.”

Jake looks at you like you’ve offered him something much more significant than a hair tutorial. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” You crouch down to Mia’s level. “I hope you find Mr. Bunny.”

She studies you with those serious dark eyes. Then she reaches out and puts her small hand on your cheek, very gentle, the way toddlers sometimes do when they’re deciding something important about you. “You’re nice,” she declares.

“So are you,” you tell her. She nods, satisfied, like this has confirmed something she already suspected.

Then she tucks her face back into Jake’s neck, done with the interaction, and Jake gives you a helpless sort of smile over her head. “Thank you,” he says again. “Really.”

“Anytime.” You stand up and take a step back toward your own door. “And Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe put a chain lock on. Up high. Before tonight.”

He looks at the door. Looks at Mia. Looks back at you with the expression of a man who has just realized how many things there are to think about when you’re doing this alone. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, good call.”

You don’t go back to sleep. You make coffee and sit on your couch and think about the way Mia put her hand on your cheek like she was taking your measure. The way she gave you her hand without hesitating, tiny fingers trusting yours completely.

The way Jake held her when he found her safe. Like she was the most important thing in the world, which she obviously was, which was obvious in every single line of his body.

You think about his apartment, which you caught a glimpse of through the open door. The small pair of shoes by the entrance. The sticker on the light switch at toddler height. The general chaos of someone who is managing, but only just. You think about the note from the daycare teacher and the terrible pigtails and the way he said I’m working on it without a single drop of self pity.

You finish your coffee. Make another one. You have a feeling that next door is going to become a lot more complicated than background noise and a name on a mailbox.

You’re not sure yet if that’s a good thing. But when you close your eyes you can still feel the ghost of small fingers wrapped around yours and you think— yeah. Yeah, you’re probably already in trouble.

Mr. Bunny turns up two days later. He is in the freezer. Neither Jake nor Mia can explain how he got there.

You laugh about it for five minutes straight when Jake texts you, and then you look at your phone and realize you’ve been texting your neighbor for two days like it’s completely normal and you’ve known him for years. You put your phone down. Pick it up again. Type back: at least he’s preserved.

Jake sends back a string of crying laughing emojis and then: Mia wants me to tell you that Mr. Bunny says thank you for looking for him

You smile so hard your face hurts. You are, you realize, completely and utterly done for. And you haven’t even properly met him yet.

The hair tutorial happens on Wednesday morning. You hear them before you see them — Mia’s voice carrying clearly through the wall at seven fifteen, a stream of cheerful commentary about something, Jake’s lower voice responding, the particular domestic chaos of someone trying to get a toddler ready for daycare on a schedule. Then a knock at your door.

You open it to find Jake holding Mia like a football under one arm, a hairbrush in his free hand, and the expression of a man who has already lost this morning’s battle comprehensively.

Mia is upside down and completely unbothered. “Hi,” she says, from her inverted position.

“Hi,” you say. You step back and open the door wider. “Come in.”

They troop inside, Jake setting Mia down on her feet in your living room where she immediately begins a thorough reinvestigation of the space, picking up where she left off two days ago. She examines your bookshelf. Touches the small succulent on your windowsill very gently with one finger. “Plant,” she observes.

“His name is Gerald,” you tell her.

She looks at you. Looks at Gerald. Looks back at you with the gravity of someone receiving important information. “Hi Gerald,” she says politely. Jake makes a sound that might be him trying not to laugh.

“Okay.” You take the hairbrush from him. “Sit her up on the couch and I’ll show you.”

What follows is twenty minutes that you will think about for the rest of the week for reasons you can’t entirely explain.

Mia sits between your knees on the couch, remarkably patient once she’s settled, holding Gerald the succulent in her lap because she asked and you said yes and Jake gave you a look that suggested he has learned to pick his battles. You work through her hair slowly, showing Jake each step — how to section it, how to hold the hair so it doesn’t pull, how to make the pigtails sit even.

He watches with the focused attention of someone who is genuinely trying to learn this. Not just nodding along but asking questions, asking you to slow down, watching your hands. At one point he leans in close to see what you’re doing and you’re very aware of how near he is and the fact that he smells like clean laundry and something warm underneath.

You focus on Mia’s hair. “The trick,” you tell him, “is that you do both sides before you tie either one off. Otherwise the first one pulls when you do the second.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing wrong,” he says. He sounds genuinely relieved, like you’ve solved something that’s been bothering him for months. Which, apparently, you have. “I couldn’t work out why they always went lopsided.”

“They were very lopsided,” Mia agrees pleasantly.

“Thanks, Mia.”

“You’re welcome, Daddy.”

You finish, tying off the second pigtail with the elastic, and smooth a hand over her hair. Perfect and even and neat. She reaches up and touches them carefully. “Pretty?” she asks.

“Very pretty,” you confirm.

She twists to look up at you, satisfied. Then she holds Gerald out. “You can have him back.”

“Thank you for taking care of him.”

“He was scared,” she explains seriously. “He doesn’t know me yet.” She places him very carefully back on the windowsill, patting the pot once. “It’s okay Gerald. I’m nice.”

Jake is watching his daughter with this expression — quiet and soft and a little undone at the edges — and when he catches you looking at him he clears his throat and looks away. Picks up the hairbrush from the cushion beside him. “Right,” he says. “We should get going. Daycare at eight.”

“Nooooo,” Mia says, without any real conviction. She’s already moving toward the door with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who knows the schedule.

“Thank you,” Jake says to you. He means it. You can tell he means it in that way where the words are bigger than they sound. “Seriously. This was—”

“It’s just pigtails.”

“It’s not just—” He stops. Starts again. “She talks about you. Since Tuesday. You’re the pretty lady from across the hall.”

Your face warms. “That’s very generous of her.”

“She’s got good taste.” He says it simply, matter of fact, and then looks slightly like he didn’t mean to say it quite like that. “I mean— she’s a good judge of character. Generally.”

“Y/N,” Mia calls from the doorway where she is putting her shoes on the wrong feet with great confidence.

“Yeah?”

She looks up at you. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

Something squeezes in your chest. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

She nods, satisfied, like this is settled. Like you have made a commitment and she is holding you to it. Then she holds her foot up at Jake. “Daddy. Shoes.”

Jake crouches down to fix them, and you lean against your doorframe and watch, and you think about what Liv said to you once about knowing when something is going to change your life. How you can feel it sometimes. The specific weight of a moment that’s about to matter.

You feel it now, watching Jake tie his daughter’s shoes in your doorway at seven forty in the morning while she holds your door handle for balance and hums something tuneless to herself. You feel it, and you file it away with everything else, and you tell yourself it’s too early for any of this and you need coffee.

You leave cookies outside 3A that afternoon. You don’t examine why. You made a batch because you were stress baking about an assignment and you made too many and they were just sitting there and Jake mentioned once — in the mailbox, months ago, one of those nothing conversations you’d forgotten until now — that Mia liked anything with chocolate.

You leave them outside the door in a container with a post it note that says for Mia (and you, if you want) and then you go back inside and finish your assignment and don’t think about it.

At nine fifteen that night your phone buzzes: jake 3a: she ate four before I could stop her and is now absolutely feral and won’t sleep. I’m blaming you

You grin at your phone. you: that’s fair

jake 3a: they were really good though like genuinely really good. Did you make them from scratch?

you: yes

jake 3a: of course you did

jake 3a: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means, that came out weird. I just mean they were better than anything I could make. I’m a terrible baker.

you: how terrible?

jake 3a: I made Mia a birthday cake in August and it came out flat and she cried

you: oh no

jake 3a: not because of the cake. She thought it was funny. She cried laughing. It was actually one of the best moments of my life which probably tells you everything about my standards right now

You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot. you: I’ll make the cake next time. You send it before you’ve fully decided to, and then stare at it. It’s October. You’ve just committed to being in this man’s life until at least next August.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. jake 3a: you really don’t have to

you: I want to. she told Gerald not to be scared because she was nice. I feel like she deserves a good birthday cake.

jake 3a: yeah she really does

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The drawing appears under your door on Thursday morning. You almost step on it when you come out of your bedroom, a folded piece of paper on your doormat. You pick it up and unfold it and find a crayon drawing — several figures of varying heights and proportions, all labeled in Jake’s handwriting because Mia clearly directed and he transcribed.

Mia. Daddy. Gerald. Mr Bunny. And then, on the end, slightly larger than the others, with yellow crayon hair: Y/N. She’s drawn you into her family portrait.

You stand in your kitchen holding a crayon drawing with yellow-haired you standing next to a rectangle that is apparently Gerald and you feel something crack open in your chest so softly and so completely that you have to sit down.

You take a photo of it. You put the original on your fridge. You text Jake a photo of it on the fridge and he doesn’t respond for ten minutes and when he does it just says: jake 3a: she worked on it for an hour last night

jake 3a: kept starting over because she wanted to get your hair right

You stare at that message for a long time. you: tell her I love it

jake 3a: she’s going to lose her mind. also she asked if you want to come to the park with us Saturday

Three dots. Then: jake 3a: I want that too, for what it’s worth. If you’re free.

You look at the drawing on your fridge. Yellow-haired you, standing in a row with Mia and Daddy and Gerald and Mr. Bunny like you’ve always been there. you: I’m free Saturday

Saturday at the park is easy in a way that surprises you. You’d half expected it to be awkward — the three of you, still essentially strangers, trying to fill silence in an open space. But Mia eliminates the possibility of silence entirely. She has opinions about the swings (good), the slide (excellent, requires multiple repetitions), and the ducks by the small pond at the park’s edge (deeply suspicious, do not approach).

“They’re just ducks,” Jake tells her.

“They’re watching,” she says.

“They’re not watching.”

“Daddy.” She gives him a very patient look. “They are watching.”

Jake looks at you. You shrug. “They do look pretty focused,” you offer.

He points at you. “Don’t encourage her.”

Mia takes your hand and pulls you toward the swings, away from the ducks and away from Jake’s protests, and you go because she’s three and determined and her hand is in yours and you’ve decided that’s reason enough for basically anything at this point.

You push her on the swings while Jake sits on the bench nearby, and you watch him watching the two of you. He has his elbows on his knees and his face is open in a way you’re starting to learn is rare for him — in a crowd or with strangers he goes carefully neutral, pleasant but contained. But here, watching Mia go higher and higher and shriek with delight, he looks unguarded. Younger, somehow. Like something in him relaxes when it’s just the three of you. “Higher!” Mia demands.

“You’re already very high,” you tell her.

“Higher.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.”

“Nice try.”

She cackles. Pure delighted toddler sound, head thrown back. And you find yourself laughing too, pushing her at this very reasonable height, and when you look over at Jake he’s smiling at you with an expression you don’t quite have a name for yet. You look away first.

After the swings, Mia finds a stick, which becomes the most important object in the world for the next twenty minutes. She examines rocks. She makes Jake carry her on his shoulders. She falls asleep on the walk home with her cheek on his head and one fist clutching his jacket, completely unconscious, utterly trusting.

Jake walks carefully, holding her legs, talking to you in a low voice so he doesn’t wake her. “She doesn’t do this with many people,” he says.

“Fall asleep?”

“Trust people.” He adjusts his grip on her. “She’s friendly, obviously, she’ll talk to anyone. But she doesn’t— she doesn’t hold hands with people she doesn’t know. She doesn’t draw people.” He pauses. “She drew you in four days.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say, “she’s special.”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “She really is.”

You walk in silence for a moment, the easy kind. “How long has it been?” you ask. “Just the two of you.”

He doesn’t tense the way you half expect him to. Just exhales, slow and steady. “Since she was four months old. Her mom left.” He says it flat, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. Like he’s had a long time to practice saying it that way. “Just— left. Packed a bag while I was at work. By the time I got home it was just us.”

“Jake—”

“It’s fine now.” He glances at you sideways. “It wasn’t, for a long time. But it’s fine now. It’s good, actually. It’s really good.” He looks up at Mia’s sleeping face. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much.”

You look at him. At the way he holds her. At the careful tenderness of it. “She knows,” you say softly. He looks at you. “That she’s loved like that. You can tell.” You hold his gaze. “She knows.”

Something moves through his expression. Quick and unguarded and gone before you can name it. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

You walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Mia asleep above you, the afternoon sun going golden through the trees lining the street. It is, you think, a very good Saturday.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It becomes a routine without either of you deciding it should. Wednesday mornings, Jake knocks with the hairbrush. You do Mia’s hair while she holds Gerald and narrates her thoughts about the day ahead. Jake makes coffee in your kitchen like he knows where everything is, which after three weeks he does.

Saturdays are the park, or the farmers market two streets over, or just the three of you on one of your balconies eating whatever Jake has cooked because it turns out that while he cannot bake to save his life he is an genuinely excellent cook and he seems to enjoy having someone to cook for.

Evenings sometimes, when Mia’s in bed and Jake knocks quietly and you sit on his couch and watch something and talk about nothing in particular until one of you falls asleep.

It is domestic and soft and easy. It is also, you are increasingly aware, becoming something that would hurt to lose.

Mia calls you her Y/N now. Not just Y/N. Her Y/N, possessive and certain, the way she says her daddy and her Mr. Bunny and her Gerald. You are hers in her taxonomy of the world and the certainty of it does something to your chest every single time.

She tells the woman at the bakery you buy her the jam scroll she likes every Saturday. She tells a child at the park. She tells Mrs. Kim from 1A who coos and looks between you and Jake with an expression that makes Jake find something fascinating to look at on the middle distance.

You’re folding laundry in your apartment on a Thursday evening, three weeks in, when Jake knocks. You open the door. He’s holding two containers of leftover pasta, still warm. He holds one out. “Made too much,” he says.

You take it. Step back to let him in. This is how it goes now. “Mia asleep?” you ask.

“Out cold. She had daycare and then apparently spent an hour reorganizing her stuffed animals by color.” He sits on your couch. “It took everything she had.”

You sit beside him, open the pasta. It’s good — it’s always good. “Did the reorganization meet her standards?”

“She made me come and approve it before bed.” He pauses. “Mr. Bunny is in the orange section even though he’s gray.”

“He has warm undertones,” you say seriously.

Jake looks at you. Starts laughing. Not the polite laugh of someone being friendly but the real one, the one that takes over his whole face, and you’ve been cataloguing that laugh for weeks now, the way it comes out surprised sometimes like he forgot he was allowed to do it.

You’re laughing too, both of you over toddler stuffed animal color theory at eight PM with pasta containers in your laps, and when the laughter settles it leaves something warm and quiet in its place.

Jake is looking at you. Not the quick sideways glances you’ve been trading for weeks. Really looking, steady and open, and you feel it the way you feel a change in weather. The pressure of it. The way the air shifts. “Y/N,” he says.

“Yeah?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks down at his pasta container, turning it in his hands. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

He looks at you again and this time he doesn’t look away. “I really like spending time with you.”

You hold his gaze. “I really like spending time with you too.”

“I haven’t—” He exhales. “I haven’t wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. Maybe ever. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

The honesty of it lands softly. No performance, no deflection. Just him, telling you the truth. “I don’t either,” you say. “But I don’t think I want to stop.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull back. You don’t pull back.

His mouth finds yours, gentle at first, questioning, and then you lean into it and it stops being a question. It’s warm and unhurried and it tastes like the pasta and something underneath that is just him, and when you finally break apart you’re both quiet, foreheads almost touching.

“Okay,” he says softly.

“Okay,” you agree.

He pulls back just slightly. His expression is open and a little nervous and more serious than the moment requires, or maybe exactly as serious as it requires. “I need to say something,” he says.

“Okay.”

“If we—” He pauses, choosing his words. “Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes. Mia comes first. Always. That’s non negotiable for me. I need you to know that going in.”

You look at him. At the set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his eyes. A man who has built his whole life around a three year old with lopsided pigtails and a stuffed rabbit and absolute confidence in the people she decides are hers. “Jake,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“I know.” You hold his gaze. “I love her. She’s— she put her hand on my face the first morning and I was gone. I was completely gone.” You shake your head a little. “I think I fell for her before I even fell for you.”

Something moves across his face. Deep and quiet and undone.“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is rough at the edges.

“Yeah.” He kisses you again. Softer this time. Like something has been settled, like the last lock has clicked open. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and you lean into it and outside the window the city is doing whatever cities do at eight o’clock on a Thursday and in here it is warm and quiet and it feels, very specifically, like the beginning of something.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The first time Mia is at the babysitter’s overnight, it’s an accident.

Not the overnight part — that’s planned. Sandy, Mia’s regular babysitter three streets over, has been asking for weeks if she can have Mia for a sleepover because her own grandchildren are visiting and Mia and the youngest, a boy named Theo, have formed the specific intense friendship that only exists between toddlers who have decided they are best friends after forty five minutes together at a playground.

Jake agrees because Mia asks with her whole body, bouncing on her toes, and because Sandy has been his lifeline for two and a half years and he trusts her completely. What’s accidental is what happens after.

He drops Mia off at four on a Friday afternoon. You’re not there — you have a late class — but when you get home at six thirty and knock on 3A because it’s become reflex, Jake opens the door and the apartment is quiet in a way it never is.

You’ve been in this apartment dozens of times now. You know its sounds. The particular creak of the second floorboard in the hall. The way the kitchen tap needs an extra turn to stop dripping. The constant ambient noise of Mia — her commentary, her singing, her negotiations with various stuffed animals about bedtime.

The silence is enormous. “Weird, right?” Jake says, reading your face.

“Really weird.” You step inside. “How long has she been gone?”

“Two hours.” He closes the door. “I’ve cleaned the whole apartment and reorganized the pantry and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

You look at the pantry, which is indeed immaculate. You look at Jake, who is in dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt and looks simultaneously very attractive and genuinely a little lost. “Have you eaten?” you ask.

“No.”

“Cook me something.”

Something in him settles. He moves into the kitchen, and you sit on the counter the way you’ve started doing, and he makes pasta — different from the other night, something with lemon and herbs — and you open the wine you brought from your apartment and it is easy, it is so easy, the way everything with him has become easy without you noticing it happening.

You eat at his kitchen table. You talk about your classes and his current project — branding for a new café opening in the city — and the book you’ve both apparently been meaning to read for months and never have. You talk about Mia, because you always talk about Mia, about the things she’s said recently that have floored you both. “She told me yesterday,” Jake says, “that she wants to be a paleontologist.”

“She’s three.”

“I know. I asked her what a paleontologist was and she said ‘a person who finds old bones’ and I have no idea where she learned that word.”

“That’s— that’s genuinely impressive.”

“She then said she also wants to be a cat.” He takes a sip of wine. “So. Range.” You’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and the kitchen is warm and the wine is good and at some point the laughter fades and you’re just looking at each other in the quiet.

It’s been two weeks since the kiss on your couch. Two weeks of nothing changing and everything changing — the same routine, the same easy rhythm, but with this new current running underneath it. His hand finding yours sometimes. The way he says goodbye now, at the door, that takes longer than it used to. The awareness of him that hums in your chest constantly, warm and insistent.

You haven’t had a night without Mia before. You’re both aware of it. “Y/N,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Can I—” He stops. Starts again. His jaw works slightly, that tell you’ve learned. “I’ve been thinking about this. About us. And I want to— I want to do this properly. Take you on an actual date, not just—” He gestures at the table, the apartment, the comfortable domesticity of it. “Not just this. You deserve—”

“Jake.” You set down your glass. “I like this.”

“I know, but—”

“I mean I really like this.” You hold his gaze. “I don’t need a restaurant. I don’t need— I just want you. This. Whatever this is.” He looks at you for a long moment.

Then he pushes back from the table and crosses to you and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all evening, one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist. You slide off the counter and into him and he makes a low sound against your mouth that does something devastating to your concentration. “Stay tonight,” he says against your lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

You end up on his bed.

It happens slowly, the way things happen when there’s no rush, when the whole night stretches ahead and neither of you is going anywhere. He takes his time, unhurried and thorough, like he wants to learn you. Like you’re something worth learning.

He lays you back against his pillows and looks at you for a moment, just looks, and something about being seen like that — careful and wanting and completely focused — makes heat pool low in your stomach before he’s even touched you. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you say back.

He leans down and kisses you again, and it’s different from the doorway kisses and the couch kisses. Deeper. More deliberate. His hand slides up your side, pushing your shirt up, warm palm against your skin, and you shiver.“Cold?” he murmurs.

“Opposite.” He smiles against your mouth. Keeps moving, finding the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms and let him pull it off. He sits back to look at you, and his expression is so openly appreciative, so uncomplicated in its wanting, that you feel heat rise to your face.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Look away.” His thumb traces your collarbone. “I want to look at you.” You keep his gaze. He keeps his.

He gets rid of his own shirt and you run your hands up his chest, his stomach, the way you’ve been wanting to since— longer than you’ll admit. He’s warm and solid and he watches your face as you touch him like your expression is telling him something important.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He catches your hands, pins them gently above your head, leans down to press his mouth to your jaw. Your neck. The soft skin below your ear. “Just thinking about how long I’ve been wanting this.”

“How long?”

He mouths at your pulse point and you gasp, arching up. “Longer than I should admit,” he murmurs. “Probably since the morning with Mia. You opened the door half asleep with terrible hair and you crouched down and talked to her like she was a real person and I thought—” He lifts his head to look at you. “I thought I was in serious trouble.”

“Your daughter was upside down under your arm,” you manage.

“I know. Terrible timing.” He releases your wrists, hands moving to the button of your jeans. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He undresses you slowly, pressing his mouth to each new piece of skin like punctuation. The inside of your wrist. Your hip. The soft skin of your inner thigh that makes you grip the sheets and breathe out his name. He looks up at you from there, chin resting on your thigh, expression somewhere between fond and wrecked. “Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay? I’ve got you.” And then his mouth is on you and your head falls back and you stop being able to think in complete sentences.

He takes his time the way he does everything — with complete attention, reading every sound you make, every shift of your hips, adjusting until he finds exactly what makes you come apart. He slides one finger inside you and then two, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit in slow, devastating circles, and you fist your hand in his hair and try to remember how to breathe.

“Jake— fuck— I’m—”

He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t change what he’s doing. Just keeps that perfect steady rhythm like he has all the time in the world, like getting you there is the only thing on his agenda, and you come with your thighs clamped around his head and his name on your lips and it crashes through you in waves that don’t seem to stop.

He works you through every second of it, only easing off when you tug at his hair, oversensitive and shaking.

He moves up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach, your sternum, your mouth. You can taste yourself on him and somehow that makes heat flare through you all over again. “Hi,” he says again, soft and amused.

“You,” you manage, “are very good at that.”

“Yeah?” He looks pleased.

“Don’t get smug about it.”

“I’m not smug.” He is a little smug. You find you don’t mind. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” You reach up, pull him down to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried. “Your turn.”

You get his jeans off, and his boxers, and you wrap your hand around him and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking slightly.“Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. You stroke him slowly, learning the weight of him, and he drops his forehead to yours and just breathes. “Tell me what you like.”

“That,” he says roughly. “Exactly that. Just—” He covers your hand with his, adjusts the pressure slightly. “Yeah. Like that.”

You watch his face — the way his jaw goes tight, the way his eyes flutter. He’s trying to stay composed and not quite managing it and you find that incredibly satisfying. “Y/N.” His voice has gone rough. “I want— can I—”

“Yes,” you say. “Please.”

He reaches into his nightstand drawer. You take the condom from him and roll it on yourself, slowly, which makes him close his eyes and exhale hard through his nose.“You’re going to kill me,” he says.

“You’ll be fine.”

He settles between your thighs and you feel him there, pressing in, and you both go still for a moment. He pushes forward, slow and careful, watching your face, and the stretch of him makes you exhale hard, fingers pressing into his shoulders. He stops halfway, checking. “Good?” he asks.

“So good.” You shift your hips, urging him on. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t stop. He seats himself fully and you both breathe through it, foreheads together, and then he starts to move and everything else falls away.

He fucks you slowly at first, deep and thorough, finding the angle that makes you gasp and then staying with it. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and you make a sound that you’d be embarrassed about in any other context.“There?” he asks.

“There,” you confirm breathlessly.

He keeps going. Steady and focused and impossibly good, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke while his thumb works you in tight circles, and you can already feel it building again, embarrassingly fast. “Jake— fuck— already—”

“Let go,” he says against your temple. “I want to feel you.”

You come clenching around him, and he groans deep in his chest, the rhythm stuttering, and you feel him follow you over with your name on his lips, buried deep, shaking.

Afterward you lie tangled together in the quiet. He traces absent patterns on your arm. You listen to his heartbeat slow. “Hey,” he says eventually.

“Hey.”

“That was—”

“Yeah.” You tilt your head up. “It really was.” He presses a kiss to your hair. You feel him smile against it.

Outside, the city is doing its Friday night thing, indifferent and ongoing. In here the lamp is warm and the sheets are soft and Jake’s heartbeat is steady under your cheek and you think about the drawing on your fridge and the hand on your cheek and Mr. Bunny in the freezer and all the ordinary extraordinary things that have built this without you quite realizing. “Stay,” he says.

“I’m already here.”

“I mean—” He tightens his arm around you. “Stay. Not just tonight.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “You’re going to have to define that.”

“I know.” His thumb moves slow on your arm. “I’m working up to it.”

“Okay.” You settle back against him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mia comes home at eleven the next morning. You’re still there.

You’re in Jake’s kitchen making coffee, wearing his hoodie and your underwear, when the front door opens and Sandy’s voice floats through — “here we are, my love, home sweet home” — and small feet thunder down the hall.

Mia appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene. You, in her daddy’s hoodie. The two coffee cups. The general evidence of your presence. Her face does something complicated and then completely simple. “My Y/N,” she says, delighted, and launches herself at your legs.

You crouch down and catch her, and she wraps around you like a koala, warm and sleep-soft and smelling like Sandy’s house, and you hold her and look up at Jake in the doorway and he’s looking at the two of you with that expression again. The one that’s bigger than his face can hold.

“Hi baby,” you say into Mia’s hair. “How was Theo’s?”

“We found a worm,” she says. “His name is Dave.”

“Did you bring Dave home?”

“Sandy said no.” A pause. “I think that was wrong.”

“Dave is probably very happy in Sandy’s garden.”

She considers this. “Okay.” Then, muffled against your shoulder: “Are you staying for breakfast?”

You look at Jake. He holds your gaze, steady and warm. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying for breakfast.”

Mia pulls back, satisfied. “Daddy makes good eggs.”

“I know he does.”

“You can sit next to me.”

“I would love that.”

She takes your hand and tows you toward the table with the authority of someone who has decided how this morning is going to go, and Jake moves to the stove, and outside the kitchen window the Saturday morning is doing its soft unhurried thing, and this— this is everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The weeks that follow are the best of your life. You don’t say that out loud. It feels too large, too exposed. But it’s true in the quiet way that the truest things are — not dramatic, not announced, just sitting solidly in your chest every time you’re aware of it.

The three of you fall into a rhythm so natural it’s almost hard to remember the before. Jake knocks on your door with the hairbrush and leaves with coffee. You come to theirs for dinner more nights than not. Mia insists on showing you everything — every drawing, every discovery, every development in the ongoing organization of her stuffed animal collection.

The farmers market becomes yours. Every Saturday, the three of you. Mia on Jake’s shoulders, small hands wrapped in his hair, pointing imperiously at things she wants to examine. You buy her a sunflower from the flower stall in week two and she carries it home with both hands like it’s precious, and after that it becomes the thing — every week, a sunflower for Mia, who has decided they are her favorite and cannot be argued with on this point.

Jake watches you with her constantly. You catch him doing it — that soft unguarded look — and he doesn’t stop when you catch him, just holds your gaze until you look away first, which you always do because the directness of it does something to your chest that you haven’t found words for yet.

Mia tells her daycare teacher about you. You know this because Jake texts you a screenshot of a drawing she brought home — the same configuration as before, Mia Daddy Gerald Mr Bunny Y/N, but this time you and Jake are holding hands.

jake 3a: her teacher asked who the people were, she said ‘that’s my daddy and my Y/N they’re in love’

You stare at the message. you: she’s three

jake 3a: three and apparently very perceptive

you: what did you tell the teacher

jake 3a: I said she wasn’t wrong

You put your phone face down on the desk and press both hands over your face and sit there for a full minute. Then you pick it up. you: jake

jake 3a: yeah?

you: are you in love with me

A pause. Longer than usual. Your heart does something complicated in the silence. jake 3a: I’ve been trying to find the right moment to say it properly not over text but yes, very much yes. I have been for a while

jake 3a: is that okay?

You read it three times. you: yes, it’s very okay. also I love you too

jake 3a: yeah?

you: yeah

jake 3a: okay, good. I’m going to say it properly tonight with Mia asleep so she doesn’t narrate it

you: she would absolutely narrate it

jake 3a: she would make it about herself somehow

you: she would bring Mr Bunny as a witness

jake 3a: he’d be very moved

You’re smiling so hard your face hurts, alone in your apartment at two in the afternoon, and you think about the morning you opened your door and found a small person sitting on your doormat in duck pajamas looking for her rabbit.

You think about tiny fingers in yours on the way back across the hall. You think about you’re nice delivered with complete certainty by someone who had known you for four minutes.

That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake says it properly. Standing in the kitchen, cup of tea going cold on the counter, both of you knowing it’s coming and neither of you in any rush because there’s no need to rush anymore.

“I love you,” he says. Simple and direct. “I love you and I love that she loves you and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

“I love you too,” you say. “Both of you. The whole— all of it. Everything.”

He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like coming home, which is a thing you didn’t know kitchens could taste like until now.

Later, in his bed, you press your face into his shoulder and listen to the particular quiet of the apartment at night — the creak of the building, the distant city, the soft sound of Mia breathing through the baby monitor on the nightstand. “Hey,” Jake says quietly. “You know what Mia asked me today?”

“What?”

“She asked if you were going to live with us.”

Your heart turns over. “What did you tell her?”

“I said I hoped so.” He tilts his head to look down at you. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s okay.” He pulls you closer. You close your eyes. Outside, a siren somewhere. The building settling. Mia’s breathing through the monitor, slow and even and completely safe.

In here, you think. Everything is in here. You never see it coming. That’s the thing about a knock at the door when you’re happy. You don’t brace for it. You don’t clock the risk. You’re just— there. In the warm. Thinking about nothing that isn’t good.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s a Sunday. Mia is at Sandy’s. Not overnight this time — just the afternoon, a regular arrangement while Jake works on a deadline.

Except Jake finished his deadline by noon and texted you and you came over and the afternoon became the best kind of afternoon, the kind that starts with coffee and talking and turns into something else entirely when Mia isn’t home, when there’s nowhere to be and no particular reason to leave the bedroom.

You’re in his bed. Late afternoon light coming gold through the curtains. His hand on your back tracing lazy patterns on your spine. You’re boneless and warm and half thinking about nothing and half thinking about whether Mia will want to show you the worm situation at Sandy’s when Jake picks her up.

“Sandy said she asked to bring Dave home three more times,” Jake says, like he’s reading your mind.

“Persistent.”

“She gets it from somewhere.” His hand moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “You hungry?” “Not yet.”

“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got a couple of hours before I pick her up.” You hum. He pulls you closer. The afternoon light shifts.

Then someone knocks at the door. Jake’s hand stills on your back. “Expecting anyone?” you ask.

“No.” He frowns slightly. “Sandy would call.” He sits up, reaching for his t-shirt. “Probably Danny about the tap.”

You stretch out across the warm space he’s left, drowsy and content, listening to his footsteps down the hall. The sound of the door opening. Silence.

Not the brief silence of oh hi Danny it’s fine. A longer silence. A loaded one.

Then a voice you don’t recognize — a woman’s voice, careful and slightly uncertain — saying his name. “Jake.”

You go very still.

Jake says nothing for a long moment. When he speaks his voice is completely flat in a way you’ve never heard from him before. Like all the warmth has been removed surgically. “What are you doing here?”

“I just— I wanted to—” The woman’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“No. How did you find me?”

“Your mum. She didn’t— she thought I knew the address, I think. I don’t think she realized—”

“Why are you here.” Not a question. A demand.

A pause. “I want to see her,” the woman says. “I want to see Mia.”

The name lands in the apartment like something dropped. You sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around yourself, and the drowsy warmth of the afternoon has gone completely. In its place something cold and alert.

“You need to leave,” Jake says.

“I know I don’t have the right to—”

“You left,” Jake says, and his voice is still flat, but underneath the flatness there is something enormous being held very carefully in check. “She was four months old and you left. You’ve been gone for three years. You don’t get to knock on my door and say you want to see her like it’s a reasonable thing to say.”

“I know.” The woman’s voice cracks slightly. “I know that. I just— Jake, please, I just want—”

“To see her? Or to see me?” Silence. “Yeah,” Jake says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

You get up. Quietly. You find your clothes in the soft afternoon mess of the room, pull them on, and you stand in the hallway outside his bedroom door and you look at the front door.

She’s standing in the doorway. Tall, dark-haired, pretty in a way that might have been beautiful before whatever she’s been carrying got into her face. She’s looking at Jake with an expression that mixes guilt and want in proportions you don’t have to be a genius to read.

She sees you. Her eyes move over you — your rumpled clothes, Jake’s apartment behind you, the obvious geography of the afternoon — and something hardens in her expression that you recognize. The specific hardening of someone who wanted to find a door open and has found it closed.

Jake turns. He sees you in the hallway. Something moves through his face — protective, apologetic, something else underneath that you don’t have time to read. “Y/N,” he says. “Hi.” You keep your voice steady. “I’ll— I can go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay.” You look at him clearly, trying to say with your eyes what you can’t say in front of her: I’m fine. I’m not going far. Handle this. “I’ll be across the hall.”

He holds your gaze. His jaw is set, his eyes tight at the corners, but he gives you the smallest nod.

You pick up your keys from the bowl by the door — yours, in the bowl by Jake’s door, which happened so gradually you can’t remember it beginning — and you step past the woman in the doorway without looking at her.

You go into 3B. You close the door. You sit on your couch and you listen to the muffled sound of voices through the wall, and you hold yourself very carefully together, and you wait.

You sit on your couch for forty minutes. You know because you watch the clock. Not obsessively — you’re not counting seconds — but every time your eyes drift to it another chunk of time has passed and the voices through the wall have not stopped.

You make tea you don’t drink. You open your laptop and close it again. You pick up your phone three times and put it down without texting anyone because what would you even say.

My boyfriend’s ex showed up. The one who left when their daughter was four months old. She’s been there forty minutes and I’m sitting in my apartment trying not to think about the way she looked at him.

You put your phone face down on the cushion beside you.

The thing is — and you know this, you do — you trust Jake. That’s not the part that’s making your chest tight. You’ve watched him for months now. You know who he is. You know the way he holds his daughter and the way he laughs and the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. You know he means what he says.

The part that’s making your chest tight is her face when she saw you. Not guilt. Not embarrassment at the intrusion. Something proprietary. Something that said what are you doing in my space even though she is the one who left. Even though she forfeited any claim to this apartment and this life and this man the day she packed a bag while her four month old daughter slept.

You’re familiar with that expression. You’ve worn it yourself, briefly, watching other women talk to Jake at the market or at the park. You know what it means. She wants him back. Mia is the reason she knocked. But she wants Jake back.

You’re still sitting with that when your phone buzzes. jake 3a: she’s gone, can you come back?

You’re across the hall before you’ve fully decided to move. He opens the door before you knock. He looks terrible. Not falling apart — Jake doesn’t fall apart, you’ve figured that out, he goes very still and very controlled when things get bad, which is almost worse — but there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there this morning and his jaw is set in that way that means he’s been holding something in for a while.

He steps back to let you in. Closes the door. You turn to face him and he looks at you for a moment like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re still here, that the afternoon hasn’t completely dismantled itself. “You okay?” you ask.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine. I was across the hall.” You hold his gaze. “Are you okay?”

He exhales. Long and slow. Runs a hand through his hair. “She wants to see Mia. She says she’s been in therapy. That she’s been— working through things. That she made a mistake and she knows that and she just wants—” He stops. His jaw works. “She was here for forty minutes and Mia’s name came up maybe three times.”

Your stomach tightens. “What did the rest of it cover?” He looks at you with an expression that answers the question without words. “Jake—”

“I told her no,” he says. “To all of it. I told her— Mia doesn’t know her. She’s three years old, she has no memory of her, and showing up out of nowhere and announcing herself as her mother would be— I’m not doing that to her. I’m not letting someone walk in and blow up her world because they’ve decided they’re ready now.”

“That’s right,” you say quietly.

“Is it?” He looks genuinely uncertain, and that more than anything tells you how rattled he is. Jake is not an uncertain man. He’s careful, he’s considered, but when he’s decided something he holds it steady. Watching him doubt himself is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “Because part of me thinks— she’s her mother. Biologically. Does Mia have a right to know her? At some point? And am I—”

“Jake.” You cross to him. Put your hand on his chest, flat over his heart, and look up at him. “You are the most present, devoted, thoughtful parent I have ever seen. You have been both of them for three years. Whatever you decide about this, it comes from that. Not from fear, not from jealousy. From knowing your daughter.” He looks down at you. His hand comes up to cover yours. “She’s not here because of Mia,” you say gently. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “Yeah, I know that.”

“So you handle the Mia question in your own time, with proper advice, on your terms. Not because she showed up at your door on a Sunday afternoon.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “When did you get so—”

“Wise?”

“I was going to say steady.”

“Same thing.” You press your palm flatter against his chest. “You’re okay. Mia’s okay. This is just— a thing that happened on a Sunday. It doesn’t have to be more than that right now.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Something in his face shifts — the held-in thing loosening slightly, the lines around his eyes easing. “I really love you,” he says quietly.

“I know.” You reach up, press your hand briefly to his jaw. “I love you too. Go get your daughter.”

He comes back with Mia at five thirty. You’re in his kitchen making dinner — you’d found pasta and vegetables and half a block of good parmesan and it seemed like the right thing to do, to be here, to have something warm happening when they got home.

Mia comes through the door at full speed, as always, and finds you at the stove and absolutely loses her mind with delight. “My Y/N is here!”

“Hi, my Mia.” She barrels into your legs and you crouch down and catch her, and over her head you watch Jake close the front door and lean against it for just a second, eyes closed. Like he’s taking a breath. Like he’s counting the things still here and finding them all present.

Then he opens his eyes and sees you watching him and something in his face goes soft. “Dave update,” Mia says urgently against your neck.

“Tell me everything.”

“Sandy said he moved.” Her voice is full of significance. “She doesn’t know where he went.”

“Dave is living his life.”

“That’s what Sandy said.” She pulls back to look at you. “I think he went to find his family.”

“That’s a very hopeful interpretation.”

“Worms have families,” she tells you solemnly. “Probably.”

“Definitely,” you agree.

Jake has moved into the kitchen. He comes up behind you — Mia still in your arms — and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Quick and quiet. Gratitude and love in a single gesture. “Smells good,” he says.

“Twenty minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“You can set the table.”

“I want to help,” Mia announces.

“You can put the napkins out,” you tell her, and she accepts this responsibility with great seriousness, and Jake sets her down and gets the napkins and she carries them to the table one at a time with both hands like they’re fragile, and Jake catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths thank you and you shake your head slightly because there’s nothing to thank you for.

You’re exactly where you want to be.

Later, after dinner, after Mia’s bath, after two bedtime stories and one negotiation about the structural integrity of a fort she wants to construct in the living room (tomorrow, baby, it’s bedtime), after small arms around your neck and a kiss pressed very seriously to your cheek and night my Y/N into the dark—

You and Jake sit on his couch in the quiet. He has his legs stretched out on the coffee table. You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you. The lamp is the only light. The apartment has the particular peace of a small child asleep in the next room. “She’s going to come back,” Jake says quietly.

“Probably.”

“I’m going to talk to a lawyer. Get clear on where things stand legally before she does.” His thumb moves on your arm. “She signed over custody voluntarily. I don’t think she has grounds for anything. But I want to know for certain.”

“That’s smart.”

“I don’t want Mia to know about this until I do. I don’t want her picking up on anything.”

“She won’t hear it from me.”

He turns his head to press a kiss to your hair. “I know.” You sit in the quiet for a moment. “She looked at you,” he says. “The way she looked at you when she saw you there.” His arm tightens slightly. “I need you to know that whatever she came here wanting, it was never going to— she left, Y/N. She made her choice. There’s nothing there.”

“I know that too.”

“I just—” He exhales. “I don’t want you to have any doubt. About this. About us.”

You lift your head to look at him. His face in the lamplight, tired and earnest and completely, simply honest. “I don’t,” you tell him. “Not even a little.”

He holds your gaze. “Good,” he says quietly. He kisses you softly, and you let yourself melt into it, and outside the window the night is doing its ordinary thing, indifferent and ongoing.

When you break apart you settle back against his shoulder. “Stay,” he says.

“Obviously,” you say. He pulls you closer.

In the next room, Mia sleeps, completely safe, completely loved, completely unaware that someone knocked on the door today and was turned away.

She’ll know, eventually. Jake will tell her, carefully, at the right time, in the right way. That’s the kind of father he is. But tonight she just sleeps. And you and Jake stay on the couch until you both drift off, warm and quiet and whole.

The lawyer’s name is Ms. Park and she is very thorough.

Jake comes back from the meeting on a Wednesday looking lighter than he has all week. He finds you in his kitchen — where you are most afternoons now, it’s become accepted fact — and he leans in the doorway and says:

“She has no legal standing. She relinquished custody voluntarily and completely. If she wants any kind of access she would have to apply through the courts and demonstrate sustained rehabilitation and it would be a long process with no guarantee.”

You set down the mug you’re washing. “Okay.”

“She came here once and I turned her away and she hasn’t come back.” He exhales. “I don’t think she’s going to pursue it. I think she came here for me and when that didn’t work—”

“She has no reason to stay.” You cross the kitchen to him. Put your hands on his chest. “How do you feel?”

He thinks about it genuinely, the way he does. “Relieved,” he says. “And— sad, a little. That it’s this way. That Mia doesn’t have—” He stops.

“She has you,” you say. “She has Sandy and Mrs. Kim and the daycare teachers who love her and Theo the worm friend and—” You meet his eyes. “She has me. For as long as you’ll both have me.”

Something moves through his face. “Forever, then,” he says simply.

Your heart turns over. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Forever works.”

He kisses you there in the kitchen and it tastes like relief and sunlight and something settled and permanent. From the doorway comes a small voice. “Are you kissing again?”

You break apart to find Mia standing in the hallway in her socks, Mr. Bunny under her arm, regarding you both with the patient exhaustion of someone who has seen this many times and has opinions. “Sorry,” Jake says, not sounding sorry at all.

“It’s fine,” Mia says, generous. “You can kiss. But after can we do the fort?”

“We can do the fort,” you confirm. She nods, satisfied. Turns and toddles back down the hall.

Jake looks at you. You look at Jake.“The fort,” he says. You nod in agreement and follow him and your daughter down the hall.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three months later, Mia stops calling you my Y/N. She starts calling you mama.

It happens on a Tuesday. Not a special Tuesday. Not a significant one. Just an ordinary Tuesday in February where the sky is doing that flat grey thing it does in late summer when the heat hasn’t broken yet and everything feels slightly sticky and slow.

You’re doing her hair. The Wednesday morning routine has migrated — it’s every morning now, most mornings, because somewhere between October and February the question of which apartment are you sleeping in stopped being a real question. You’re here. You live here, functionally, in every way that matters except the technical one. Your toothbrush is here. A drawer is yours. Gerald the succulent has been relocated to the kitchen windowsill where he gets better light and Mia waters him every second day with great ceremony.

Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Mia is between your knees on the couch, holding Mr. Bunny, and you’re doing two neat braids because she has decided braids are her preference this week and you’ve been practicing. “Tighter,” she instructs.

“If I go tighter it’ll pull.”

“I want tight braids.”

“You want braids that feel comfortable and also look good.”

She considers this negotiation. “Okay,” she concedes.

You keep going. She hums something to herself, swinging her feet, and you work through the second braid, and it’s quiet in the good way, the way that only exists when everyone in a space is completely comfortable. “Mama,” Mia says.

“Hmm?” You tie off the braid.

“Can I wear the yellow dress today?”

You’re reaching for the second hair tie when it lands.

Mama.

She said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural word in the world. Like she’s been saying it her whole life, which — you realize, with your heart doing something enormous and unsteady in your chest — maybe in her head she has been.

“Yeah,” you manage, and your voice comes out almost normal. “Yeah, baby, we can find the yellow dress.”

She scrambles off the couch and heads to her room, completely unbothered, Mr. Bunny trailing from one hand. You sit there. In the kitchen, the coffee maker finishes its cycle.

Jake appears in the doorway with two mugs, takes one look at your face, and stops. “What happened? Are you okay? What—”

“She called me mama,” you say.

The mugs go onto the coffee table. Jake sits beside you and looks at you with an expression that is doing the same enormous unsteady thing yours probably is. “Just now?”

“Just now.” Your voice is not quite steady. “She asked if she could wear the yellow dress and she called me mama and then she just— walked off. Like it was nothing.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m not upset.” You turn to him, urgent, needing him to understand. “I’m not— I’m not upset, Jake, I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he takes your face in both hands, careful and deliberate, and presses his forehead to yours. “I do,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You say yes. That’s what you do. You just— say yes.”

From down the hall: “Found it!” A pause. “Mama, can you do the buttons?”

You close your eyes. “Okay,” you breathe. Yeah.” You open your eyes. Look at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

He kisses you, quick and soft, and then you get up and go down the hall to do the buttons on a yellow dress, and Jake stands in the living room doorway watching and the expression on his face is the most complete thing you’ve ever seen on a human being.

That night, after Mia is asleep, Jake asks you to move in. Not impulsively. Not as a reaction to the morning. You can tell he’s been thinking about it for a while — there’s a particular quality to his stillness when he’s been working up to something, and you’ve learned it the way you’ve learned all of him, gradually and permanently.

You’re on the couch. Late. The lamp on, the city quiet outside. His hand in yours. “Move in,” he says. You look at him. “Properly,” he says. “Not the drawer and the toothbrush. All of it. Gerald and everything.”

“Gerald’s already here.”

“I know.” The corner of his mouth moves. “Consider it a trial run.”

You look at your joined hands. At the apartment that has been yours in every meaningful sense for months. At the hallway where Mia is sleeping with Mr. Bunny and her color-organized stuffed animals and absolute certainty that you will be here in the morning. “Yeah,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“Obviously yeah, Jake.” You lean over and kiss him. “Obviously.”

He pulls you in and holds you there, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. “She’s going to lose her mind,” he says.

“She’s going to tell Gerald first.”

“She’s going to tell Gerald, then Mrs. Kim, then Sandy, then everyone at daycare.”

“In that order.”

“In that exact order.”

You’re both laughing, quiet so you don’t wake her, and it settles into something warm and certain. “Hey,” Jake says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You press your face into his shoulder. “Both of you. The whole thing.”

“The whole thing loves you back,” he says simply.

You tell Mia in the morning. Jake does it, at breakfast, with the careful measured approach of a man who has learned that toddlers receive important news better when they’re eating something. “Hey Mia. You know how Y/N stays here a lot?”

Mia looks up from her toast. Looks at you. Looks back at Jake. “Yes.”

“How would you feel if she stayed here all the time? Like, lived here. With us.”

Mia blinks. Puts down her toast. Looks at you with enormous serious eyes. “Like forever?” she asks.

“Like forever,” Jake confirms.

She stares at you for a long moment with the focused intensity of someone making a very important assessment.

Then she gets down from her chair, crosses to you, climbs into your lap uninvited and completely certain of her welcome, and wraps both arms around your neck. “Okay,” she says into your shoulder. “You can live here.”

“Thank you,” you manage, arms tight around her.

“Gerald will be happy,” she adds.

“He really will.”

She pulls back. Looks at your face. Puts her small hand on your cheek exactly the way she did on the very first morning, in the hallway, four months ago when she was looking for her rabbit. “Don’t cry,” she says kindly. “It’s good news.”

“I know.” You laugh, wet at the edges. “Happy tears.”

“Oh.” She considers this. “Okay.” Then, satisfied, she climbs back down, retrieves her toast, and resumes breakfast.

Jake is looking at you over her head with an expression that could power something. “Told you,” he mouths. You shake your head, still smiling, still blinking hard.

The whole thing loves you back. Yeah. Yeah it really does.

The move takes a weekend. It’s not a big move — your apartment was small and you’ve been migrating things gradually for months without meaning to — but there’s something significant about doing it officially. Carrying boxes across the hall. Hanging your clothes properly in the wardrobe. Arranging your books on the shelves beside Jake’s.

Mia supervises. She is a very involved supervisor, offering opinions on where everything should go and occasionally redirecting items she feels would be better placed in her room. You negotiate firmly on the throw blanket. You surrender the small lamp without a fight because she’s put it next to Mr. Bunny and it does look good there, objectively.

By Sunday evening the apartment is a comfortable chaos of rearrangement and you’re all sitting on the living room floor eating pizza from the box because no one has the energy to locate the table under the moving debris.

Mia is in your lap. Jake is beside you, shoulder to shoulder, pizza slice in hand, looking around the apartment that has shifted and expanded and settled into something new. “Looks different,” he says.

“Good different?”

He looks at you. “Yeah. Really good different.”

Mia tilts her head back to look up at you from your lap. “Can we build the fort now?”

“We live in a fort,” you tell her, gesturing at the surrounding box landscape.

Her eyes go wide. She looks around. Looks back at you. “We live in a fort,” she breathes.

“We live in a fort,” Jake confirms solemnly. She is overcome.

You and Jake look at each other over her head, laughing, and it is — this moment exactly, pizza and boxes and a delighted three year old and the lamp in the wrong place and Gerald on the windowsill — it is everything. Absolutely everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

A year later

The morning of the wedding, Mia wakes up at five forty-three AM. You know this because she comes and stands beside the bed and breathes on your face until you open your eyes. “It’s today,” she whispers.

“It is,” you confirm.

“I’m the flower girl.”

“You are.”

She absorbs this with great seriousness. Then: “I need to practice.”

“Mia, it’s not even six—”

“I need to practice.”

Jake makes a sound beside you that is him absolutely not laughing. You elbow him. “Okay,” you say. “But quietly. So we don’t wake the neighbors.”

She nods, solemn and focused, and turns and walks very slowly back down the hallway, scattering invisible petals with great ceremony, narrating under her breath — and then I walk here, and then here, and then I find mama—

You lie there in the early morning grey and stare at the ceiling and think about the word mama the way you have thought about it every day for the past year and a half. The way it still does something enormous to your chest. The way you don’t think it will ever stop.

Jake rolls toward you. Presses his face into your neck. “Morning,” he murmurs.

“Your daughter is practicing flower girl technique in the hallway.”

“She’s been planning this since we told her.” His arm comes around you. “She asked Sandy if she could practice at her house. She practiced at daycare. She made Theo be the groom so she could practice walking toward someone.”

“She’s extremely prepared.”

“She’s extremely her.” He presses a kiss to your jaw. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” You turn to face him. His face in the early light, sleep-soft and certain and completely, permanently yours. “Really good. You?”

“Best day of my life,” he says simply. “After the day she was born. And the day you moved in. And the day you said yes when I asked.” He pauses. “Top five, at minimum.”

“That’s very good company.”

“You’re very good company.” He kisses you properly, slow and warm, and from the hallway comes the sound of small feet completing another practice lap.

“…and then I find mama, and she’s the prettiest—” You pull back from Jake, blinking hard. He looks at you. Reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye, gentle.

“She’s not wrong,” he says.

“It’s five forty-five in the morning, I look terrible—”

“You look like the person I’m marrying today.” He holds your gaze. “Which means you look perfect.” You press your face into his shoulder and hold on for a moment.

From the hallway: “Okay I’m ready. Can we have breakfast now?”

Sandy comes at nine to take Mia for hair and getting dressed — a situation Mia has been anticipating with the focused excitement of someone who has been told she gets curls and a flower in her hair and has not stopped thinking about it since.

She submits to the process with remarkable patience, sitting very still while Sandy works, only turning her head twice to update you on developments. “It’s getting curlier,” she reports.

“I can see that.”

“Do I look like a princess?”

“You look exactly like a princess.” She nods, satisfied, and returns to stillness.

When it’s done she stands in front of the mirror in her small white dress — simple, with a yellow sash, because she requested yellow and you would move mountains before you’d say no to that — and looks at herself for a long, serious moment.“I look nice,” she concludes.

“You look incredible,” Sandy says.

“Yeah.” She turns to look at you. Her eyes go wide. “Mama. You look so pretty.”

You’re in your dress — simple, exactly what you wanted, nothing complicated — and your hair is done and you’re holding your bouquet and you’re trying very hard not to cry and failing slightly.“So do you,” you tell her.

She crosses to you. Reaches up and takes your hand, the way she did in a hallway a long time ago, completely certain of her welcome.“Don’t be nervous,” she tells you.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Good.” She squeezes your fingers. “Daddy loves you the most.”

“He loves you the most.”

She considers this with genuine fairness. “He loves us the same,” she decides. “Equal. Like a tie.”

“That’s exactly right.”

She nods. Pats your hand once, settling the matter. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go get married.”

The venue is small and warm and full of people who love you.

Mrs. Kim is in the third row in her best jacket, already dabbing her eyes. Sandy is beside her. Jake’s parents flew in from Brisbane — his mother cried when she met you and his father shook your hand for a very long time and said thank you for making them happy and you’d had to excuse yourself to the bathroom for five minutes after that.

Your own family. Your friends. The people who have been the walls of your life. And at the end of the aisle, Jake.

In a dark suit, hands clasped in front of him, hair the way you like it. He’s talking quietly to the celebrant and then someone touches his arm and he looks up and sees Mia in the doorway.

His face does what it always does when he sees her. That open, completely unguarded thing. She waves at him. He waves back.

Then he sees you behind her and his face does something else entirely.

The music starts. Mia goes first. She has been told, approximately as many times as you can tell a four and a half year old anything, that flower girls walk slowly. Measured. Elegant. She lasts four steps.

Then she spots Jake at the end of the aisle and she goes — there is no other word for it — feral with excitement, sunflowers clutched in both fists, petals going in every direction except down, grinning so hard her whole face is the grin, half walking half skipping half something entirely her own.

“DADDY I FOUND HER” she announces at full volume to the entire assembled gathering. “I FOUND HER SHE’S HERE”

The room erupts. Not polite wedding laughter. Real laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere genuine, rippling through every row. Mrs. Kim is crying laughing. Sandy has her hand over her mouth. Jake’s mother is gripping his father’s arm.

Jake is crouching down to catch Mia as she reaches him, scooping her up, pressing a kiss to her chaotic curls, the flower in her hair somehow surviving the sprint. “Good job,” you hear him tell her.

“I practiced,” she says, very serious.

“I know you did, baby.” He sets her down. She takes her position with great dignity, as though the sprint did not happen, as though she has been standing here elegantly the entire time.

And then Jake looks up at you. You walk toward him. The room goes soft around the edges — not blurred, just quiet, the way things go when you’re paying attention to the only thing that matters. The faces on either side are warm and familiar and you see them without seeing them because you’re looking at Jake.

Jake, who opened his door on a panicked Tuesday morning and showed you his worst fear and his whole heart in the same thirty seconds.

Jake, who makes coffee before you ask and remembers every small thing and says what he means with a simplicity that still sometimes catches you off guard.

Jake, who watched you fall in love with his daughter before you fell in love with him and let it happen without trying to manage or protect or preempt it, because he trusted you, because he looked at you and knew.

You reach him. He takes your hand and holds it like he’s been holding it his whole life. “Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” you say back.

Beside him, Mia has taken your other hand. She holds it with both of hers, feet planted, present and accounted for, witnessing this with the gravity it deserves.

The celebrant begins. The vows are Jake’s own words. You knew this. You wrote yours too, separately, privately, the way you’d agreed. But hearing them — in his voice, in this room, looking at his face — is different from knowing.

He talks about the morning Mia escaped into the hallway and how he stood in your doorway afterward watching you crouch down to his daughter’s level and felt something shift that he couldn’t name yet and didn’t try to.

He talks about Wednesday mornings with the hairbrush. About leftover pasta and late night texting and the drawing on the fridge.

He talks about the way you love Mia — not as a condition of loving him, not as an extension of it, but first, entirely and separately first, because that’s who you are.

She picked you, he says, before I had a chance to. And she has never once been wrong about anything important. Beside you, Mia straightens slightly at this. You feel her grip on your hand tighten.

I’m not a man who believed in easy, Jake says. I thought love was supposed to be something you work and worry at. And then you moved in across the hall and you were just — easy. Everything with you has just been easy. Not without difficulty. Not without fear. But easy the way breathing is easy. The way I can’t imagine not doing it. His voice has gone rough at the edges.

I love you. I loved you in October and I loved you in February and I love you today and I’m going to love you when Mia is grown and gone and it’s just us and I’m going to love you in every ordinary Tuesday that comes after this one because that’s where you live. In the ordinary Tuesdays. And I want every single one of them.

The room is very quiet. You are absolutely crying. You decided before today that you weren’t going to cry until after the vows at the earliest and you have failed completely. “Don’t cry,” Mia whispers, helpful. “It’s good news.”

Laughter moves through the room like a wave. Jake laughs too, wiping his eyes, and you laugh through yours, and it breaks the solemnity just enough, the way the best moments always do — serious and true and then suddenly full of light.

Your vows. You talk about duck pajamas and a stuffed rabbit and a small hand in yours in a hallway. You talk about a crayon drawing on a fridge and a child who put you in her family portrait before you knew you belonged there.

You talk about a man who carried his daughter on his shoulders through a farmers market and came home to make dinner and knocked on your door with leftover pasta and showed you what it looked like when someone decided that loving people well was the most important thing they could do.

You taught me that, you say. Both of you. You showed me what it looks like when love is a decision someone makes every single day without drama and without conditions. Mia does it for everyone she meets. You do it quietly and completely and I want to spend the rest of my life doing it back. You look at Jake.

I love you. I love our ordinary Tuesdays. I love Wednesday mornings and Saturday markets and bedtime stories and all the Gerald updates and every single version of this life we’ve built in an apartment across the hall from where I used to live alone. I love your daughter.

You look down at Mia. She is watching you with her whole face. Completely still, completely focused, taking this in with the seriousness it deserves.

She is the best thing, you say. She is the absolute best thing, and I promise her, today, in front of everyone who loves us, that I am here. I am not going anywhere. She is mine and I am hers and that is permanent and unconditional and nothing will ever change it.

Mia’s lip wobbles. Just slightly. You watch her decide, with great effort, not to cry, because she is a flower girl and flower girls are professionals and she has a reputation to maintain. She squeezes your hand instead. Very hard. You squeeze back.

I now pronounce you married.

Jake kisses you, and the room rises, and somewhere in the noise you hear Mia announce to no one in particular and everyone simultaneously:

“THAT’S MY MAMA NOW. THAT’S OFFICIALLY MY MAMA.”

And then, apparently satisfied that this has been adequately communicated, she inserts herself between the two of you and takes both your hands and holds on.

Jake looks at you over her head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The reception is everything. Mrs. Kim dances with Mia for forty-five minutes straight and neither of them stops. Sandy cries every time someone gives a speech. Jake’s father gives a toast that makes the whole room laugh and then immediately cry. Your own people hold you and tell you they knew, they always knew, from the moment you started talking about the little girl next door like she’d hung the moon.

Jake dances with Mia first — tradition, he’d decided, she gets the first dance — and you stand at the edge of the floor and watch her stand on his feet, both of them swaying to something slow, her head against his chest, his hand spanning her whole back.

You take a photo. You will look at that photo for the rest of your life.

Then he passes her off to his mother and comes to find you, hand extended, and you take it and let him pull you out onto the floor. “Hi wife,” he says, like he’s trying the word out.

“Hi husband.”

He smiles. Pulls you closer. “How’s it feel?”

“Same,” you say honestly. “Exactly the same. Just— more settled.”

“Yeah.” His hand moves on your back. “Like it’s been true for a while and now the paperwork caught up.”

“Exactly like that.”

You dance. The room moves around you, warm and full of people you love, and Mia is somewhere in it, probably telling someone about Dave the worm or Gerald or the structural integrity of forts, and it is — all of it, every piece — everything. All of it everything.

She falls asleep at nine fifteen. Mid-sentence, apparently — Jake’s mother told you later she was explaining the color organization system for the stuffed animals and then she simply stopped explaining and was asleep, curled in the chair with her flower crown half off and her shoes long since abandoned and the last of her sunflowers still in her hand.

Jake carries her out to the car at the end of the night, limp and certain and completely trusting the way only sleeping children are, and you tuck the seatbelt around her and push the flower crown gently back from her face. She doesn’t wake up.

She won’t remember being carried, won’t remember the drive home, won’t remember being tucked in. But in the morning she’ll wake up and come and stand at the side of your bed and breathe on your face until you open your eyes, and you’ll ask her how she slept and she’ll say good and you’ll ask if she had fun at the wedding and she’ll say yes I was the flower girl with the proprietary satisfaction of someone who performed their role excellently and knows it. And she’ll be right. She was, without any competition, the best part.

Later. Much later. His penthouse — your penthouse, it still catches you sometimes — quiet and dark except for the city light through the windows. Mia asleep down the hall. The flower crown on the kitchen counter. Your bouquet in a glass of water because you couldn’t throw it, it was too pretty.

Jake’s jacket over the chair. Your heels by the door. You and Jake on the couch the way you’ve been a hundred times before, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder, the easy comfortable weight of each other. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

“Mia told Theo’s mum today that she picked you.”

You lift your head. “What?”

“At the reception. Apparently she walked up to Theo’s mum completely unprompted and said—” He’s smiling. “She said I picked her first. Before Daddy even knew.”

You stare at him. “She’s four and a half,” you say.

“I know. She’s extremely perceptive,” Jake says. “Always has been.”

You think about a Tuesday morning and duck pajamas and the end of a hallway. The hand on your cheek. You’re nice. The absolute certainty of it. The way she gave you her fingers without hesitating like she already knew. “She did pick me first,” you say softly.

“Yeah.” Jake presses a kiss to your hair. “She really did.”

The city does its quiet nighttime thing outside the windows. Down the hall, Mia sleeps. You and Jake stay where you are, warm and settled, in the ordinary extraordinary life you built one Tuesday at a time.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Mia sits between your knees on the couch.

You’re doing her braids. Jake is in the kitchen. Coffee is happening. Gerald is on the windowsill. Mr. Bunny is in the orange section of the stuffed animal shelf. Everything exactly where it should be. “Mama,” Mia says.

“Hmm?”

“When I’m big can I be a flower girl again?”

“When you’re big you can be whatever you want.”

She considers this carefully. “I want to be a flower girl and a paleontologist and a cat.”

“All three?”

“On different days.”

“That seems manageable.” She nods, satisfied. Swings her feet.

From the kitchen, Jake: “Braids today?”

“Braids,” Mia confirms, with the authority of someone whose hair decisions are final. You finish the first one. Start the second. The morning does its ordinary thing around you.

Mia tilts her head back to look up at you, upside down, grinning. “I love you, mama.”

You smooth a hand over her hair. “I love you too, baby,” you say. “So much.” She rights herself. Goes back to swinging her feet.

Outside the window the morning is doing what mornings do, indifferent and ongoing and full of ordinary things.

In here it is warm. In here everyone is exactly where they are supposed to be. This is just the beginning. And it is everything.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Hi lovelies! If you made it all the way to the end I hope you enjoyed. I’ve had a few people ask for a drabble or two based off this. if you want to see this click this and comment below your suggestions and what you want to see.

STEP ONE: Introductions by identity theft   

Park Sunghoon prides himself on being calm and composed. 

At least that’s what he tells himself, if you generously take out the part where he’s clumsy, socially catastrophic, and possesses the spatial awareness of a newborn puppy on ice. To the Uni at large, he’s—well, a concept? The campus god, as wattpad core as it sounds, he simply makes it seem that way. The guy who sits in the back of lecture halls looking bored and devastatingly handsome, presumably thinking about complex philosophical theories or his next modeling gig (he doesn’t have any). 

In reality, he’s usually just thinking about whether it is going to rain or stressing over the fact that he held the door open for someone slightly too early, forcing them to do that awkward little run-walk, they were grateful regardless. It’s a fragile ecosystem, really. A reputation built entirely on the fact that he doesn’t talk enough for people to realize he’s actually a massive loser.

Only Sim Jaeyun knew the truth, along with Jay and Heeseung but yeah. Jake knew that Sunghoon isn’t brooding, rather, he’s buffering (as sad as that is). He knows that his oh so cold, mysterious silence is just Sunghoon’s brain playing elevator music (Wii party soundtrack preferably) while he tries to figure out how to function like a human being. 

But tonight, Sunghoon feels good, he feels capable somehow. He’s wearing his favorite gray sweatpants, Jay is making pasta and garlic bread, and the dorm smells like home in the best way possible. He has one job—bring the cups to the living room. Jake had been going on about inviting a chaotic duo he came across at a gaming cafe, who absolutely destroyed him during gaming but that eventually led to him aggressively adopting them into his life out of sheer respect for the carry later.

Sunghoon peels the plastic sleeve off the stack of red Solo cups with a satisfying crinkle, feeling that same surge of confidence, headphones playing his favourite EsDeeKid song (Palaces), letting him vibe, completely blocking out the chatter and laughter outside. He steps out of the kitchenette, the bass in his ears vibrating through his skull, making him feel momentarily infinite. He is the main character in a very low-stakes indie movie, he is cool, he is ready to perceive and be perceived, or so he thinks.

And then his eyes land on the center of the living room, and the soundtrack in his head comes to a screeching, violent-ish halt. He expects noise—he can see Jake’s mouth moving rapidly, gesturing with a ladle like a weapon—but he doesn’t expect you.

You are already there, claiming the space in a way that makes the cramped dorm room feel suddenly, terrifically bright. You’re standing near the beat-up sofa, one sneaker kicked off and overturned on the rug, looking comfortably disheveled in a way that art directors spend hours trying to replicate. You’re in the middle of laughing at something another one of your friends said, and he doesn’t know his name yet—a full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh that Sunghoon can’t hear over his music but can feel in his chest anyway.

You look effortless, like you didn’t even try, yet somehow succeeded more than anyone else in the room. You’re wearing a simple white tank top tucked into vintage denim that fits perfectly, with a leather jacket slipping casually off one shoulder. Your hair is loose, framing a face that is currently lit up with pure, unadulterated joy, and your eyes are crinkled shut with mirth.

Sunghoon’s brain, usually a well-oiled machine of anxiety, simply—stops. The music fades into static, and his calm and composed narrative dissolves. Oh, he thinks, his grip on the plastic stack tightening until it crunches. Wow.

He is so busy processing the sudden, violent realization that you might be the prettiest thing he has ever seen that he forgets a fundamental rule of Newtonian physics, Pauli Exclusion Principle: two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

One of those objects is his broad, unsuspecting shoulder, the other is the wooden doorframe, and there’s a loud sound of collision—a bone-jarring impact that cuts right through his noise-canceling headphones and jolts his entire skeleton from the teeth down. The shockwave travels instantly to his hands, and the stack of red cups, liberated by the violence of the collision, explodes outward like plastic fireworks. They rain down onto the carpet in a chaotic, clattering cacophony that seems to echo for ten years, at least for Sunghoon.

Sunghoon freezes, vibrating with pain, staring blankly at a single red cup spinning sadly near his big toe. Slowly and painfully, he slides his headphones down to his neck. The room has gone dead silent.

The friend you were laughing with—the one with the cat-like eyes, stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Jake blinks slowly from the couch, profound confusion etched into his features. And you—you turn slowly, eyes wide, the laughter still lingering on your face as you take in the tragedy of the cups and the man currently trying to merge with the drywall.

“Holy shit,” the friend breaks the silence, abandoning his game to lean over the back of the couch, “you good, dude?”

Sunghoon stays very still, he is waiting for one of two things to happen—either for the floorboards to mercifully open up and swallow him whole, or for his body to spontaneously combust from the sheer, blinding force of his own humiliation. Neither happens, instead, the throbbing ache in his shoulder radiates down his arm, a dull, pulsing reminder that he is not, in fact, the protagonist of a cool indie film, he is a hazard.

Say something, his brain screams, make a joke, be charming. Recover for fucks sake. 

“I’m good,” Sunghoon manages, though his voice comes out about three octaves higher than usual. He clears his throat, “I’m—yeah. Totally fine. Just—slipped.”

“You slipped?” The friend—Jungwon, he remembers Jake calling him—asks, eyebrows shooting up, “into the doorframe? Vertically?”

“The carpet,” Sunghoon says, pointing an accusing finger at the perfectly standard rug, “it’s deceptive man.”

From the floor, a soft snort erupts, It’s you. You aren’t looking at him with pity, which is what he expects. You’re grinning—a wide, genuine expression that scrunches your nose—and before Sunghoon can process the movement, you’ve dropped to a crouch in front of him to help with the plastic disaster zone.

“Deceptive carpet,” you repeat, the corner of your mouth twitching as you reach for a cup that rolled near his ankle. 

Sunghoon’s ears are burning. He can feel the heat spreading down his neck, violent and undeniable. He drops to his knees out of a desperate need to avoid looking at Jake, who is currently burying his face in a cushion.

“I mean—,” Sunghoon mumbles, grabbing cups with frantic, uncoordinated hands, “It’s physics. Momentum, y’know?”

“Right, physics,” you drawl, and your voice is warm, teasing in a way that makes his stomach do a weird flip. You hand him a stack of cups you’ve gathered, “well, try not to fight any more inanimate objects tonight, okay? The dorm deposit is expensive.”

Your fingers brush against his knuckles as you pass the stack. His skin practically zaps where you touched him. Sunghoon flinches like he’s been electrocuted, nearly dropping the cups all over again. He looks up, terrified, and finds your face inches from his. Up close, you’re even intimidatingly prettier. You smell like vanilla and leather, and your eyes are dancing.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels. 

Sunghoon stares at you. He knows he needs to respond. The social contract dictates that he provides his own name in return, it is a simple exchange. Input: Name. Output: Name. But his brain is currently running on a backup generator powered by a single, terrified hamster, and gosh the hamster is tired.

“Uh,” Sunghoon starts, his voice cracking a little, then he clears his throat, “Y/N.”

He nods, “Right, you’re Y/N.”

You look at him, waiting.

“I’m—” Sunghoon trails off, looking at your eyes, they are very pretty. He looks at your mouth, you’re smiling, “I’m—Y/N?” He stops, eyes widening. No, that is incorrect.

“I mean—” He waves a hand frantically, nearly knocking over the stack of cups he just rescued, “You’re Y/N! I’m Sunghoon. Yeah. Yeah—you’re Sunghoon and I’m Y/N—wait.”

He freezes. The sentence hangs in the air between you, defying all logic, space, and time. Did I just steal her identity? The silence that follows is loud. Behind him, he hears Jungwon choke on a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Jake just sighs, a long, mournful sound of a man who has given up on his roommate entirely, and Heeseung doesn’t bother hiding his jolly laugh. 

You blink at him. Then, slowly, that grin widens until it takes up your whole face.

“We’re swapping?” You ask, delighted, “okay—I’ve always wanted to be tall.”

Sunghoon feels his soul attempting to leave his body through his ears, he stands up, he stands up way too fast. His knees pop, adding a nice, crunchy soundtrack to his humiliation.

“I have to wash these,” he announces to the room at large, voice dangerously monotone.

“They were in a plastic sleeve,” Jake points out from the couch, finally turning around to witness the wreckage, “they’re clean bro.”

“Dust!” Sunghoon yells. He doesn’t look back, he can’t, “you can’t see it, but it’s there. It’s everywhere!”

He turns on his heel and flees. There is no other word for it, he practically speed-walks back into the safety of the kitchenette, shoulders hunched up to his ears, clutching the red cups to his chest, leaving the echo of his dignity—and his name—behind on the living room rug. He rounds the corner, out of sight, and immediately presses his forehead against the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.

“He’s usually—uh—he’s usually not like this,” he hears Jake say in the other room, sounding apologetic.

“He’s funny,” you reply, and Sunghoon can hear the smile in your voice, “I like him.”

Sunghoon slides down the front of the fridge until he hits the floor, all while he buries his burning face in his hands. He is absolutely, irrevocably doomed.

“You good down there?”

Sunghoon peels one eye open, Jay is standing above him, holding a pair of tongs, staring at him with the blank, unimpressed expression of a man who has seen too much.

“I live here,” Sunghoon says to the ceiling, his voice hollow, “I pay rent, I have a 3.8 GPA. Why can’t I say my own name?”

“Nerves,” Jay says, flipping a piece of garlic bread, “also, you told her she was you. That was fucking insane.”

“Shut up, Jay.”

Sunghoon groans and scrambles up. He looks at the stack of cups in his hand, they are perfectly clean, but he washes them anyway. He turns on the tap and aggressively scrubs the brand-new plastic with the intensity of a surgeon scrubbing in for a heart transplant, just to buy himself thirty more seconds of isolation. Get it together, he coaches himself, staring at his reflection in the dark window above the sink. 

You are Park Sunghoon, you have a twelve-step skincare routine, you know how to parallel park, you are a functional member of society who definitely knows who he is.

He dries his hands, he fixes his hair in the reflection of the microwave, he takes a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to lower his heart rate, and marches back out. The vibe in the living room has shifted. In the three minutes he was gone, you have seamlessly integrated into the environment of the dorm. You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug now, stealing garlic bread from Jake’s plate. 

You look comfortable, annoyingly so, considering Sunghoon currently feels like his skin is made of itchy wool and his bones are made of glass. He walks over, moving stiffly, trying to be as aerodynamic as possible to avoid hitting any other stationary objects. He sets the slightly-damp cups down on the coffee table with a thud.

“All clean now,” he announces. 

You look up, and you don’t laugh this time, but the corner of your mouth twitches, scooting over slightly on the rug, patting the empty space next to you, wondering what was going in the head of this pretty boy.

“Saved you a spot,” you say easily.

Sunghoon’s brain does that static thing again, he walks over stiffly, like a toy soldier, and lowers himself onto the rug. He sits carefully, hyper aware of everything, of you. 

“Thanks,” he manages and it comes out deeper than he intended, almost gruff. Great. Now he sounds like a grumpy toddler.

You tear a piece off the garlic bread in your hand—the one you definitely stole, and offer it to him, “here, eat something, you’re practically vibrating.”

Sunghoon stares at the bread, then at you, “I’m not vibrating.”

“You are,” you insist, pressing the bread into his hand, “eat a lil’.”

Sunghoon takes it. He has to, really, because your fingers are brushing his palm and his brain has decided that obeying you is the only way to survive, and your fingers are soft, very soft. 

“I’m calm,” he lies, taking a bite. It’s cold, but he chews it with interest. 

“Uh-huh,” you grin, leaning back on your hands, your leather jacket creaking softly, “so, Park Sunghoon, besides forgetting your own identity, what do you do?” 

Sunghoon swallows, he wipes a crumb from his lip, trying to regain some semblance of the mysterious aura he allegedly has, “I exist,” he says, trying for deadpan humor, “I listen to music. I tolerate Jake.”

“A noble calling,” you laugh, “I’ve only known him for a week and I’m already exhausted.”

“Jungwon, remove her from the group chat,” Jake deadpans, looking at him straight in the eye. 

Jungwon looks his way, then your way before nodding, “let’s remove Jake.” 

You both chuckled as Jake let out a gasp, launching a throw pillow that hits Jungwon square in the chest while Heeseung groans, “so no one added me to the chat, huh?” 

Sunghoon doesn’t care, he’s zoned out as Jay joins the group with his freshly made mac and cheese truffle, and the room immediately devolves into a clamor of grabbing hands, Jungwon and Jake temporarily calling a truce to eat, and add a now very jolly Hee to the group chat. Sunghoon, however, has his undivided attention on you, he watches through his peripheral vision, as you lean forward to inspect the pot, the movement causes your leather jacket to slip further down your arm, he gulps at the sight. 

A nudge almost sends him into orbit, head snapping at your face with mouth wide open, and you’re looking at him with your brow raised, a bowl in your hand, “you okay?” You asked, and he nodded mindlessly, and you were genuinely confused now. 

You hand him the bowl, fingers brushing and he’s pretty sure his ears have turned red by now, but you’re not teasing him, and he likes how you simply just fit in here, “eat up, hm?”

“Thanks, yeah,” he mutters, looking down at the pasta, and it makes you smile at him fondly, before Jake’s groan interrupts you as he practically cries watching the cricket match on TV.

Jay sits behind you on the couch, starts talking about the history of this game—which only Jungwon pays attention to somehow, and then he stops to observe the room. His gaze drifts from the television screen to the floor, he watches you settle back against the couch cushions, then, his eyes slide to the person sitting next to you.

Sunghoon isn’t watching the match really. Jay watches as Sunghoon stares at the side of your profile for a beat too long. Then, Sunghoon looks down at the bowl in his lap. A small, shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, it’s something soft and entirely unguarded. And then, as if his brain has just caught up with what his face is doing, Sunghoon freezes. He just stops moving completely, his smile vanishing into a look of sheer, silent panic.

Jay pauses, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looks at you, completely unbothered, he looks back at Sunghoon, who is currently staring at a piece of macaroni. Jay closes his eyes, he sighs, a long, heavy exhale.

“Oh no.”

STEP TWO: Prolonged realization

It had been four days since you had dinner at Jake’s place, four days since you met Sunghoon, four days since you took Jay’s tupperware as he packed some pasta for you, Jungwon, and your friend Karina. 

To be honest, you hadn't expected to see Park Sunghoon again so soon, mostly because Jungwon had reported that he was currently in hibernation to recover from the sheer embarrassment of introducing himself as you. You’d caught glimpses of him on campus, but he was always in a rush somehow with his long strides. 

“If you don’t return these,” Jungwon had told you ten minutes ago, dumping the heavy glass tower into your arms, “Jay is going to skin me, like—it’s just tupperware.”

So, here you were, standing in the hallway of the boys’ dorm, smelling faintly of rain and balancing a stack of glass containers, knocking on the door, expecting Jay to open the door, only to find a very cozy looking Sunghoon. 

He looked completely different from the guy you’d seen walking around campus. He was wearing a massive gray hoodie and wire-rimmed glasses that were sliding down his nose, and he was holding a piece of peanut butter toast in one hand. He looked soft, sleepy, and very much at home. He blinked at you, clearly surprised, with his cheeks still puffed out from a bite of toast.

“Oh,” he mumbled, swallowing hard, “hi!”

“Hi,” you smiled, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms, “just here to return these, Jay was getting impatient you see. I also made cookies cause it’s not nice to give back empty containers,” you mumbled, eyes on Sunghoon’s moles—they looked pretty. 

He stepped forward to help, reaching out with both hands, clearly forgetting the peanut butter toast in his right hand, which slipped and fell on the ground with a wet thwap. Sunghoon stared down at the rug, his shoulders slumping in instant, silent defeat.

“I literally just made that,” he whispered, looking genuinely pained.

“RIP,” you murmured, biting back a laugh at how tragic he looked over a slice of bread, “the five-second rule is a little risky with carpet, though.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, crouching down immediately to peel the sticky mess off the floor, “Jay just vacuumed, too. I’m dead.”

“Here.” You shifted the stack to one hip, crouching down to hand him a tissue from your pocket.

He took the tissue, “thanks,” he mumbled, ears turning red yet again. He stood up, tossing the ruined toast in the bin by the door, then finally turned back to take the heavy stack of containers from you properly. He carefully set the stack on the narrow entryway table. He stared at the top container for a second, seemingly processing the fact that there were actual baked goods inside.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Figured you’d like something other than pasta,” you smiled, cause apparently that’s all what they ate. 

“I swear,” Hoon laughed, and it was cute, “it’s usually good but he uses so much basil, and it’s always penne.”

“What’s wrong with penne?”

“I just like fusilli better,” he mumbled, now aware of how he’s making you stand, “wait—do you wanna—like, come in?” 

“I would love to, but I have a lecture in—” you checked your phone, “twenty one minutes.”

He frowned for a second before nodding in understanding, “oh yeah, sorry. You should go, we can hang out some other time.” He looked so crestfallen, standing there in his oversized hoodie with his hands tucked into the sleeves, that you couldn’t help yourself. You took a step closer instead of backing away.

“Hey, Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?” He blinked, straightening up, looking at you with those wide, attentive eyes.

“Hold still.”

Before he could ask why, you reached out. His hair was a mess—probably from the hoodie, or maybe he’d been napping before you knocked—and there was a piece sticking straight up in the back like an antenna. Sunghoon froze, he almost stopped breathing as your fingers brushed against his hair, smoothing down the lock. His hair was soft, softer than it looked. You let your hand linger for a split second longer than necessary, your knuckles grazing the shell of his ear.

“Bedhead,” you murmured, pulling your hand back, scrunching your nose with how adorable he looked. Sunghoon didn’t move, simply staring at you as he gulped, his ears turning red (again) that clashed horribly with his gray hoodie. 

It was hard for him to keep his mind elsewhere even when you had taken your leave, especially when he tasted those double chocolate chip cookies—moaning with how perfect they were, crispy on the edges and softer in the middle. He was embarrassed, acting like a schoolboy with a crush, but he told himself it wasn’t that, he simply liked you as a person. 

So, when he met you again when the group decided to go out for dinner near the campus, he swore he’d be normal around you, maintaining some distance to not embarrass himself any further. 

When they arrived at the barbecue spot, the air thick with smoke and chatter, Sunghoon spotted you immediately. You were standing by the entrance with Jungwon and your other friend, laughing at something he said, wearing a simple dress that shouldn’t have looked nearly as good as it did. Don’t stare, he told himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Say hi. Be cool.

“Hey guys,” you beamed as they approached, your eyes landing on him.

“Hey,” Sunghoon managed, keeping his voice painfully neutral. He offered a stiff nod, barely making eye contact before pivoting toward the empty table. 

He made a beeline for the corner seat, the one furthest from where he assumed you’d sit. He was halfway there when Jungwon threw his backpack down.

“I’m taking the wall!” Jungwon announced, diving into the booth and dragging Jake with him.

“I need the aisle to grill,” Jay declared, blocking the other side.

Sunghoon froze cause the geometry of the table was rapidly collapsing against him. Karina (your other friend slash roomie) slid in next to Jay. That left one spot—the middle, right next to the aisle. Right next to—

“Can I sit here?” You asked, appearing at his elbow with a grin.

He stiffened, his brain short-circuiting. He hurriedly shimmied into the booth, pressing his thigh against Jake’s so hard that Jake grunted, “dude, personal space.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon muttered, staring straight ahead at the metal grill.

You slid in beside him, arm brushing against his, the friction sending a jolt straight up his spine. You smelled like vanilla and the rain from earlier, a scent that was quickly becoming his favorite thing to panic over.

“Did you like the cookies?” You asked, eyes shining in hope. 

And gosh—he did. He almost forgot about the protein diet he was planning and ate four of your cookies in a go, saving some for later as well. Not to mention how he fought Jake for the last cookie—who was running away teasing Hoon about his newly developed crush, which resulted in Jake being in his chokehold. 

“They were really good,” he managed to say sincerely. 

“He snatched the cookies from me,” Jake added helpfully, which surprised you pleasantly, much to Hoon’s dismay who didn’t want Jake to open his damn mouth. 

You liked it, liked seeing him panic, it made him look like a lost puppy. It was clear how he was trying to avoid more conversations about you, especially since he shoved a piece of meat in Jake’s mouth each time he tried to talk to you, so you focused back on Heeseung and Karina, who were debating about the new albums and rating them. 

Even while doing so, your attention kept diverting to Sunghoon and Jay discussing Maillard’s reaction for the perfect cooking of meat. He was so comfortable talking to others, not stuttering once, and he had nice hands, such nice and big and veiny hands—a kick from under the table made you wince, and you looked up to see Karina winking at you, eyes drifting to Sunghoon, which made you roll your eyes, cause sure—he was cute, but he didn’t even wish to talk to you (he just wanted to survive dinner). And somehow, that distracted you more than you’d like to admit. By the time the bill was paid, the night air had cooled down, and Jay insisted on driving you back home, granted you all lived in the dorms. 

Sunghoon could see where this was going, especially the way Karina and Jungwon headed to the backseat, Jay took the driver’s seat, Jake naturally opting for the shotgun, which left you, Heeseung, and Sughoon in the middle seating area. Heeseung didn’t bother waiting, sliding in and putting his headphones on. That left the middle seat and the seat closest to the door.

“After you,” Sunghoon said, his voice a little tight. He held the door open, gesturing for you to climb in.

You slid into the middle seat, settling against the upholstery. Sunghoon hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at the empty space beside you before he finally climbed in and pulled the door shut. With Heeseung passed out against the far window and Jake shouting at the radio in the front, the back seat felt like a private, terrifyingly intimate bubble, more so when Jake decided they should take a detour and take a longer ride. 

Jay pulled out of the parking lot, and the car merged into the evening traffic, and by traffic, it was practically a congestion, which made you groan considering how sleepy you felt, “I hate this intersection, it’s always a mess I swear.” 

Sunghoon cleared his throat, “the civil engineers set the green light duration for the turn lane too short relative to the main avenue’s volume honestly. It creates a bottleneck every time the cycle resets. If they just added four seconds to the north-bound signal, this entire congestion would clear in no time.”

You looked at him, his skin shining under the dim lights, “you figured that out by just looking at it?” 

He just shrugged, wondering if he should have let his mouth shut, cause you probably think he’s even more of a nerd now. 

“You know,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “you’re actually really smart, Sunghoon.”

That actually hit him hard, he expected you to call him a nerd, instead, you were looking at him with genuine admiration, your eyes reflecting the passing city lights. He opened his mouth to respond, but his brain stalled. He settled for a strangled nod, quickly turning his face toward the window to hide the fact that his neck was rapidly heating up. The rest of the ride was a blur of brake lights and the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers. The warmth of the car, combined with the heavy meal, eventually pulled you under. As Jay navigated the final turn toward the dorms, your head lulled to the side, landing softly on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

He went rigid instantly, he stopped breathing actually. He didn’t move a single muscle, not even to adjust his arm which was starting to go numb from the angle. If he didn't like you, he would have politely nudged you awake or shifted away. Instead, he sat there, a statue in a damp hoodie, terrified that even a single exhale would disturb you, staring at how pretty you looked even as you slept, so comfortable around him.

He wanted to kiss you, he wished to kiss your forehead, and that should have been the sign, but he didn’t, opting to stare like a lovesick puppy who couldn’t admit he was catching feelings. It wasn’t really convenient how he wondered if you’d be just as perfect under him, would you curl up? Pull him closer? Would you want him to touch you?

And he kept on acting like an invisible man after, simply because you woke up and thanked him with that pretty smile of yours, and if it were to get any further Sunghoon swore he would not be able to survive it, not when all his friends were whistling at the fact that Sunghoon could pull someone even with his endearing loser ways.

The invisible act stayed for long, leading to the mid semester exams, which meant that Sunghoon had successfully managed to keep it together for nearly two months since that night, which made him feel proud for handling it so well, or so he thought, until the night before the final major midterm.

The library doors swung open, revealing a torrential downpour, making the group groan in unison—except for Sunghoon, who had checked three different weather apps and was clutching a sturdy black umbrella.

Logic dictated he open it. Logic dictated he offer to walk you to your dorm, sharing the small space under the canopy. But Sunghoon looked at you, shivering in your oversized sweater, and his brain supplied a vivid image of your shoulders brushing for ten whole minutes, so well, panic overrode survival instincts.

“Here,” he blurted out, shoving the umbrella handle into your chest, “cover Jungwon and Karina, It’s big enough for the group.”

“What? Sunghoon, wait—”

“I have to run!” He announced, his voice cracking.

Before you could argue, he turned and sprinted into the deluge, instantly soaking his hoodie as he splashed through the puddles while Jay and Jake watched with absolute disbelief on their faces, staring at each other and sighing, agreeing that Hoon was indeed down bad, and even worse at pretending to be normal about it. 

Behind you, Jungwon watched Sunghoon’s retreating figure, then looked at you as you immediately popped the umbrella open and bolted after him, leaving the rest of the group dry but abandoned.

“Idiots in denial,” Jungwon muttered, shaking his head as he pulled his jacket over his head, “I hate it here.”

Sunghoon made it halfway across the quad before the rain stopped hitting him. He skid to a halt, chest heaving, and looked up to see the black umbrella hovering over his head. He turned slowly to find you standing there, slightly out of breath and holding the umbrella over him, your own shoulder getting wet in the process.

“You are ridiculous, Park Sunghoon,” you laughed, though your eyes were soft, “who runs in the rain to avoid sharing an umbrella?”

Sunghoon stared at you, and god you were close, you were wet. You were smiling at him like he was the only person in the world. He was absolutely, irrevocably doomed as you walked him to the dorms, when he insisted on dropping you first, which he did. 

What he didn’t expect was the hug you gave him, “thanks Hoon,” you’d mumbled into his ear, god you smelled so good, you were so warm, and fit perfectly into his hug, smiling brightly before heading inside without any care of Jungwon and Karina. 

The hug, the smile, the way you used his nickname—yeah, Sunghoon wasn’t sure how he was still breathing, and it was comical how he stood there for five minutes even after you’d gone inside, poor man was broken, and now there wasn’t any room for denial. 

Later that night, shivering in his dorm room and wrapped in three blankets, Sunghoon stared at his ceiling with wide, terrified eyes. He fished his laptop out of his bag and typed with trembling fingers:

WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures). 

STEP THREE: Establish eye contact (like a normal person)

Sunghoon thought he was safe, that closing his laptop’s lid was enough when he went out to get some water before taking a shower, but boy he couldn’t have been more wrong. He walked into the living room with a towel still around his waist after the shower, only to find Heeseung staring at a MacBook with intense focus, but wait—was that his MacBook? Of fucking course, Jay and Jake were there as well, shoulders shaking with silent, violent laughter. Sunghoon froze in the doorway, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet, witnessing the exact moment his social life turned into a tragedy.

“Is that—is that a step-by-step guide?” Jake wheezed, tears streaming down his face as he pointed a trembling finger at the screen.

Heeseung cleared his throat, reading from the screen like a news anchor, “WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl. With pictures. It says here: Smile to show you are approachable.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon yelled, his voice cracking two octaves. He lunged across the room, nearly losing his towel, but Jay blocked his path with a shit-eating grin.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Jay sighed, shaking his head with mock sympathy, “Jungwon will kill you.”

Sunghoon froze, the color draining from his face, “wait, why?”

“Cause he likes Y/N,” Heeseung said, keeping his face perfectly straight.

“He what now?” Sunghoon whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” Jake added, nodding solemnly, “they’re in love. Haven’t you noticed? The bickering? It’s their thing.”

Sunghoon looked like he had just been shot in the chest. His shoulders slumped, his lips parted in shock, and he stared at the floor with such profound, soul-shattering devastation that the room went silent for a full second. He looked small, wet, and utterly defeated, all while being in his towel, abs out and everything.

“Oh my god,” Jay burst out laughing, hitting Heeseung’s arm, “we’re kidding! You can’t even be jealous without looking like a kicked puppy.”

Sunghoon scoffed, eyes teary, his soul slowly returning to his body as the realization hit, “I hate you, all of you,” he hissed, snatching his laptop and fleeing to the safety of his locked room.

He didn’t know if it would work, but he wished to try anyway, no more running away, which is why he opened the MacBook yet again to go over the steps, preparing himself for the first one, sighing and smiling over the fact that you and Jungwon weren’t actually dating, but that didn’t mean you’d be single for too long, hence, he needs to start step one right after the exams are done. Just like that, Hoon was more focused on the plan rather than the exam, but he was pretty sure he aced it anyway, what he lacked was practical skills, not theory.

The exams came and went, leaving everyone with varying degrees of sleep deprivation, and a desperate need for greasy food. Which is how, mere hours after the final paper was submitted, you all found yourselves crammed into a sticky booth at the campus pub for the weekly Tuesday Trivia Night. You were sitting directly across from Sunghoon, stealing fries from Jungwon’s plate while arguing about the best Mario Kart track (toad harbour). Sunghoon, however, wasn’t listening. He was mentally rehearsing. He had spent the last three days memorizing Step 1: Make Eye Contact.

The article said: Lock eyes with her for a few seconds to show you’re interested. Don’t look away first. Be bold.

He took a deep breath, gripped his pint glass until his knuckles turned white, and initiated the sequence. He looked at you while you were laughing at something Jake said, your head thrown back, looking effortless and bright against the dim pub lighting. Sunghoon locked on, staring with intense focus. You paused, a fry hovering halfway to your mouth, sensing the weight of his gaze. You blinked, confused, but Sunghoon didn’t look away. Hold the gaze, his brain screamed, assert dominance.

“Hoon?” You asked, using the nickname again.

Sunghoon didn’t answer, he couldn’t, he was too busy counting the seconds. Then, you did the one thing WikiHow hadn’t really prepared him for, you didn’t look away shyly, rather, you leaned in.

You placed your elbows on the sticky table and leaned forward, bringing your face alarmingly close to his, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

“You’re staring, Park,” you lowered your voice, teasing him, “and here I thought you were ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he blurted, maintaining that eye contact, “it’s kind of hard—to ignore you.”

The playful smirk dropped from your face as you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden honesty in his tone, which was needed especially when you did spend a gracious amount of time complaining to Karina about how you shouldn’t have hugged Sunghoon cause he had started ignoring you. He wasn’t stuttering now, wasn’t looking elsewhere, just into your eyes—which he finds really pretty.

“Oh,” you breathed, the teasing edge now vanished, leaning back as you felt the faint heat creeping up your neck, matching his own.

“Okay, question one!” The host bellowed, successfully helping Sunghoon escape the situation.

Sunghoon exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had survived Step 1, but he was pretty sure he’d lost a few years of his life in the process. Then the game started, and Sunghoon forgot about the steps entirely, he just watched you. You were a force of nature, especially when the category switched to 2000s Pop Culture, you were unstoppable.

“Shrek 2!” You yelled before the host finished the quote.

“Correct!”

You high-fived Jake so hard the table shook, and Sunghoon wished he was there instead of Jake. You were competitive, loud, and brilliant. Sunghoon didn’t answer a single question, he just sat there, nursing his drink, tracking your every movement. He watched the way you bit your lip when you were thinking, and the way your eyes crinkled shut when you laughed at Jake’s wrong answers, who was way too competitive for his own good.

“Ouagadougou!” You shouted for the geography round, slamming your hand on the table.

“How do you know everything?” Jungwon asked, looking at you with mild horror.

“I have a brain, Won,” you winked, shooting a glance across the table at Sunghoon, “see? We won.”

Sunghoon felt his heart do a traitorous little flip. He didn’t look away this time. He just smiled, a small, unguarded thing.

“You’re drooling,” Jungwon whispered, nudging Sunghoon’s ribs.

“Am not! Don’t kill me,” he gasped.

Jungwon furrowed his brows, “why the fuck would I kill you?”

“Uh, so you don’t like her, right?” He asked hopefully even though his friends had told him, his poor heart needed some actual confirmation.

“Bro please, you’re fighting ghosts here, absolutely not,” Jungwon said, looking at Sunghoon with—pity? 

Sunghoon processed this as you all started hugging each other, victory being too sweet not to, and he waited patiently, not sure if you would even hug him, but he did stand up with flushed cheeks when you appeared in front of him, the height difference painfully apparent now, he had to look down, his dark hair falling over his eyes, while you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Without overthinking it, you reached out and pulled him into a hug.

He turned into a literal pillar for a microsecond before the realization hit. Then, slowly, his arms wound around you, hesitant at first, then firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, and you could hear how fast his heart was beating as you leaned in, your chin resting on his shoulder. The noise of the pub—the clinking glasses, Jake’s loud laughter, the trivia host’s drone—all felt miles away.

You let your hand slide up from his shoulder, your fingers grazing the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible sound that told you exactly how much effect you were having, and you didn’t mind, simply saying, “don’t be a stranger anymore, Hoonie.”

The nickname did it for him, and he practically shuddered under your touch, his knees actually buckling for a split second. He buried his face in the crook of your neck to hide the fact that his entire face was burning, inhaling sharply. He smelled like mango for some reason, and expensive cologne, but he was more focused on your scent.

“I won’t,” he rasped against your skin, “I promise.”

He held on for a second longer than intended, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. When you finally pulled back, stepping out of his personal space with a lingering smile, the loss of warmth hit him as he frowned. You waved at the group and walked out the door with Karina, who was more than ready to gossip about what had just happened, leaving the bell chiming in your wake.

Sunghoon stood frozen in the middle of the pub, his hand instinctively coming up to touch the back of his neck exactly where your fingers had been. He stared at the closed door for a full minute, unable to move, unable to think, his brain reduced to white noise and the echo of Hoonie.

“He’s broken,” Jake announced, waving a hand in front of Sunghoon’s unblinking eyes, “which is fair though, he got called Hoonie.”

“Did you hear that voice crack?” Jay snickered.

Sunghoon didn’t even hear them, just letting out a long, shaky exhale, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed back into the booth, burying his face in his hands.

“You really are like Nobita, just smarter when it comes to studies,” Jake let out as Sunghoon glared at him.

“And Jungwon can be Doremon,” Heeseung laughed, “round head and all, y’know?”

“Shouldn’t WikiHow be his Doremon though?” Jay asked looking at Jungwon who found the comment highly offensive.

“WikiHow?” He asked, and Jay told him the backstory, which had this man laughing like crazy, “Oh, I’m so telling this to Y/N.”

Now, that grabbed Hoon’s attention, who simply grabbed Jungwon and picked him up effortlessly despite him thrashing around—it was a funny sight, Hoon holding him up like a cat, “you wont tell her anything,” he warned, and for the first time he realised the strength of this man. 

“Yeah, forgot to tell you he’s strong behind his loser persona,” Heeseung added.

Either way, Sunghoon was in trouble, because he couldn’t sleep that night, and neither could Jungwon, who was contemplating joining gym now.

Hoon spent all night trying to plan his next step, and now he was prepared, he just had to find you.

STEP FOUR: Love is an open door—open it wider.

You were sitting with Karina at the campus coffee shop, finally resting after the exams were over, and right then your brows furrowed as you overheard two girls talking. Now, you weren’t one to eavesdrop, however, they were talking about Sunghoon—granting someone the best pleasure of their life? But he was with the whole group last night, so what’s that even about? Karina was listening as well, genuinely concerned at the very obvious made up story.

“What is going on?” You asked Karina, and she shrugged.

“He has this reputation of being this mysterious fuckboy, and people believe it cause no one really is close to him, she’s faking it all,” she replied, sipping her iced coffee.

“Woah, what the fuck?” You scoffed, “have they even seen how he looks like a puppy who’s always confused?”

“Yeah, they obviously don’t know that—but hey, he could be wild in the sheets, we don’t know that.”

You thought for a second, wondering if it could be true, because to you, Sunghoon seemed so sweet, almost like he’d be the softest, most loving man ever. But—you do wish to know what he was behind those oversized hoodies and shy smiles.

One of the girls smirked, going on about it, “no literally, he was wild last night, he’s got a big cock, and boy he knows exactly how to use it.”

You choked on your doughnut, Karina was amused seeing you like this, even more when the shop bell chimed, “damn, speak of the devil—and is he wearing Prada?” 

You turned around, wiping sugar off your lip, and sure enough, there he was. Sunghoon stood in the doorway, clad in a long, structured trench coat over a sleek turtleneck, looking like he’d stepped straight off a runway (yeah, you wanted him in your bed now). The entire coffee shop seemed to dim in his presence. The two girls behind you gasped, clutching each other’s arms.

“He’s looking,” one whispered frantically, “act natural.”

Sunghoon, however, wasn’t looking at them, scanning the room to find you, and he paused when he did. If Jake was there, he would practically see the WikiHow page loading in his brain—Step 2: Smile and be approachable. He tried to soften his face, but the nerves got the better of him. Instead of a gentle, welcoming smile, he pulled his lips back in a stiff, terrifyingly symmetrical grimace that made him look like he was bracing for an impact. He held the expression as he walked toward the counter to order his coffee as you sat there, confused. 

“Is he okay?” You asked.

“Don’t know, he’s always like that around you,” she said, and that made you smile—getting a weird glance from Karina. 

Sunghoon grabbed his iced Americano, took a deep breath to reset his expression, and walked over. He stopped in front of you, looking slightly thrown off by Karina’s presence, but he played it cool.

“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, feigned nonchalance, “fancy seeing you here.”

He absolutely did not mention that he had asked Jungwon for your location, and Jungwon absolutely didn’t mention that you weren’t alone.

He looked like he was about to retreat to a corner to brood over his failed smile, but you weren’t about to let that happen. Not with the rumor mill churning behind you.

“Hoon, wait,” you said, reaching out to snag the belt of his coat, tugging him closer.

Sunghoon froze, stumbling a step forward, looking down at you with wide, confused eyes, “y—yeah?”

“You look absolutely exhausted,” you said, pitching your voice just loud enough for the table behind you to hear. You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin, and he wasn’t functioning anymore, that touch sending a shiver down his body and stopping right on his cock. 

He fucking loved it when you touched him, your fingers were so gentle, so soft on his skin, and maybe you did like him—that’s why you pulled him closer, right? He looked at you with wide eyes, dropping down to your lipgloss painted lips, which looked too inviting. 

“Tired from last night?” You asked, granting him a smile. 

He almost fainted, cause it sounded as if you knew he was up all night staring at your photos from instagram, rolling around on his bed with a genuine smile. But how could you know that? So he simply nodded, thinking (hoping) you were referring to Trivia night. 

“Yeah, I mean—it did go on for a while, and you were amazing,” he nodded, leaning into your touch instinctively, praying his best to sound normal. 

Behind him, the girls inhaled sharply, their imaginations clearly running wild. You smirked, knowing they were picturing a scandalous night while you were actually thinking about him being zoned out for most of the night, paying attention to the winning part only. 

“You kept up yknow? That’s impressive too,” you added helpfully even though he had not said a word during the trivia, patting his chest, not knowing how the poor man was suffering—in a good way, “you should rest, we were up really late.”

“I—yeah, it was worth it,” he said, looking down on the floor. 

Karina was shaking her head with the biggest smile on her face, turning back to see the girls talking in hushed voices. 

You chuckled, “okay, you should go rest now, bye Hoonie!”

He nodded, trying to give you another smile that looked very—uh, scary? But he left, not having it in him to actually stay and talk when there was an audience (Karina), he kicked the random stones on the path as he walked and sat in the Uni park, unsure what had even happened. 

“You are a menace,” Karina whispered when he was gone.

“I’m just clarifying things,” you winked, taking a bite of your doughnut as the girls behind you sat in stunned, jealous silence as you both gathered your things and started walking towards the dorms.

It was then when you spotted Sunghoon sitting alone, and you stopped, “I’ll catch you later,” you told her, and she followed your gaze, smirking at how obviously dumb the both of you were.

“Try not to break him this time, hm? Go get him, tiger,” she patted your back and you rolled your eyes, heading towards him, watching him tap his foot to some rhythm, staring ahead blankly.

You slid onto the bench next to him, nudging his knee with yours. Sunghoon jumped, his head snapping toward you. When he registered it was you, he immediately smiled, he had dressed up as well, granted WikiHow did say to dress up nicely and smell good, for which he ended up going to Jay for his perfume collection. He tried to smile, he really did, but he looked so endearingly awkward, you couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Hoon, please,” you wheezed, reaching up to pull one side of his earpods away from his ear, “what are you doing?”

Sunghoon’s face crumbled instantly, the smile dropping into a pout of genuine despair. He slumped back against the bench, looking miserable.

“I’m trying to be approachable,” he groaned, his voice low and defeated. “I heard that I look mean when I’m thinking. I didn’t want you to think I was—I don’t know, unapproachable.”

“You are unapproachable,” you pointed out, stealing the headphone cup you’d pulled off his ear and holding it to your own, “but that’s because you are handsome.”

“Huh—what—”

You didn’t let him think much as you paused, grinning slightly, “wait. Are you listening to—is this Disney?"

Sunghoon froze. He snatched the EarPod back, his cheeks flushing, “no,” he lied immediately, “It’s—hard rock. Heavy metal, yeah.”

“Sunghoon,” you grinned, leaning into his space, “that was definitely love is an open door from Frozen.”

You didn’t give him a chance to come up with another lie. You just smiled, leaned back against the bench as you grabbed the airpod yet again, wearing it, and you started singing early knowing he’d malfunction. 

“I mean it’s crazy—”

Sunghoon froze, he stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. He looked around the park to see if anyone was watching, then looked back at you. You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. You knew he couldn’t leave a verse unfinished. It was against his nature, even if he had to sing the female verse of it.

“What?” he whispered, the word slipping out involuntarily. 

You grinned, leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, “we finish each other’s—”

Sunghoon’s eyes darted between your lips and your eyes, he fought it. You could see the physical struggle on his face as he tried to maintain his cool, but the music was swelling, and you were looking at him with that expectant, teasing light in your eyes.

“Sandwiches!” He blurted out, perfectly on beat.

You gasped, delighted, placing a hand over your heart. “That’s what I was gonna say!”

Sunghoon let out a defeated, incredulous laugh, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t. The two of you sat on the park bench, huddled together over a pair of earpods, quietly harmonizing the chorus while a squirrel watched judgmentally from a nearby tree.

“Our mental synchronization,” he sang, looking at you with a gaze that was too obvious, but you didn’t catch it, “can have but one explanation.”

“You,” you sang, pointing a finger at him.

“And I,” he sang, pointing back, a small, genuine smile breaking through his embarrassment.

“Were just meant to be,” you both finished in unison.

Sunghoon let the final note hang in the air before he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands again. His ears were burning a bright crimson, “I can’t believe I just did that,” he groaned into his palms, “I’m wearing a trench coat. I’m supposed to be cool.”

“You’re cool,” you said as he smiled, which made you stop, “hey, you have fangs,” you pointed it out and he got conscious, “don’t hide, your smile is pretty,” you mumbled, and he breathed out, smiling just for you, not thinking this time, as you leaned against his arm.

If Hoon thought yesterday was the best day of his life, he was wrong, cause with how carefree he felt with you in the moment, he swears this is the best day of his life.

Step: Smile at her—successful.

STEP FIVE: Be a hero (by using your crush as a human shield).

You had been smiling way too much lately, and it irritated Jungwon, who was having a shitty day with how his favourite hoodie went missing, how his headphones stopped working, and how he dropped his cupcake on the floor. He glared at you through it all, “stop smiling for fucks sake,” he mumbled.

“Oh shut up, Doremon,” you teased, as Jake had told you about the whole Nobita-Doremon conversation, minus the WikiHow part, while gaming with you. You were disappointed to see the absence of Hoon that day as he had lectures, but that didn’t compare to his disappointment. 

He fell down on the floor (it really happened, no exaggeration) when he learned that you had left just ten minutes before he arrived back at the dorm, it was as if he was facing withdrawals of your absence, not having seen you since that day in the park. And of course, he was not confident enough to actually text you. Yes, he had your number from the groupchat, but that was about it. Now, he couldn’t wait much longer as he sat down to actually plan the next step, which was breaking the touch barrier. He actively ignored Jake teasing him about how you were wearing a skirt (which you definitely wore in hopes of seeing him, but oh well), and how you looked so pretty.

Sunghoon rolled into his stomach, pulling his phone out to garner more ideas, and he settled on one which seemed to be the most natural—use a scary movie night as an excuse, hold her when she gets scared, be her protector. He wasn’t fond of it (horror movies), but he believed it was the only way to go on about it, which is why he opened the group chat and started typing, swallowing hard.

He hated horror movies, the last time he watched The Conjuring, he slept with Jay and Jake, who couldn’t really complain, being equally scared, but then, he imagined you—scared and pretty, leaning into him for protection, and he was sold.

Sunghoon: movie night, ill buy pizzas Jay: ? Jake: you hate paying bro?? Hee: free pizza i’m in Jungwon: oh you’re down to this now Karina: dw ill bring Y/N along You: sounds like fun, can’t wait :3

Sunghoon threw his phone across the bed, giggling into the pillow, and Jay stared at him from the half opened door, unimpressed at the view of his friend giggling like a schoolgirl, “please control yourself,” he mumbled. 

Sunghoon screamed, throwing the pillow his way, “personal space i swear, knock before you come in!”

“You’re cleaning that up,” Jay deadpanned, watching the pillow slide sadly down the wall, “and fix your face. You look insane.”

Three hours later, the dorm living room had been curated better as Sunghoon had dimmed the lights and gathered the pizza boxes. 

He was wearing a grey fitted tshirt because WikiHow said grey was a soft, inviting color. He was ready. When the door opened, it was chaos. Jake and Heeseung were already on the sofa, arguing about pineapple on pizza, Jungwon was complaining about the stairs, and Karina was dragging you inside.

“Hi, Hoon!” You beamed, spotting him instantly, you were wearing an oversized graphic tee and the skirt, oh that skirt, looking comfortable and devastatingly pretty.

Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited, “pizza,” he blurted out, pointing at the table, “I mean, hi. There’s pizza.”

“Smooth,” Heeseung whispered as he walked past, patting Sunghoon’s shoulder.

The seating arrangement was a battlefield, but Sunghoon had strategized. He maneuvered Heeseung to the armchair, shoved Jungwon and Karina to the beanbags, and left the sofa for the core trio: Jake on the far end, you in the middle, and himself rightfully claiming the spot on your right.

“So,” Jake asked, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. unimpressed at how Hoon was behaving, “what are we watching?”

Sunghoon took a deep breath. This was it—the ultimate sacrifice.

“The Grudge,” he announced, trying to keep his voice an octave lower than usual.

Jake froze mid-chew, looking at Sunghoon, then at the TV, then back at Sunghoon with wide, betrayed eyes, “bro, are you serious? You slept with the hallway light on for a week after we watched the trailer.”

“I did not! That was you,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, grabbing the remote to stop Jake from exposing him further, “I crave the thrill now.”

You looked at him, impressed, leaning back into the cushions so your shoulder brushed against his, “woah, really? I love horror movies. I didn’t know you were brave like that, Hoon.”

Sunghoon preened under your praise, ignoring the way his heart was doing gymnastics, “I’m full of surprises.”

He pressed play, and the room plunged into heavy silence that only horror movies can manufacture, Sunghoon sat rigid, his spine glued to the cushions, his eyes locked on the screen, but his entire awareness was tunneled on you—tracking the way you absentmindedly chewed on the crust of your pizza, the way you leaned back, looking frustratingly calm, while his own heart was doing gymnastics against his ribs. Ten minutes in, the tension was unbearable, the protagonist walking down a dark, rotting hallway while the violins shrieked in that nausea-inducing crescendo, and Sunghoon’s palms were slick with sweat, his brain screaming at him to look away, but he couldn't, not when he had a mission.

Wait for the scare, wait for the flinch, be the fucking rock. Suddenly, the ghost appeared, a pale, contorted face filling the screen with a deafening, wet shriek.

“Ahhhhhh!”

A scream tore through the room, high and terrified—but it wasn’t you? It was Jake, who launched himself sideways, burying his face directly into your shoulder and clutching your arm like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.

“Turn it off! Turn it the fuck off! She’s gonna get me!” Jake wailed, vibrating with fear, effectively using you as a human shield against the fictional spirit.

You laughed, startled but amused, patting Jake’s head with fondness, “It’s just a jump scare, Jakey, breathe.”

Sunghoon sat frozen, his arm halfway raised in a pathetic imitation of a yawn, staring at the scene in absolute horror, because that was his shoulder, that was his moment, that was his Step 3 crumbling to dust before his eyes because his best friend had zero dignity. He glared at the top of Jake’s head, jealousy flaring hot and bright in his chest, a burning indignation that momentarily eclipsed his fear of the vengeful ghost.

“Get off her,” Sunghoon gritted out, voice laced with venom.

Jake lifted his head, eyes wide and teary, looking like a puppy, “shut up.”

“You’re crushing her,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, reaching over to peel Jake’s fingers off your arm with surprising strength, his jaw tight, “sit up, Jake, have some self-respect, be a man.”

“You’re just jealous I got the safe spot,” Jake sniffled, retreating to the corner of the couch but keeping a hand on your sleeve just in case, pouting, and you chuckled, hiding your smile from Sunghoon.

Sunghoon bristled, turning back to the screen, determined to reclaim the moment, because the movie was building up to the next scare, the ghost crawling down the stairs with wet, cracking sounds that made his skin crawl. He lifted his arm yet again, fingers trembling slightly because he needed to be smooth, but he was scared. 

And on the screen, the ghost lunched right at the camera, and well, Sunghoon didn’t just scream, he fucking broke. Instead of casually putting an arm around you, he let out a strangled yelp and instinctively yanked you toward him, burying his face into the crook of your neck and wrapping both arms around you in a crushing embrace.

Silence filled the room, heavy and awkward, broken only by the screaming on the TV and Sunghoon’s heavy, erratic breathing against your collarbone.

You sat there, stunned, your face pressed against the soft cotton of Sunghoon’s t-shirt. You could smell his detergent—clean linen and something distinctly him—and feel the way his heart was hammering against your chest, the rhythm so fast it made your own pulse skip a beat. Butterflies erupted in your stomach, not from the fear of the movie, but from the sudden, overwhelming warmth of him surrounding you, his arms holding you like he never planned to let go—and of course, he had well defined muscles, you could feel it.

Jake paused his panic to look at Sunghoon, Jungwon stopped eating mid-chew, and Karina raised a judgmental eyebrow from the beanbag.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, your voice muffled against his chest, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.

Sunghoon froze as the realization crashed down on him—he was hugging you. He was practically hiding in your neck and everyone was watching. He had failed Step 3 in the most spectacular way possible, yet—you felt so warm. You fit so perfectly against him—and it made him want to bite you? Abort, abort, abort. He slowly pulled his face away from your neck, but he didn’t let go of the hug, he looked down at you with wide, panicked eyes, his ears burning (again), searching your face for rejection.

“I—I got you,” he stammered, his voice cracking, trying to look heroic while his hands still trembled on your back, “I thought—I thought you were going to jump, so I—uh held you.” 

Everyone was baffled, and wondering how you even entertained Sunghoon through his outbursts, but they found fun in it, watching it unfold like some sitcom.

“Held me?” You repeated, eyebrows shooting up, though the amusement dancing in your eyes was soft, not mocking, “by trying to merge our ribcages?”

“It was a reflex,” he insisted, though the thought seemed wildly nice, before looking around the room, refusing to make eye contact with Jake, who was now grinning wickedly, “don’t overthink it.”

“I think he’s using you as a teddy bear,” Jungwon deadpanned from the floor, throwing a piece of popcorn at Sunghoon’s leg.

“Shut up,” Sunghoon hissed, but he tightened his arms around you just a fraction, pulling you back down so your head rested on his chest, “i’m protecting her. Look away.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you shifted closer until you were comfortably tucked against his side, listening to the rapid thumping of his heart slowing down to a steady, comforting rhythm. You wrapped an arm around his waist, grounding him, feeling the tension slowly leave his frame.

“It’s okay, my brave protector,” you whispered, looking up so your breath tickled his chin, “keep me safe.”

Sunghoon swallowed hard, resting his chin on top of your head, his face still burning. He stared straight ahead at the terrifying screen, absolutely petrified of the ghost, but thinking that maybe, just maybe, failing step 3 was better than succeeding. 

Because for the rest of the movie, he didn’t let go of you once, and every time you shifted, his hold only grew gentler, more possessive, and infinitely more real.

STEP SIX: Texting builds character

“You know—I don’t get it, it feels like mixed signals,” you sighed and Karina was baffled.

“What mixed signals? You’re as blind as him I swear,” she mumbles, shaking her head, “you both get such good grades but can’t navigate life, even if you’re a bit better at hiding your dumbass thoughts.”

“Aw thanks for the support,” you gasped in fake sweetness before sitting down next to her and sighing, “one second we are hugging and the other—radio silence, what even is going on?”

Karina sighed, finally glancing at you with a pitying look, “he’s just a guy. And guys are stupid. You look like a sad Victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from war.”

“Shut up,” you groaned. 

“Make him jealous, maybe he’ll act up again and confess for real,” she shrugged.

“Confess? Girl I don’t think he sees me that way, definitely just a friend.”

Karina couldn’t believe her ears, but she couldn’t be mean when you looked like a puppy now, just like Sunghoon. It was crazy how similar you both were, yet so different, but yes, you shared that same dumbness of not acknowledging the basic emotions you harboured. 

So when you got a text from Sunghoon, you were surprised, rushing into your room before Jungwon could comment on the odd look on your face. 

Meanwhile, Sunghoon sat in the library with his textbooks wide open, but he hadn’t read a word in twenty minutes. Instead, he was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the delete text button. On his laptop, hidden behind a PDF of organic chemistry notes (his elective), was the tab:

WikiHow: How to Flirt Over Text

Step 1: Be playful. Send a meme that relates to a shared interest or a current mood. Humor lowers defenses.

He had agonized over the image for ten minutes. Was it too weird? Too try-hard? He needed something that said I’m thinking about you without actually admitting that he was, indeed, obsessively thinking about you. He swallowed hard, his heart doing a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Just calm down, Park. It’s a meme, not a marriage proposal (might as well have been a marriage proposal for him).

On the other hand, you had thrown yourself onto your bed, buried yourself under the duvet to block out the world (and Jungwon, who was loudly gaming in the next room), and opened the chat to find a blurry, low-res picture of Psyduck clutching its head, eyes wide in some sort of existential horror. 

Hoonie: me looking at this chem assignment rn

A laugh bubbled up in your chest. It was so stupid, so random, and so him.

You: pleaseee You: that is literally you You: drama queen Hoonie: wow Hoonie: im suffering and this is the support i get? Hoonie: fake friend

It physically pained him to even type the word, however, the guide did say to start off slow, so here he was, biting his lip as he saw you typing, wondering if you’ll play along or be offended.

You: i’m a great friend btw You: i’m manifesting good grades for u from my bed

Three dots appeared for you, bubbling, then stopping, then bubbling again.

Hoonie: must be nice to be resting Hoonie: im starving actually

You stared at the screen, wondering if this conversation was going where you thought it was going cause he was starving, and well, you were starving (always).

You: same tbh You: i would kill for boba rn

The typing bubble appeared for a long time, then it disappeared. A moment later, an audio file appeared.

Hoonie: [Voice Message 0:08]

You fumbled to hit play, holding the phone pressed tight against your ear.

The background noise of the library was faint—the rustle of pages, a distant cough—but his voice was right there, as if he was whispering directly into the mic so the others wouldn’t hear. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m practically dead here. I was gonna sneak out to that boba place near the campus—the one that’s still open? You should come. Save me from this chemistry nightmare.”

There was a pause, a small intake of breath, and then a softer, rather shy admission, “I’ll pay.”

Your heart slammed against your ribcage, because he wasn’t just texting, he was asking you out, at 11 PM, to get bubble tea. This was it, maybe he was trying to signal directly for the first time. You bit your lip to stop the grin spreading across your face and started typing furiously.

You: deal. give me 10 mins i’m com—

Ping.

Another text popped up before you could hit send.

Hoonie: jake and jay are coming too Hoonie: so yeah group thing, you can invite won and rina  Hoonie: ill be waiting

Your thumbs froze over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at the end of your unfinished sentence, of fucking course, it was a group thing. The excitement drained out of you like water from a cracked cup. It went from a date to a hangout in the span of three seconds.

Sunghoon stared at his phone, horror dawning on his face. He dropped his forehead onto the library table with a dull thud.

“You idiot,” he whispered to the wood grain, talking to himself, “why did you invite Jake? Jake hates tapioca pearls.”

He had panicked. The voice note had felt too intimate, way too real. The WikiHow guide had a warning in bold red text—don’t come on too strong or you’ll scare her off. In a split second of terror that you might say no, he had used Jake and Jay as some human shields. Now, staring at the chat, he realized he had ruined it.

Beside him, Jake looked up from his laptop, looking at the groupchat where Jungwon had confirmed that he’ll be joining (you had asked him and Rina in a grumpy tone), your supposed date now turning into the usual hangout.

“Bro, did you just invite us to get boba? I thought we were grinding until midnight?”

Sunghoon didn’t reply, simply standing up and grabbing Jake by the hoodie, as he dragged him into a—headlock.

“Ow! What the hell?” Jake yelped.

Meanwhile, you were staring at the text, contemplating throwing your phone across the room, when another notification popped up.

Jay 🦅 sent an image.

You frowned and opened it. It was a blurry, candid photo taken in the library. In the foreground, Sunghoon had Jake in a chokehold. Sunghoon’s face was buried in his arm, his ears bright red, looking equal parts frustrated and miserable. Jake looked like a flailing hostage.

Jay 🦅: hoon is having a breakdown idk  Rina: do i even ask if he’s okay anymore Hee: click more pics, ill need those Jun-gone: ,, why? Hee: science

You stared at the photo, at Sunghoon’s red ears and frustrated posture. The disappointment in your chest loosened, replaced by a sudden, warm laugh. So he had panicked. You grabbed your hoodie, the smile back on your face. 

Sunghoon groaned, because this step had failed, miserably so.

STEP SEVEN: Turn your failures into wins. 

The universe probably hated you, or maybe you were just dumb enough not to check in with Jake about Sunghoon’s availability in their dorms, cause somehow you found yourself there with a plan to game with the boys, Karina and Jungwon had joined in as well, which means everyone was there—everyone but Sunghoon.

“He’s at the library,” Jake had said, waving a controller dismissively as he selected a track on Mario Kart, “something about his thermodynamics assignment or whatever. I think he just forgot we were hanging out.”

So, you gamed. You played round after round, fueling yourself with soda and the competitive rage of losing to Jungwon three times in a row. But as the hours ticked by and the adrenaline crashed, the exhaustion of the week finally caught up to you. The shouting and the flashing lights of the TV became a blur as your eyes felt heavy, which is how you managed to fall asleep on the couch in this awkward position. No one bothered to wake you up.

“Leaving this to Sunghoon now,,” Jungwon muttered and Karina agreed once the session was over.

When Sunghoon finally unlocked the dorm door, the silence was jarring. He had spent the last five hours battling Carnot’s theorem, and his brain felt like mush. He expected to find a room full of pizza boxes and screaming friends. Instead, he found a dim room lit only by the standby light of the TV and Jake, who was scrolling on his phone in the armchair.

And then, he saw the couch. Sunghoon froze in the entryway, his keys still clutched in his hand. You were curled up in the corner of the beat-up sofa, cheek smushed against a throw pillow, looking comfortably disheveled, hair spilling over your face, and your soft, rhythmic breathing was the only sound in the room.  

Sunghoon felt his chest tighten, a warm feeling spreading through his ribcage. He stood there, staring, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be cool and composed. He just looked like a guy whose heart had decided to do gymnastics because a girl was sleeping on his furniture.  

“You’re late,” Jake whispered, not looking up from his phone, “we finished like an hour ago.”

Sunghoon blinked, the spell breaking slightly. He toed off his shoes, trying to be quiet, “I was studying.”

“Sure,” Jake snorted. He gestured with his chin toward the couch, “your turn to be the hero. Everyone else bailed.”

Sunghoon took a few steps closer, looking down at you—you looked so small, so peaceful. He wanted to reach out and fix the hair falling into your eyes, but his hands felt too big, too clumsy.  

“She’s asleep,” Sunghoon stated the obvious, his voice hushed.

“Comatose, actually,” Jake corrected, finally standing up and stretching his back, “Jungwon destroyed her in Smash Bros, seemed like she was distracted,” Jake looked at Sunghoon, then at you, and rolled his eyes, “don’t just stare at her, dude, you look like a creep.”

“I’m not staring,” Sunghoon whispered defensively, though his ears were already turning red.  

“Take her to your room,” Jake said, stifling a yawn.

Sunghoon choked on air, “my—what?”

“Your room,” Jake repeated slowly, as if talking to a toddler, “the couch is lumpy, and my room is not clean right now. Unless you want her waking up with me by her side.”

“That’s not happening,” Sunghoon muttered, a sudden wave of possessiveness washing over him at the thought of you waking up next to Jake, and truly, Sunghoon was a jealous man, something he did, “fine. I’ve got her.”  

“Don’t drop her,” Jake yawned, disappearing into his room without another glance.  

Sunghoon stood alone in the dim living room, staring at you. Okay, he just had to carry you, just hold you in his arms, simple—right? He crouched down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. He expected it to be awkward, expected to trip over the rug, but as he lifted you, he realized you fit surprisingly well in his arms, mentally patting himself on the back for acting normal.

You shifted instinctively, your head lulling to rest against his chest, nose burying into the fabric of his shirt. Sunghoon’s breath hitched, cause god, he was doing it again, trying to get a whiff of your scent, and he was terrified you’d wake up and hear his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He walked carefully down the hall, navigating the darkness and kicked his bedroom door open with his foot. The room was cool, smelling of his detergent and books. He lowered you onto his bed and you sank into the mattress immediately. Sunghoon pulled away, his arms suddenly feeling empty and cold. He stood by the bed, watching you, his hand hovering uncertainly, caressing your cheek gently before he shook his head.

He retreated to the corner, sitting down on the desk chair as he tried to distract himself with physics yet again, but he stared at you for most of the time. Now, it was a big thing for Sunghoon who was pondering deeply—would things be like this if you were to date him? Would you sleep on his bed? Would you let him stay? He was preparing himself without even knowing much. He knew your favourites by heart now—coffee order, the type of pasta you preferred, the bands you’d been listening to. He had found your Spotify account, and he blushed when he saw you actually listening to EsDeeKid when he’d mentioned he liked it. 

It was the next step—be caring and attentive, but as much as he was following it, you were doing it too, without a guide, but yeah. There was no doubt he was down bad, he wanted you—needed you. But he was willing to wait, as for now, he was more than content watching you sleep on his bed (he’s not being creepy he swears—although he has done some questionable stuff before). He didn’t register much, especially the time, or the way you were shifting in your sleep.

“Hoon?” You whispered, your voice a small, happy to see him before you gathered your surroundings—it was Hoon’s room, he carried you inside.

Sunghoon jumped so violently his chair creaked, spinning around with wide eyes behind his lenses. He immediately tried to fix his posture, reaching for that composed shield, but he looked too drained to maintain it.  

“Hey,” he breathed, his voice deep and rough from disuse.  

He stood up and walked over to the bed, his strides careful as if he were afraid to startle you. He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder for a heartbeat before he gently grasped the corner of the duvet that had slipped. He tucked it back into place, his fingers lingering agonizingly close to your skin. You saw his knuckles twitch, the silent battle to touch your cheek written in the tension of his jaw, but he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back.  

“You okay? Wanna go back to sleep? It’s late,” he said softly, his eyes reflecting the dim lamp light, “It’s late.”  

“You should sleep too,” you murmured mindlessly, reaching out from under the covers to catch his wrist.  

Sunghoon froze, his breath hitching as he stared down at your hand against his skin. The heat of the touch was instant, and he stood rooted to the spot, trapped by the gentle pressure of your fingers.  

“I will,” he lied, his voice barely a whisper, not moving an inch until you finally let go, his pulse still hammering where your fingers had been.  

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as you realized the time, and even if yo didn’t want to, you said it, “I should probably go back to my dorm. I didn’t mean to take over your bed.”

Sunghoon looked at his desk, then back at you, a conflict of interest clear in his eyes, “It’s raining really hard,” he noted, his voice dropping to a low murmur.  

“So—” you teased softly, the remnants of sleep making you bolder, “should I stay?”

He looked at you, his brain likely running through a twelve-step response plan, but he settled for a slow shake of his head, “I—I’ll walk you back,” he managed, his ears turning a bright crimson because he doesn’t trust himself alone with you, especially at night—especially when you say things like that, “I have an umbrella.”

You chuckled, watching him move around—you always felt so helpless especially when he looked so soft. He was so incredibly caring, and you couldn’t even deny that you wanted more, as selfish as it might sound.

The walk back was quiet, the black canopy creating a tiny, private world for the two of you as you splashed through the puddles. He walked close, his shoulder brushing yours, his hand steady on the handle to make sure you stayed dry while he took the brunt of the mist. When you reached your door, you didn’t just wave, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a firm, warm hug, your emotions taking over. Sunghoon went rigid for a microsecond before his arms wound around you, pulling you into the warmth of his chest naturally now. He rested his chin on the top of your head, inhaling sharply, wishing the night didn’t have to end.

“Goodnight, Hoonie,” you whispered against his heart.  

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he rasped back, watching you head inside with a gaze that was far from neutral.

It was hard to let go, he pulled you to him harder, sighing as his hands caressed your sides, and you almost whined when he put just the slightest amount of pressure before he actually let go—eyes darker than ever, as if he was having just as hard time as you if not more.  

He walked back feeling emptier than ever, wondering what could have happened if he had asked you to stay. Would you have wrapped your arms around him the same way? Would you let him cuddle you to sleep—to kiss you goodnight or more? 

“God,” he mumbled, finally reaching his room again and getting on his bed.

His phone chimed just then, and he frowned because who would text him this late? Mouth opening wide when he saw your notification, a picture attachment. He was scared to open it, and rightfully so. He threw his phone away with a gasp, cause no way—no fucking way you sent him your picture, on your bed, in your tank top that did nothing to hide your cleavage. He’d been doing so well, holding on so well, only to shatter at the sight of you, smiling that easy smile of yours. 

Y/N-nie: thanks for tonight hoonie, sleep well 💗

Sleep? No. He grabbed the phone and managed to type a response, saving your picture as he stared deeply at the slight dimple on your face, that one mole which was barely visible—but he wanted to kiss it. The way your clavicle looked so inviting wasn’t helping his case. Was he actually getting turned on at the mere sight of what you could offer him? Yes, he was. 

“No—no I can’t do this to her—no,” he mumbled, grabbing his hardening cock through the sweatpants, “pathetic,” he breathed out.

He sat back against the headboard, the air in the room feeling thick and heavy. His breath was coming in short, uneven hitches, and he couldn’t stop the frustrated sound that caught in his throat as he looked back down at the screen. The blue light washed over his face, highlighting the sheer desperation in his eyes as he took in every detail of the photo again. His hand tightened, the fabric of his sweatpants offering little relief against the insistent, pulsing ache. He felt like he was losing a war with himself. Every time he tried to blink you away, the image of that tank top and your soft, teasing smile felt like it was burned into his retinas.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he choked out, his voice a low, wrecked rasp, “you have to be.”

He shifted, his body reacting to the mental image of being there with you, of seeing that smile in person instead of through a cold glass screen. The tension was coiled so tight in his gut it was almost painful. He palmed himself again, a desperate, clumsy movement born out of a total lack of control, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud as he freed himself, wrapping his big hand around his leaking cock, groaning louder by the second. Just the image of you, the scent of you on his bed drove him into madness as he pumped himself, praying that his flatmates wouldn’t hear him. 

Thrusting his hips up, he chased that feeling, delving deeper into the thoughts of you no matter how embarrassed he was at the situation, he couldn’t help but imagine your soft fingers wrapped around his cock, your pretty eyes looking up at him, calling him hoonie.

“Fuck—need you.”

He would kiss you so deeply, be so close to you so you’d breathe the same air, he’d touch you even softly—god you’d look so pretty arching into him. He gripped himself harder, wondering if you’d like him being so soft with you, wondering if you’d let him taste you, wondering if you’d want him as bad as he wants you.

Would he be soft with you? He’s pretty sure he’d lose control and come off too strong, and maybe you’d like seeing him take control. The image of you moaning his name, pulling him closer and into your pretty pussy—yeah, that had him stroking himself harder, groaning out your name, each sound rougher than the last.

Yes, it was embarrassing how fast his body gave in, thick ropes of cum staining his bed sheet and sweats as he focused on his breathing with his eyes closed, “so fucking pathetic,” he mumbled.

He isn’t sure his step worked out, but he knew one thing—he had never felt such an insane surge of pleasure before.

STEP EIGHT: Mission abort

Guilty.

That was all what Sunghoon felt after waking up—because how did he even manage to get hard at an innocent picture of you? It didn’t matter now, he had fucked up, and now he stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth, contemplating his choices. First—he can go out and continue acting as if nothing happened, or second—he can hide in his room and stay locked away forever and ever. The latter seemed very tempting, but that also meant he’d never see you again—the absolute love of his life.

The idea itself was so haunting, that he had no option but to jump in his room, hyping himself for the next meeting—which he was orchestrating by asking Jungwon about your schedule (again), and he was relieved to hear that you were in the library, alone. Maybe he would feel better if he gets to talk to you one on one, since that opportunity has been rare (happened twice and he was struggling). So, he wore a nice button up, parted his hair to the side, sprayed a decent amount of cologne—all while Jake stared at him, amused.

“Are you gonna ask her out?”

Hoon flinched, “Gosh—why don’t you guys ever knock?” He mumbled, pouting a little.

“I’m just going to the library,” Sunghoon deflected, turning back to the mirror to fix a strand of hair that was already perfect, “to study. Alone.”

“Right,” Jake snorted, not looking up from his phone, “just don’t trip on your way to Y/N.”

Sunghoon ignored him, grabbed his wallet, and marched out the door with the grim determination of a soldier going into battle—albeit one armed with a debit card and a crippling fear of rejection. He made a strategic detour to the campus café, the one you swore had the best blueberry cheesecake in the city. He ordered a slice to go and your favorite iced vanilla latte, his brain reciting the text he had highlighted on his laptop screen earlier.

Step 9: Surprise them with small gestures.

Bringing them their favorite snack or drink shows that you listen and that you care about their comfort. It creates a positive association with your presence.

“I listen,” Sunghoon whispered to himself as he carefully balanced the cardboard carrier and the pastry box against the biting wind, “I am a great listener, I am thoughtful, I can do it.”

He felt good, today, he was the guy in the button-up bringing coffee. He had upgraded himself to the romantic lead of a rom-com, from the previous indie movie actor. He reached the library, navigating the quiet rows of books with a newfound confidence. He knew exactly where to find the Biology section—the corner table by the window, he rounded the corner, a rehearsed casual greeting on his lips—Oh, hey, just happened to be in the neighborhood with pastries—but the words died in his throat.

You were there, just like Jungwon said, however, the composition of the scene was wrong. Sitting beside you, occupying the space Sunghoon had mentally reserved for himself, was a guy. Sunghoon didn’t know him, but he immediately felt a surge of irrational hostility. The guy wasn’t wearing a stiff button-up or drowning in expensive cologne. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie, leaning back in his chair with a maddening, effortless slouch that made Sunghoon nervous.

Sunghoon froze behind a stack of anatomy encyclopedias, clutching the cheesecake box so hard the cardboard buckled under his thumb.

“If you skew the standard deviation any further, this becomes a guessing game, not a lab report,” the guy said, tapping his pen against your screen.

You laughed and it wasn’t the polite, reserved chuckle you gave strangers, It was the unguarded, head-thrown-back laugh that you provided Hoon with. You nudged the guy’s shoulder playfully.

“We gotta optimize the data, Jaemin,” you teased, “look at that bell curve. It’s beautiful.”

Jaemin grinned, looking at you with a familiarity that made Sunghoon’s stomach drop, “so what? You can’t just gaslight E. Coli into fitting your hypothesis.”

Sunghoon looked down at himself. He saw the carefully ironed shirt, the polished shoes, the thoughtful surprise that suddenly felt like a desperate bribe. He felt like a caricature—a man masquerading as a romantic lead while the actual protagonist was sitting right there in a beat-up hoodie, speaking your language, making you laugh about bacteria without even trying.

The WikiHow guide hadn’t prepared him for this. It had steps for flirting, steps for eye contact, steps for mirroring body language, it didn’t have a step for watching the girl you like shine brightly at someone else, unaware that he was even in the room. He turned on his heel, the movement sharp and painful. He walked back toward the exit, his pace quickening until he was practically fleeing the scene, the cheerful chime of the library door mocking him as he stepped out into the biting wind. Sunghoon had never been good with jealousy, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to pull you away from the guy and kiss you right there, god he’d do so much just to prove a point, but no—he had to stay calm, for now at least, and leaving was the only option.

The chime of the door made you look up from your laptop. The smile that had been on your face while joking with Jaemin faded instantly as you checked your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. The screen still displayed the last text from Jungwon—he’s on his way, said he has a surprise. You frowned, your brows knitting together as you scanned the entrance, but there was no one there. The library was quiet, devoid of the tall, clumsy boy you had been hoping to see.

“Everything okay?” Jaemin asked, noticing your shift in mood.

“Yeah,” you sighed, dropping your phone face-down on the table with a dull thud of disappointment, “I just thought—never mind. Back to the assignment.”

Outside, Sunghoon sat on a secluded concrete bench, oblivious to the fact that you had been looking for him. He placed the cooling coffee on the ground and opened the pastry box.

“I hate blueberry,” he muttered, picking up the plastic fork with shaking fingers.

He ate the cheesecake aggressively, he felt ridiculous, he was a grown man sitting in the cold eating a cake meant for a girl who was currently laughing about standard deviations with someone else, all because he needed an internet article to tell him how to be a human being.  

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, the tab was still open:

WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures).

He stared at the cheerful illustrations, the bullet points that promised success if he just followed the formula, it all looked so hollow now, so sterile. 

“Stupid,” he hissed. He closed the tab, closing the browser next before he cleared his history, as if scrubbing the evidence of his own incompetence.

He was done. He was done treating you like a puzzle to be solved with cheat codes. Watching you with Jaemin had triggered something visceral in him—not just jealousy, but a terrifying clarity. He didn’t want to be the guy who surprised you with coffee because a website told him to, he wanted to be the guy who could make you laugh like that naturally

“Tomorrow,” he said to the empty bench, tossing the empty cake box into the trash with a decisive thud. 

The end-of-semester party was tomorrow night, everyone would be there. There would be no scripts, no steps, no hiding behind Jake or a stack of books.

“I’m just going to tell her,” he decided, the wind ruffling his carefully parted hair, “I’m going to walk up to her, and I’m going to tell her. No more steps.”

He stood up, wiping a crumb from his lip. He felt terrified, he also felt nauseous, but for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like a project—he felt like Sunghoon.

And Sunghoon was going to confess to you.

STEP NINE: Be yourself (or not)

“Why am I wearing this again?” You asked as Karina stood behind you, zipping up your dress—which was beautiful, however, Karina wasn’t the one to instruct you on your dressing choices.

“Cause I’m fed up of you and Hoon being dumb, maybe this will make him realize what he’s been missing,” she muttered, making you roll your eyes.

“He didn’t even show up at the library, Rin. I think the message is pretty clear—and just when I thought we were actually going somewhere, especially with how sweet he was when I slept at his dorm,” you mumbled, smoothing down the fabric, “he’s not interested.”

“Or,” Karina countered, spinning you around to face the mirror, “he’s an idiot who got lost in his own head. Look at you girl—If Park Sunghoon doesn’t lose his mind tonight, he’s officially clinically dead.”

You stared at your reflection, and you felt nervous, thinking of backing out now, but Karina was already shoving a purse into your hands and dragging you out the door before you could overthink it. The frat house was vibrating before you even stepped inside. The bass rattled your teeth, and the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and humidity. It was the kind of scene Sunghoon usually avoided, or endured by standing in the back looking bored and devastatingly handsome.

You scanned the room instinctively, your eyes darting over the sea of bobbing heads and red Solo cups, but the familiar silhouette of broad shoulders and perfectly styled dark hair was nowhere to be found. You told yourself you weren’t looking for him, that you were here to dance and forget about the odds, but your subconscious was a traitor. Every time the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air and fresh bodies, your heart did a hopeful little stutter in your chest, only to sink when it wasn’t him.

“He’s not here,” Karina shouted over the thumping bass, reading your mind with terrifying accuracy. She handed you a drink that smelled like fruit punch, “stop looking. If he shows up, he shows up. If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Now come on, they’re playing that song you like.”

You let her drag you onto the makeshift dance floor, the sticky residue of spilled beer gripping the soles of your shoes. You tried to lose yourself in the rhythm, to let the vibrations of the music rattle the anxiety out of your bones, but the knot in your stomach remained tight. Thirty minutes later, you started feeling odd. It was subtle at first—a ripple of whispers, heads turning toward the entryway. You were by the kitchen island, trying to cool down with a cup of water, when you saw him.

Park Sunghoon had arrived.

And he wasn’t alone; Jake was flanking him like a bodyguard, but Sunghoon didn’t look like he needed protection. He looked—different, gone were the oversized, comforting hoodies. Tonight, he was wearing all black—a fitted shirt that somehow emphasized the sharp line of his jaw and dark jeans that made his legs look miles long. He wasn’t checking his phone, he didn’t even bother scanning the room with that panicked, deer-in-headlights look he usually wore, he looked focused, determined even.  

He stood near the entrance, declining a drink offered by a hopeful sophomore, his eyes now cutting through the haze of the party as if he was looking for someone.

“Target acquired,” Jake muttered into Sunghoon’s ear, nudging him hard enough that Sunghoon stumbled a step forward, breaking his cool facade for a second.

Sunghoon followed Jake’s gaze and locked onto you instantly. The noise of the party seemed to fade into white noise for him. You were standing under the harsh kitchen light, the dress Karina picked hugging your frame, looking absolutely breathtaking and terrifyingly out of his league. He took a deep breath, steeling himself as he started to move toward you, his strides long and purposeful.

But before he could reach the kitchen island, you turned abruptly, intercepted by a group of girls who grabbed your arm and pulled you and Karina towards the back hallway—the one usually reserved for coats and couples looking for privacy. You looked confused, casting one last glance over your shoulder, but the crowd swallowed Sunghoon’s view of you.

“Where is she going?” Sunghoon frowned, the panic starting to creep back in.

“Looks like interrogation,” Jake said, squinting, “uh-oh—that’s the gossip squad. Come on.”

Sunghoon didn’t need to be told twice. He followed you, weaving through the sweaty bodies, Jake trailing close behind. They reached the entrance of the narrow, dimly lit hallway just as the voices drifted out. Sunghoon raised a hand to stop Jake, pressing his back against the wall just outside the hallway entrance. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the sound of his own name froze him in place.

“So, be honest,” a voice purred, that made the hair on the back of Sunghoon's neck stand up, “are you his next target?”

Sunghoon froze. He looked at Jake, whose eyes had gone wide, his hand hovering over Sunghoon’s shoulder as if to restrain him. He knew the bullshit the girls used to spew about them, but actually cornering you was concerning.

“Target?” your voice rang out, incredulous, “what are you even talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” the girl laughed, “we know the type. He puts on that whole innocent act, standing in the corner looking all bored and mysterious, but it’s just a trap, right? I heard he’s actually wild. That he has a whole rotation of girls and he just plays the quiet card to lure you in.”  

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in, “he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A total player, my friend says he’s dangerous, he had a go at her.”

Sunghoon felt a strange, conflicting tightness in his chest. Part of him—the part that had spent hours reading WikiHow articles on how to be cool—held his breath. He didn’t wish to be perceived as a player, obviously, but he desperately wanted to be seen as a man, someone capable. He waited, heart hammering against his ribs, hoping you would defend him by saying he was respectful, or intense, or maybe even just—cool.

Instead, he heard you scoff, as if you were offended, “dangerous?” You repeated, the word sounding ridiculous in your mouth, “Park Sunghoon? Are you guys blind?”

“Excuse me?” the girl sounded taken aback.

“He isn’t a fuckboy,” you snapped, your voice rising in defense of him, fueled by the protective anger of someone who knew the truth, and you’d been on edge all day, which made Karina look at you with concern, wondering where this is going, “he’s barely even a guy in the way you’re thinking. He’s—he’s so innocent, you’re just tainting his image.”

The word hung in the dank hallway air. Innocent. Sunghoon felt the color drain from his face.

“Innocent?” the girl challenged, “with that face? Please.”

“I’m serious,” you insisted, stepping closer to them, your voice softening into a tone that sounded painfully, devastatingly like pity to Sunghoon’s ears, “he’s not mysterious, he’s just shy, he doesn’t have a roster, he has a skincare routine that has twelve steps. He drinks banana milk because he thinks coffee makes him too jittery sometimes.”  

Sunghoon squeezed his eyes shut. Stop, he begged silently. Please, just stop. But you were on a roll, determined to clear his name of these vile accusations, unaware that you were simultaneously dismantling his entire romantic potential, making him feel as if you never saw him as something beyond someone who was just clumsy and cute, as if you didnt see him as a guy after all, as if he couldn’t what—fuck you? 

“He’s not like that, okay? He’s like—a puppy,” you said, and fondness in your voice went unnoticed by Hoon, “a newborn puppy on ice. He trips over his own feet when he gets excited. He’s clumsy and sweet and completely harmless.”  

Harmless. The word echoed in Sunghoon’s skull, drowning out the thumping bass of the party. Harmless, safe, a puppy. Yes, you were defending him but—he couldn’t even thank you for that, simply wondering what would have happened if he actually confessed. Would you have laughed in his face and called him just a friend?

Jake slowly turned to look at Sunghoon. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a cringe of profound sympathy. He looked at Sunghoon’s white knuckles, at the devastation etched into the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Dude,” Jake whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.

Sunghoon felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had wanted to be the protagonist. He had wanted to be the protector, the one who held you during horror movies. He wanted you to see him as a man who could sweep you off your feet. And all this time, you didn’t see him as a man at all. You saw him as a loser, you didn’t look at him with desire—you looked at him with the same fondness one might have for a particularly incompetent golden retriever.

“Let’s go,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice hollow and scraping against his throat.

“But—you were gonna tell her—”

“I said let’s go.”

Sunghoon didn’t wait for Jake. He pushed off the wall, turning his back on the hallway where you were passionately defending his lack of masculinity. He moved through the crowd blindly, shoving past sweaty bodies, the bass pounding in his ears mocking the frantic, broken rhythm of his heart. He felt small and stupid. He felt like the massive loser he feared he was.  

He burst out of the front door into the cold night air, gasping as if he had been drowning. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t. He just walked, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the girl who thought he was a loser.

STEP TEN: Accepting defeat

Radio silence. 

You had never felt this agitated in your life, never missed someone so much in your life. It had been over a week and you hadn’t seen Sunghoon, and the worst part? You didn’t even know what was wrong, was he just ignoring you or was it the same for others as well? You could have sworn he was at the party, and as soon as you were done with the girls, you had come out to search for him, only to feel his absence even further.

You checked your phone again, hoping to see a reply but no.

You: are you okay hoonie? You: jake said you are sick

Those were the texts you had sent five days back, but you didn’t stop there.

You: is everything okay? You: hoon? You: did i do something wrong

He hadn’t even read it, simply left you on delivered. The lack of response resulted in a physical ache in your chest. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last week in your head. Had you been too clingy? Had the hug outside the dorm been too much? Or maybe, just maybe, those girls were right, and he had simply decided he was bored of his current toy.

No, you thought, rolling over and burying your face in your pillow. He’s not like that—he’s Sunghoon. He’s the guy who covers you with umbrellas and brings you coffee. He’s the guy who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But if he was that guy, then where was he? The uncertainty was gnawing at you, turning your usual confidence into a frayed mess of nerves. You missed his awkwardness. You missed his sudden bursts of confidence followed by immediate regret. You missed the way he made you feel like you were safe.

Across campus, inside the dorm that smelled of despair, Park Sunghoon was currently lying face-down on the living room rug. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Inside his head, it was a funeral. He was eulogizing his manhood, his romantic prospects, and his dignity. The word echoed in the cavern of his skull—harmless, harmless, harmless.

“Are you going to rot there all day?” A voice asked from above.

Sunghoon groaned, refusing to look up, “leave me alone, Jay. I’m decomposing.”

“You’re blocking the path to the kitchen,” Jay said, nudging Sunghoon’s ribs with his foot, “and you’ve been listening to sad bollywood playlists for three days straight when you don’t even understand the lyrics.”

“Let him rot,” Jake’s voice drifted in from the couch, though it lacked his usual biting sarcasm, “he’s mourning the death of his ego.”

Sunghoon shot up, sitting cross-legged on the rug with a sudden, frantic energy. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I’m not mourning my ego,” Sunghoon snapped, though his voice cracked, betraying him instantly, “I’m facing the fucking reality. She called me innocent, Jake. She told them I wasn’t shit.”

“She did not say that dude, she was defending you, you idiot,” Jay interjected, leaning against the doorframe with a dish towel in hand, “I wasn’t even there, and even I know that. Jake told me the whole story.”

“She defended me by neutering me!” Sunghoon argued, the humiliation burning fresh in his chest, “She told them I am clumsy—which is true but—she sees me as a child, Jay. You don’t date children, you babysit them."  

“She literally meant she’s comfy with you,” Jake tried to reason, sitting up. 

“I don’t want to be comfortable,” Sunghoon hissed, standing up and pacing the small room, “I wanted to be—I don’t know, someone she actually desires.”

He felt foolish for even trying. The button-up shirts, the cologne, the WikiHow articles—it was all just dressing up a golden retriever in a tuxedo. At the end of the day, you saw right through it. You saw the clumsy, anxious mess underneath and decided he was something to be coddled.  

“Okay, enough,” Jay decided, tossing the dish towel onto the counter, “you're spiraling. Put on shoes, we’re going to get food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nobody asked,” Jay said, grabbing his keys, “Jake, grab his other arm.”

Despite his protests, Sunghoon was manhandled into a jacket and dragged out of the dorm. He walked with his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, reverting to his resting bitch face now, not because he wanted to look cool, but because he wanted to disappear. They made it to the campus plaza, the wind biting at Sunghoon’s cheeks. He was busy staring at a crack in the pavement, plotting his transfer to a university on a different continent, when Jake elbowed him.

“Hoon—look.”

Sunghoon looked up to find you walking out of the convenience store, laughing at something Karina was saying. You looked tired, your eyes a little puffy as if you’d cried, but the moment you spotted the trio, your face transformed and his heart hurt—it actually hurt. The worry on your face vanished, replaced by a radiant, relieved smile. You took a step toward him, your eyes locking onto his with that familiar warmth. You looked so happy to see him. And that broke him.

Because to Sunghoon, that smile didn’t look like love. It looked like relief of finding a close friend or something similar (he truly had been blind—an overthinker self sabotaging himself). He couldn’t take it, he couldn’t stand there and be the recipient of your pity.

“Hoon?” You called out from a distance, your voice hopeful.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened and he didn’t wave, didn’t smile back, he didn’t even acknowledge the greeting. He turned his head sharply, breaking eye contact, and walked right back towards his dorm.

“Sunghoon?” Jake hissed, grabbing at his sleeve, “what the fuck are you doing? She’s right there.”

Sunghoon ripped his arm away from Jake’s grip, “I’m going back,” he muttered, his voice cold and flat.

He walked away, leaving you standing on the pavement with your hand half-raised, the smile sliding off your face. You watched his retreating back, the way his shoulders were hunched against the wind. Confusion washed over you first—had he not seen you? But no, he had looked you dead in the eye. He had seen your relief, your joy at seeing him alive, and he had looked at you with something that looked disturbingly like resentment. He just—walked away.

The confusion hardened into something sharper. You had spent a week worrying, heck, you had been crying over him. You had defended him to those girls, you had sent texts that went unanswered, you had lost sleep wondering if he was okay. And he just walked away without even doing as much as acknowledging you.

“Okay,” you whispered to the empty air, lowering your hand, “okay, Park Sunghoon, be that way.”

If he wanted to act like you didn’t exist after everything, fine. You turned back to Karina, your eyes dry and your expression steely, “let’s go,” you said, your voice devoid of the warmth you had reserved for him, “I’m done.”

You started walking as Karina looked back, glaring at Jay as if he could’ve done something—anything, but he was just as frozen, standing with Jake who could feel a headache forming in his head.

“The fuck just happened?” Jake asked, and Jay shook his head.

“Two of the nicest people I’ve met are acting like emotionless mannequins,” Jay mumbled, “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He doesn’t realize that Y/N meant well—even if the way she worded it hit him hard, can he stop being so difficult? Did he not see how happy she was to see him?”

“Well—now what?”

Jake shook his head with a sigh, “we suffer—all of us.”

And suffer you did.

The days that followed didn’t feel like time passing; they felt like a slow, suffocating slide into permafrost. The end-of-semester exams descended upon the campus providing the perfect, miserable backdrop for two people who were determined to freeze each other out.

The party was a distant, feverish memory, replaced by the stark reality of the library and 24-hour study halls. But if anyone thought the pressure of finals would distract you from the hollow ache in your chest, they were wrong. If anything, the silence of the study rooms only made the noise in your head louder.

You became efficient, terrifyingly so. You attended every lecture, submitted every lab report early, and sat in the front row with a posture so rigid it looked painful. You didn’t laugh with Jaemin anymore, in fact, you barely spoke to anyone outside of necessary academic exchanges. You were over it, you told yourself, you were busy. You had a GPA to maintain and a future to build, and neither of those things required a boy who treated your concern like an insult.

But Karina knew better. She saw the way your eyes lingered on the back of a black hoodie in the cafeteria before snapping away. She saw the way you checked your phone every time it vibrated, only to toss it aside with a scowl when it wasn’t him.

Across the quad, Sunghoon was disintegrating in his own way. He moved through the campus like a ghost, his headphones permanently glued to his ears—though half the time, nothing was playing. He just didn’t want to hear the world asking him if he was okay. He studied, or at least, he tried, staring at thermodynamics equations until the Greek letters started to look like your initials. He sat in the library—not at your table, never at your table—but in the far back corner, hidden behind the stacks. He told himself he was proving a point (he didnt even know what anymore). 

But every time he drank black coffee (which he still hated) instead of banana milk, he felt a little piece of himself wither. He missed the warmth, he missed the way you used to look at him before he ruined it. Now, when you passed each other in the corridor, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. There were no shy glances, no blushing ears. Just two strangers walking past each other with aggressive apathy, while their mutual friends trailed behind, looking like they wanted to scream.

“It’s like watching a car crash,” Jake whispered to Jungwon one afternoon in the library. They were watching Sunghoon stare blankly at a blank Word document.

“Worse,” Jungwon muttered, eyeing you across the room where you were aggressively highlighting a textbook without actually reading it, “It’s like watching two cars almost crashing but never quite reaching there, being stubborn and all.”

The tension came to a head on Tuesday night. The library was packed, the air thick with the smell of stress and stale caffeine. You were printing a paper, waiting for the machine to finish, when Sunghoon walked up to the adjacent printer. You didn’t look at him and he didn’t look at you (he did, and he swore under his breath seeing how pretty you looked wearing that skirt he loved).

The silence between you was louder than the whirring of the machines. You could smell him—that damn cologne and clean laundry, and it made your eyes sting. You wanted to scream, you wanted to ask him why he was being such a coward, you wanted to hug him—kiss him. 

Sunghoon stood rigid, his knuckles white as he gripped his folder. He could see you in his peripheral vision. You looked tired, he wanted to ask if you were sleeping. He wanted to offer you his jacket because the library was freezing, but the word harmless flashed in his mind like a warning sign. She doesn’t want you, his brain supplied unhelpfully. She pities you.

Your printer beeped and you snatched your papers.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice polite, as you stepped around him.

“Sure,” he replied, his voice equally flat.

You walked away without looking back. Sunghoon watched you go, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that had absolutely nothing to do with physics and everything to do with the fact that he was miserably, hopelessly in love with the girl he was currently pretending to hate.

“I hate it here,” Jake groaned from a nearby table, dropping his head onto his open textbook, “I really, really hate it here.”

STEP ELEVEN: Let jealousy take the wheel 

“Oh she looks beautiful!”

Jake and Jay kept on cooing, staring at the pictures Jungwon was showing them—pictures of you. Well, since the end sems were over, Karina had decided to do a mini photo shoot with you and Jungwon, and since it wasn’t really a request, you had to comply.

Sunghoon was on the couch, heart hammering at the praises, but he didn’t (couldn’t) ask Jungwon to show him the pictures, which only made Jake compliment you harder. Jungwon shook his head, absolutely done with whatever was going on, he started screen sharing so the pictures would appear on the TV, and Sunghoon tried his best not to look up, but he did. For the first time in a while, his friends could see his eyes shining. You looked beautiful—you always did, and good lord, Sunghoon missed you—cursing himself for behaving exactly how a child would.

He stared more, it was a pretty picture of you sitting on the grass and smiling—however, it didn’t reach your eyes. Sunghoon wondered who were you smiling at, granted Karina was sitting on the other side of you. He saw a hand, a hand that did not look like Jungwon’s hand, and he felt even more nauseous at the image of some other man being there and making you smile.

You had been so detached from reality, you didn’t understand it—you hadn’t processed just how attached you’d felt to Sunghoon, only for him to switch up midway, and you wondered how he was taking it.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing water, and retreated to the sanctuary of his room.

“The kitchen is that way, Hoon,” Jay pointed out helpfully, gesturing in the opposite direction.

“My room,” Sunghoon corrected, not breaking stride, “I have—water in my room.”

He sat on the edge of his bed, taking his MacBook out as he opened the one site that had guided him (poorly) through this entire semester—WikiHow.

He started typing, what to do when you’ve ruined everything with the girl you love and she thinks you’re a child.

No results.

He didn’t give up, trying to find variants, how to fix a relationship when you ghosted her out of insecurity.

The algorithm struggled. Finally, he clicked the same one he’d been following all along—how to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures). He scrolled past the ads to the last step which said—If it doesn’t work out: accept that it’s over. If she says no or seems distant, respect her space and move onto a new girl.

Sunghoon stared at the screen. Move on to a new girl.

He slammed the laptop shut, he couldn’t do that. The mere thought of looking at someone else, of trying to memorize someone else’s coffee order or the way they laughed, made him feel physically ill. He didn’t want new, he wanted you. He wanted the girl who called him Hoonie and defended him, even if her defense had shattered his ego into a million pieces, and he hid instead of proving her wrong. 

He buried his face in his hands, he couldn’t move on, but he didn’t know how to move back.

Back in the living room, the atmosphere had shifted from admiration to, well, tactical planning.

“He’s hopeless,” Jake said, staring at the closed door of Sunghoon’s room, “did you see his face? He looked like a kicked puppy again.”

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jay agreed, leaning back and crossing his arms, “the atmosphere in this dorm is insane. Sunghoon is miserable, Y/N is miserable, and I’m tired of hearing sad playlists through the wall I swear—they need to fuck it out.”

Jungwon disconnected his phone from the TV, a determined look on his face (before he gave Jay an odd look, of course), “we need to force them into the same room.”

“How?” Jake asked, “Hoon won’t leave his room unless the building is on fire.”

“A party,” Jungwon said simply, “Beomgyu texted. They’re throwing a massive end of Exams bash in the Grand Suite downstairs like two days later, it’s the biggest dorm and everyone is going.”

“Sunghoon hates parties,” Jay pointed out.

“Exactly,” Jungwon smirked, “which is why we aren’t asking him—we’re dragging him.”

“And Y/N?”

“Karina is already on it,” Jungwon said, holding up his phone to show a text confirmation, “she’s bringing Y/N. The plan is simple honestly, just get them in the room. If they see each other, they’ll have to interact—if Y/N doesn’t break, Hoon sure will.”

“Sounds risky but okay,” Jake muttered. 

“Well, do we have any other options?” Jay asked, only to be met with silence, “great, then operation—get them to fuck is a go.”

“I don’t really like the operation name—”

“—Leave the styling to me,” Jay said, spinning the keys around his finger as he headed for the door, his mission clear, “I’m going to the mall. He needs an edge. I’m getting him a leather jacket—”

Jake and Jungwon shook their head, hoping it will work out for the better. 

STEP TWELVE: Grand romantic (?) gesture 

“I’m not going,” you mumbled, staring at La La Land playing on your MacBook (again), and you knew well you were torturing yourself, calling it your coping mechanism. 

Karina sighed, “you need to let loose, it’s not the end of the world,” she muttered, snapping the laptop shut, “and watching Emma Stone get her heart broken for the fifth time this week isn’t going to fix yours.”

“It’s not broken,” you lied, rolling over and burying your face into the pillow to muffle the waver in your voice, “It’s just—bruised. Badly.”

It felt like more than a bruise, though. It felt like a phantom limb ache—a nagging, persistent sensation of something missing that should have been there. It had been days of absolute radio silence from Sunghoon. No awkward texts or Pokémon memes, no shy glances across the campus quad, no memes sent at 2 AM. Just a sudden, inexplicable void where his presence used to be. You had replayed the last week in your mind until the memories were frayed at the edges, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the shift happened. 

The thought gnawed at you. You remembered defending him with such ferocity, calling him innocent and harmless, painting a picture of a boy who was sweet and misunderstood. Now, lying in the dark, you felt like a fool. Maybe he wasn’t misunderstood. Maybe he was just a guy who got bored and moved on, leaving you to dissect the silence he left behind.

“Get up,” Karina commanded, pulling the duvet off you, “Beomgyu’s party is starting, and I am not walking into that sweatbox alone. Besides, if he’s there, don’t you want him to see what he’s missing? Do you really want him to think you’re rotting in bed over him?”

That struck a nerve, the indignation flared up, burning through the lethargy. You didn’t want his pity, and you certainly didn’t want him to think he had the power to dismantle your entire life with a week of silence (he did and you missed him). You sat up, pushing hair out of your face with a grim determination. It was amusing to the others—watching you and Hoon having this insane personality shift, but garnering feelings would do that to anyone, so they couldn’t really question it.

“Fine,” you snapped, though there was no real bite in it, “but if I see him and he ignores me, I’m gonna kiss the first guy i see after him.”

You were lying (obviously), you couldn’t even imagine kissing anyone but him. At first it used to be sweet, you wanted to know if he’d smile into the kiss—but now? Now you wanted him to actually break and prove a point, which seemed a distant thought granted he wasn’t even willing to look your way. 

Sunghoon was undergoing the same thought process in his room where Jay had shoved a very expensive leather jacket his way with a simple command to dress up for the party which made no sense because Sunghoon hated parties, and somehow, he thought that you would not be there—would you? Then his mind drifted to the guy from the library and he realized that maybe you would be there—there with him. 

“He’s buffering again,” Heeseung noted from the doorway, watching Sunghoon stare at the leather jacket as if it were a sentient threat, “Hoon, if you don’t go, you’re just proving you’re a coward. You’re going to let some other guy take your spot because you’re too busy sulking?”  

Sunghoon’s head snapped up. The thought of Jaemin at the party, standing in the space he should be occupying, made his stomach do a violent flip. He realized that yes, you would be there—and the thought of you being there with him was a catalyst that finally burned through his lethargy.  

“Fine,” Sunghoon gritted out, grabbing the jacket. He stood up, his height and the sharp lines of the leather making him look like a stranger even to his roommates.

“Great,” Jay muttered, though he gave Sunghoon a lingering, skeptical look, “I’m not letting you leave that party until you open your mouth and say something that isn’t an apology for existing.”

The walk down to Beomgyu’s suite was a blur of neon lights and thumping bass. The Grand dorm was the largest in the building, and tonight it was a humid, vibrating mass of people. Sunghoon felt like a passenger in his own body, his social anxiety acting like a lead weight, yet the leather jacket served as a suit of armor. He ended up leaning against the kitchenette counter, a red cup held in a white-knuckled grip, completely zoned out as the other boys left to find Jungwon to discuss the situation. 

Despite his internal collapse, he looked devastating. A group of girls had already drifted toward him, laughing and brushing against his sleeves which he was not comfortable with, but he didn’t hear a word they said. He was staring at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, desperate rhythm, not paying attention to the girl who clearly wanted a night with him, cause he had reserved that for someone else tonight (and forever if things worked out right).

He closed his eyes for a while, just standing there collecting his thoughts as the group watched from a distance, muttering about how they weren’t even sure what to expect anymore, but gladly, Karina had informed them about their arrival, which Hoon missed—but you did not miss the way he was there, as if put on display right there for you to feel even worse.

You turned away, your eyes stinging, desperate to find an exit, a drink, anything to numb the sudden spike of pain.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

The voice was smooth, familiar, and right in your ear. You turned to see Jaemin standing there, a lazy, charming grin plastered on his face. He looked effortless, holding a drink in one hand, his posture relaxed and open—the antithesis of the tension radiating from the kitchenette.

“Hey, Jaemin,” you managed, though your voice sounded thin to your own ears.

“You look incredible,” Jaemin said, stepping into your personal space with a confidence that felt practiced yet sincere. He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “though you look like you’re plotting a murder, do you need an alibi?”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh, grateful for the distraction, “just overwhelmed. It’s loud in here.”

“It is,” Jaemin agreed, leaning closer so you could hear him over the pounding bass, “I’m just feeling lucky to catch you without your usual entourage.”

Across the room, Sunghoon had opened his eyes again, now trying to find Jake, to inform him that he wishes to leave, especially when he couldn’t find you—but oh he did, and the static in Sunghoon’s brain cleared with a violent snap. He had been zoning out, letting the chatter of the girls around him fade into white noise, his mind a continuous loop of misery. But the moment his eyes landed on you, everything sharpened. He saw the way you looked—beautiful and somehow sad, and then he saw Jaemin.

He watched Jaemin lean in. He watched the easy familiarity, the way Jaemin smiled at you, the way you offered a small, reluctant smile in return. It was a smile Sunghoon hadn’t earned in days. And then Jaemin reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his touch lingering near your cheek.

The innocent boy within him died right there. The harmless label incinerated in a flash of pure, blinding jealousy. Sunghoon didn’t think about this, just felt a rush of adrenaline—which is why he felt so confident now, so sure of what he had to do, and it was interesting how one hormone could manage to switch up someone to such lengths. 

He moved through the crowd with a purpose now, his eyes locked on Jaemin like a predator sighting a threat. He was like a storm front moving across the room. You were just about to answer Jaemin’s question when the air shifted. A shadow fell over you, and before you could turn, a heavy arm clamped around your waist, pulling you backward until you were flush against a hard, solid chest. The scent of expensive cologne and leather enveloped you instantly, drowning out the stale beer smell of the party.

Sunghoon stood behind you, his body a wall of heat, his grip on your waist possessive and unyielding. He wasn’t looking at you. His dark, furious eyes were bored into Jaemin, his jaw set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

“You should leave now,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrated against your back, completely devoid of any stutter or hesitation, and for a minute, you just tried to process the situation, heart hammering in your chest.

Jaemin blinked, his smile faltering as he looked from the white-knuckled grip on your waist to Sunghoon’s icy glare, “I’m just catching up, Sunghoon. Relax.”

“Conversation’s over,” Sunghoon snapped, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, staking a claim that required no interpretation, “leave.”

And he did, knowing when to turn back and sent a wink towards Jungwon, who had put Jaemin up to this—and it seemed as if their plan had worked, though, it was a hilarious sight to see the boys hiding at the back with their jaws hung wide open, Heeseung laughing freely.

“What the fuck—let go of me, Sunghoon,” you almost screamed, trying to pry his hands off of you. 

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he spun you around, his eyes dark and burning with this volatile mix of desperation and the remains of that blinding jealousy. He didn’t look at the group of boys huddled near the drinks, whose jaws were indeed still dropped at the sudden, predatory shift in the guy they usually described as buffering, he only looked at you, his jaw set in that same tight line that suggested he was one second away from either shattering or exploding. Without a word, he grabbed your hand—his palm hot and slightly damp against yours—and began weaving through the crowd, hauling you toward the exit.

“The fuck are you doing?” You asked, stunned at his new behaviour. 

“We’re not doing this here,” he said, jaw clenched. 

“Oh—now you wanna talk, huh?” You seethed—because god, you were so angry, so confused and yet your heartbeat betrayed you because you were looking forward to what he had to say, what excuse he wished to use.

The walk up the stairs to the boys’ floor was a blur of cold concrete and the echoing sound of your heels. He didn’t stop until he had reached his door, swinging it open and pulling you inside before slamming it shut with a finality that made the air in the small room feel suddenly very thin. The silence of the dorm was jarring after the chaos downstairs, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet, it was heavy and pregnant with everything that had been left unsaid since before the exams began.  

“You don’t get to do that,” you snapped the moment he let go of your hand, the anger finally breaking through the shock, “you do not get to treat me like I’m invisible for weeks, ignoring my texts and walking past me in the library like I’m a fucking ghost, only to act jealous because you saw me talking to someone else.”

Sunghoon paced the small space of his room, his hands shaking as he pushed them through his hair, successfully ruining the perfect styling Jay had insisted on, “I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose,” he shot back, his voice cracking with a jagged edge you had never heard before, “I was stopping you from looking at him the way you used to look at me before you decided I was someone you couldn’t even consider a man.”

“A man? What are you even talking about?” You yelled, stepping into his space, refusing to let him retreat into the mysterious silence he used as a shield, “I have spent weeks wondering what I did wrong! I was crying over you, Sunghoon. I defended you when everyone was asking why you were acting like this, only for you to ignore me right when I was there in front of you!”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Sunghoon roared, finally stopping his pacing and turning to face you, his eyes glassy, “I heard you, Y/N. At the party before finals, I was right there in the hallway when you were telling those girls exactly what you think of me.”

You froze, the memory of the gossip squad cornering you flashing through your mind, “yeah? And what’s wrong about it? I was defending you! They were calling you a fuckboy.”

“By basically calling me what—a loser?” He hissed, stepping closer until he was looming over you, the scent of his cologne and the leather jacket enveloping you, “I heard the words you used. You told them I was like a puppy, someone who trips over his own feet. You told them I drink banana milk because I can’t handle coffee and that I have a twelve-step skincare routine. You made me sound like an incompetent child, Y/N.”

You could not believe it—all this crying, the heartbreak stemmed from you defending him? And he took it in the worst way possible, as if his mind could not admit you would love him the way he is, and formed a thought process that did irrevocable damage to both you and him.

“I said those things in a good light,” you screamed back, your own heart hammering against your ribs, “I called you sweet because I thought you were! I didn’t know your ego was so fragile that you’d rather be seen as a villain than a person who actually cares about things!”

This conversation was not going the way you both had intended—anger taking over and ruling all the other feelings out, yet none of you were ready to back down.

“It’s not about ego!” Sunghoon grabbed your wrists, pinning them against his chest so you could feel the violent, erratic rhythm of his heart, “It’s about the fact that I’ve been sitting in this room for days trying to be a man you’d actually desire, only to find out that you look at me with pity, you made me feel like I wasn’t even an option for you—just a clumsy loser you had fun to be around.”

“So you decided to punish me instead of talking to me normally?”

“Yeah, just like you forgot all about me the second Jaemin came into your life.”

“Are you fucking hearing yourself right now?” Your throat hurt with all the yelling, and you couldn’t even back down, not when he was so close to you, “fine, if you don’t want that to happen then stop acting like a coward and actually do something, fight for me, not against me!”

His hand shot out, not to grab your wrist this time, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up so you couldn’t look away—and god he looked so different, but his eyes were the same, sweet and gentle despite the anger, “I dragged you out of there because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having your attention. I’m standing here, wrecking everything, screaming my lungs out because I am fighting, Y/N. I’m fighting the urge to completely lose my mind.”

“Then show me,” you breathed, challenging him, your heart pounding so hard as the tip of his nose brushed against yours, “prove it to me you’re not the harmless boy I defended. Prove to me that you want me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice—he’d waited too long, and he couldn’t say no when you stood there with watery eyes, chest heaving up and down, bottom lip bitten, and Sunghoon swears you look the prettiest you had ever looked. He had gone through myriad scenarios of this happening, none of them involved Sunghoon surging forward with his mouth crashing against yours—which is exactly what happened. 

It did not happen with the tentative sweetness of the boy you had defended in the hallway, but with a searing, desperate hunger that tasted of frustration and a few week’s worth of repressed longing. He groaned into the kiss—it felt good, too good as he let his lips convey what he couldn’t, and it wasn’t sweet, it was rather messy and uncoordinated, a collision that felt less like affection and more like a necessity—as if he were trying to breathe you in to keep from suffocating.

You stumbled back, your spine hitting the wood of the door with a dull thud, but he didn’t let up. His hands were everywhere—one tangled tightly in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, the other gripping your waist with a bruising possession, anchoring you to him. He was heavy against you, a solid wall of heat and leather, and for a moment, the sheer shock of his intensity froze you, a shiver going down your spine, feeling the frustration radiating off him.

But then the indignation flared—the audacity of him to think he could solve this with physical force had you fighting back. You kissed him back with the same jagged intensity, your hands balling into fists against the lapels of that ridiculous jacket, pushing and pulling all at once. The kiss was an argument in itself, sharp and biting, stripped of any pretense of politeness.

He broke the contact with a ragged gasp, but he didn’t really pull away. He buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his breathing harsh and uneven against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point, breath warming you up further, especially when he nibbled on your skin. You could feel him trembling—fine tremors running through his frame that betrayed the facade he was trying so hard to maintain.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into your skin, the words thick and slurred, vibrating against your clavicle, “god, I missed you so much it physically hurt.”

It was the vulnerability in his voice—the way it cracked on the confession, stripping away the anger to reveal the desperation underneath—that finally undid you. You could feel the dampness of his eyelashes against your neck, a stark contrast to the aggression of moments before.

“You have a terrible way of showing it, Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice shaking, your hands slowly uncurling from his jacket, moving up to grip his shoulders to keep yourself upright.

“I’ll show you, fuck—i’ll show you everything,” he mumbled, pressing opened mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, making you gasp his name, to which he groaned, “‘m not Sunghoon, call me Hoonie.”

“Fuck—”

“Tell me you missed me—tell me you’re feeling this too,” he hissed, which almost seemed like a plea against your lips—especially with the way he was holding your nape, looking right into your eyes.

“I—I did, Hoonie,” you mumbled against his lips, and he shook his head.

It’s filthy how he leans in to bite your bottom lip, pulling you flush against him with ease, his right thigh settling in between your legs as he did so, making you whine, and he loves the sound, he loves it too fucking much to not pull you into another kiss to absorb each sound you’re giving him so lovingly (at least he thinks so). 

“C’mon—say it,” he urged, pulling your lower lip before letting go, a string of saliva connecting you both regardless.  

“What happened to you?” You breathed out, knees threatening to give out as you held on to Sunghoon’s shoulder, who only chuckled.

“Did you really think I was a virgin? That I’m someone who can’t make you feel good, hm? As if I hadn’t thought about having you close before,” he leaned in again, and this time, you could see how calm he was, “I’m still the same man—just this time, I’m desperate to please you.”

Your eyes widened, pressing your thighs together only to cage Hoon’s leg harder, shoulders curling in, “Hoonie, you don’t have to—” 

“Shh—just be good for me tonight, I really really want to kiss you again.” He couldn’t help but express his feelings, “you look so pretty, so pretty I swear,”  he grunts, and he swears it’s intoxicating the way you taste, how he can feel your pulse as he sucks on skin. His lips linger on your neck, sucking gently at the tender skin, drawing out the heat that blooms under his touch. The pull of his mouth is unhurried, deliberate, each drag of his tongue sending a fresh wave of warmth spreading through your veins. You feel the rapid thump of your own pulse against his lips, matching the erratic beat of your heart, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Say it, baby,” he murmurs.

“I missed you—was waiting for you,” you whined, and he swore, the way you said it sent this insane feeling down his cock—which twitched with need.

One of his hands stays firm at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive grip that grounds you, while the other slides slowly down your side. His palm flattens against your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, tracing the curve with feather-light pressure. The fabric bunches slightly under his exploration, and you arch into the contact without thinking, a soft whimper escaping as the sensation teases your nipple into a tight peak.

“God, your body responds to me like it’s been waiting,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough, laced with that raw need that's starting to unravel you both. His breath fans hot over the damp spot he’s left on your neck, making you shiver, and he presses closer, his chest rising and falling against yours in sync with your quickening breaths, “thought about this so much—thought about you all the time, fuck! Pretty, yeah just keep your eyes on me.”

You can feel the hard line of his cock straining against the front of his jeans, pressing insistently into your hip as he shifts his weight. It’s a solid reminder of his arousal, thick and unyielding, and the knowledge sends a flush of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching with empty want—mind still trying to process the situation. Your hands, still clutching his shoulders, slide down tentatively, fingers splaying over the firm planes of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the leather jacket. The material is cool and smooth under your palms, juxtaposing the feverish warmth of his body seeping through.

“Thought you got bored of me,” you gasped out.

“Could never—I thought about you each fucking day, each second.”

He groans softly at your touch, the sound vibrating through him and into you, and his hand at your side dips lower, cupping your hip with a squeeze that borders on bruising. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, kneading slowly, pulling you tighter against him so that his thigh remains wedged firmly between your legs. The pressure against your clothed pussy is maddening—subtle friction that builds with every tiny shift, making your clit ache for more direct contact.

“Hoonie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the mix of lingering frustration and surging desire, your nails scraping lightly over his jacket as you grip him harder. The vulnerability in his earlier confession lingers in the air, softening the edges of your indignation, and now it’s just the two of you, bodies communicating what words can’t quite capture.

He lifts his head from your neck, eyes dark and intense as they meet yours, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper—longing perhaps, or the fear of losing this again. His free hand moves up, cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone before trailing down to trace your jaw, then your throat. The touch is reverent, almost tender, but there’s an undercurrent of hunger in the way his fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel your swallow.

“I need to touch you everywhere,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly on the words, and before you can respond, his mouth claims yours again. This kiss is slower than the last, exploratory—his tongue sliding against yours in languid strokes, tasting and teasing without the frantic edge. You melt into it, your body going pliant as his hand on your hip ventures bolder, slipping under the hem of your dress to caress the bare skin of your waist.

His palm is soft, and the texture against your smooth skin makes you gasp into the kiss. He takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue curling around yours as his fingers spread wide, exploring the dip of your waist, the slight curve of your lower back. Each inch he claims feels electric, igniting nerves you didn’t know were so sensitive, and you press your thighs together around his leg, seeking relief from the growing wetness soaking your panties. The friction only heightens the ache, your pussy throbbing with each subtle grind, and he notices—god, he notices everything. A low hum of approval rumbles from his chest, and his hand under your dress inches higher, thumb grazing the edge of your bra. He doesn’t push further yet, just circles the underwire with agonizing slowness, feeling the way your breath stutters, the way your nipple strains against the lace.

“Tell me what you feel,” he pulls back just enough to whisper, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching your face. His other hand leaves your face to join the first, both now under your dress, palms sliding up your sides in tandem, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits, all while he tries to memorize every inch of you, the most perfect girl for him.

“You—everywhere,” you manage, voice breathy, your hands moving to his waist, tugging at the hem of his shirt to feel the heat of his skin, “your hands—it’s too much and not enough, i need you, baby.” The confession spills out, raw and honest, mirroring his earlier vulnerability, and it seems to spur him on.

He chuckles softly once he’s done groaning cause—fuck, he’s been waiting to hear that, to have you to him. And finally, his big, veiny hands cup your breasts fully, squeezing with a firm pressure that has you moaning into his mouth as he kisses you again. His thumbs flick over your nipples through the bra, back and forth, hardening them further until they're aching points of need. The groping is thorough, unhurried—he kneads the soft flesh, feeling their weight in his palms, rolling them gently as if memorizing every curve.

“So the girls were right—ah,” you whine.

“No,” he breathed out, “I’m like this just for you, just because of you.”

Your hips rock against his thigh instinctively, the seam of your panties rubbing against your clit, and the spark of pleasure makes you clench around nothing, arousal trickling down your thighs. He feels the movement, presses his leg harder to encourage it, his own cock twitching against you in response. The air between you thickens with the scent of your combined arousal, heavy and intoxicating, and his kisses trail back to your neck, nipping lightly as his hands continue their worship.

“So responsive,” he breathes, one hand slipping around to your back, fingers working at the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. It gives with a soft snap, and he wastes no time pushing the straps down your shoulders, exposing your tits to the cool air. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but his mouth is there immediately, hot and wet, latching onto one nipple while his hand covers the other, “fucking pretty—all fucking mine.”

He sucks gently at first, tongue swirling around the peak, teeth grazing just enough to send jolts straight to your core. Your pussy pulses with each pull of his mouth, wetness seeping further, and you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him close. The feelings crash over you—the possessiveness in his grip, the desperation in his touches, the way his body trembles slightly against yours, betraying how much he needs this reconnection as much as you do.

“Seems like you have a lot of experience,” you mumbled, looking elsewhere. 

He smirked against you, “is my baby jealous?”

“No—fuck,” you whined as he let his free hand roams lower again, palming your ass through your panties, squeezing the cheek hard enough to make you gasp. He kneads it slowly, pulling you tighter against his thigh, guiding your movements as you grind, the friction building that sweet, torturous pressure, “that’s it, feel how much I want you, only you,” he murmurs against your breast, voice muffled, before switching sides, giving the other nipple the same devoted attention, and fucking hell—he was in love with you, absolutely there to hear each sound you make and every movement of your body in response to him. 

Every touch, every grope, layers the intimacy, stripping away the walls between you, leaving only the raw, aching need to be closer, to feel more.

He pulls back from your breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and feral as they lock onto yours, “get on the bed, baby. Now,” he growls, voice thick with command, and you stumble back with him, legs shaky from the grinding, your soaked panties clinging to your pussy lips as he shoves you toward the mattress. You hit the soft sheets on your back, bra discarded somewhere on the floor, tits bouncing free.

His body follows, crashing over yours, knees pinning your thighs apart. Those veiny hands dive straight for your naked tits (which he seemed to love, especially wanting to mark them), squeezing hard—fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs crushing your nipples until you arch and cry out, “fuck, these tits are so perfect,” he mutters, leaning down to bite one peak sharp enough to sting, his fangs sinking in while his tongue flicks the tip. Pain mixes with heat, shooting straight to your clit, and you buck under him, pussy clenching empty and desperate, repeating his name as you find yourself wetter than ever, and he had barely touched you—you really fucking needed him.

His fingers press deep into your skin, bruising your waist as he kneads them like he owns every inch—because he does, tonight, tomorrow, always, all him to ravage, “you love this, don’t you? Watching me go crazy over you, fuck,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, nails scraping.

Your hips jerk up anyway, grinding your drenched panties against his thigh, the fabric sodden now, rubbing your swollen clit with every desperate roll. Wetness seeps through, coating his jeans, and you feel his cock twitch hard against your side, “yeah, keep going, doing so fucking well for me, c’mon, rub yourself before I lose it and fuck you dumb,” he taunts, pressing his thigh firmer into your pussy, forcing the friction deeper. You moan loud, fingers clawing at his shoulders, the ache building fast, your core pulsing with slick heat.

“Please—Hoonie, you’re insane,” you mumbled, biting his shoulder to conceal your moans, “want you, I’ve always wanted you.”

He chuckles dark despite the way he felt butterflies in his abdomen, cause god, he literally fell for you at first sight, only to truly fall for you with each passing interaction. And now? He wanted to show you exactly how good he can make you feel—leaning in low, shoving your legs wider with his knee, “enough teasing. I want that dripping cunt bare and pretty for me.” His hands hook into your panties, yanking them down rough, the elastic snapping against your thighs before he rips them off completely, tossing them aside. Cool air hits your exposed pussy, lips puffy and glistening, arousal dripping down to the bed sheet. He spreads you wide, knees hooking under yours, thumbs parting your folds to stare at your slick hole, eyes shining, “fuck—look at this messy pussy, begging for my tongue, all fucking mine, yeah?”

Before you can gasp, his head dives between your legs, mouth latching onto your cunt like a starving man, licking a stripe from your hole up to your clit before going down again. His tongue thrusts deep inside, fucking your hole with wet, urgent strokes, lapping up your juices as they flood out. You scream, back bowing off the bed, hands fisting the sheets while he devours you—sucking your clit hard, then plunging back in, tongue curling against your walls, “taste so fucking good, all wet and ready for me,” he groans into your pussy, vibrations humming through you, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw.

“God—”

“No god, just me,” he groaned against you.

He eats you out relentlessly, nose bumping your clit as his tongue spears deeper, slurping noisily at your folds. Fingers join in, two thick ones shoving into your pussy alongside his tongue, stretching you, pumping hard while he bites your labia lightly, tugging. Your hips buck wild, grinding into his face, soaking his chin with your cum, “that’s it, fuck my mouth—come all over it,” he demands, voice muffled but commanding, free hand reaching up to pinch your nipple again, twisting until tears prick your eyes.

“God—feels so good, ah—slow down—”

Pleasure coils tight in your gut, his dominance flooding you—the way he holds you open, owns your body with every rough lick and thrust. He pulls back just enough to spit on your clit, rubbing it in with his thumb before diving back, tongue flicking fast, fingers curling to hit that spot inside that makes you see stars, “stop? Oh baby—you’re mine to fuck, mine to eat, gonna make this pussy squirt before I ram my cock in, yeah? Gonna claim you, make you forget about anyone else who had you before me,” his words hit like slaps, so very dirty and possessive, pushing you closer to the edge.

You bit your lip, trying to rile him up even further, “you sure you can—ah!” 

He slapped your cunt, making you arch off the mattress, making you cry, moans turning to pleas, his mouth working you harder, rougher—sucking your clit like he’s trying to bruise it, tongue fucking your hole until your thighs quake around his head. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, just dominates your pleasure, drawing out every drop of slick, every shudder. The room reverberates with the wet sounds of his feast, your cries echoing, bodies slick with sweat and need. But he’s not done—far from it, his cock grinding against the mattress now, hungry for more than just your taste.

“Sure I can, and I will.” Sunghoon doesn’t remember the last time he felt so feral, perhaps never before, perhaps this was just for you, and he didn’t mind especially when you were spread out so pretty for him, reacting to every bit of him, he fucking loved it—he loved you. He grabs your hips suddenly, dragging you back down the bed with a rough yank, your ass sliding over the sheets as he positions you right where he wants—legs splayed wide, pussy exposed and dripping onto the mattress. His big, veiny hands clamp onto your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh to spread your soaking slit wide open, folds parting with a wet schlick, your clit throbbing in the cool air

“Stay fucking still, baby,” he snarls, eyes locked on your glistening hole, arousal leaking out in thick strings. Before you can catch your breath, his head drops again, mouth crashing against your cunt like he’s starving for it.

His tongue buries deep inside you in one brutal thrust, spearing into your walls, lapping up the fresh flood of juices with savage hunger. He sucks hard on your inner folds, pulling them into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting while his tongue flicks wildly against your entrance. The suction pulls at your core, making your pussy clench around nothing, and you cry out, hips jerking up to grind against his face. Slurping sounds fill the room, obscene and wet, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin raw as he devours you deeper, nose pressing into your clit with every forceful lick. 

“This cunt’s mine, hm? Gonna eat it till you can’t walk, gonna show you how sorry I am,” he mutters right into your slit, the vibration rumbling through your nerves, sending shocks up your spine, “sorry, baby. Sorry my pretty girl—hm, so fucking sorry. You’re mine and I’m not fucking sorry about that.”

You arch off the bed, fingers twisting in his silky hair, pulling him closer even as the intensity borders on too much. His tongue thrusts in and out, curling to scoop out more of your slick, swallowing it down with greedy gulps, sucking your clit between his lips and biting down lightly, making you scream. Pleasure-pain explodes, your thighs trembling around his head, but he pins you harder, dominance radiating from every rough movement—owning your body, forcing ecstasy on you whether you can take it or not.

Without warning, he shoves two thick fingers inside you, knuckles deep in one brutal push, stretching your walls wide around the intrusion. Your pussy grips them tight, sucking him in as he starts pumping fast—curling and twisting, slamming against that spot inside that makes your vision go blur. 

“Fuck, so tight and wet—good fucking girl, stay this way, hm?” He rasps, mouth still latched on your clit, sucking hard while his fingers piston in and out, the wet squelch echoing with every thrust. Juices coat his hand, dripping down to soak the sheets, and you buck wildly, the stretch burning sweet as he adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up more.

“Fucking crazy, what happened to clumsy Hoon?” You breathed. 

“Gone for now.”

His cock throbs hard against your thigh now, the thick length straining through his pants, hot and leaking pre-cum that smears sticky on your skin. He grinds it there deliberately, humping your leg like an animal in heat while he finger-bangs you relentlessly, thumb circling your clit in rough swirls. 

“Feel that? My dick’s aching to split you open, but first I’m gonna make this pussy gush all over my face, need to taste you,” he keeps on mumbling against you, voice muffled against your folds, breath hot and ragged. 

You drown in the raw lust, moans spilling loud and broken from your lips, every nerve firing as he devours you deeper. The pressure builds unbearable, your hips rolling desperately into his mouth, chasing the edge as waves of heat crash through you. Sweat slicks both your bodies, the air thick with the musk of sex—your arousal, his sweat. You claw at the sheets, thighs shaking, the dominance in his grip holding you down as pleasure rips you apart. 

“Can’t anymore, please—”

“Come on, pretty girl, cum on my tongue, let me taste you,” he demands, voice gravelly, tongue flicking your clit one last time before sealing his lips around it, humming low to vibrate through your core.

The orgasm hits you like crazy, your walls clenching hard around his fingers, gushing slick that he laps up hungrily, not missing a drop. You thrash and sob, body convulsing under his relentless ministrations, but even as the aftershocks ripple, he keeps pumping slow now, drawing it out, his cock still grinding insistently against your thigh, and you wondered what happened to the clumsy boy you knew, and why was he a fucking beast in bed for real—not knowing how he wasn’t really sure himself, just drunk in your essence probably? Or too fucking adamant to make you feel good, prove something even though you wanted him regardless. 

“That’s one—now I’m gonna fuck you raw till you beg for me to stop.”

Well—fuck. He was too good at this, cause you were left speechless, staring at how spent he looked, pulling back just enough to meet your dazed eyes, lips shiny with your juices, hunger far from sated, and eyes darker than ever—he looked insanely hot. 

Sunghoon’s gaze holds yours captive, that predatory glint in his eyes sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. His lips curve into a smirk, wicked and knowing, as he wipes a stray bead of your essence from his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. The air between you crackles, thick with the scent of sex and sweat, your breaths mingling in the charged space. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside you, the way they curled just right, coaxing every last tremor from your core. But he’s not done—not by a long shot. That insistent press of his cock against your thigh grows bolder, the heat of it branding your skin, a silent vow of what’s to come.

“Speechless already?” He teases, his voice a husky rumble that vibrates through your chest. He leans in closer, his nose brushing yours in an almost tender gesture, a stark contrast to the feral hunger etched on his face, “I thought you wanted me to show you exactly how much I want you, hm? Will you be satisfied when I’m buried in deep?” His words drip with challenge, laced with that raw affection you’ve always known from him—the clumsy stumbles, the shy smiles—but twisted now into something intoxicatingly dominant.

You swallow hard, your throat dry despite the slick mess between your legs. The room spins a little, your body still humming from the high, but his proximity grounds you, pulls you back into the moment, “Hoonie—” you manage, your voice a breathy whisper, fingers twitching at your sides as if unsure whether to push him away or pull him in. The old him flickers in your mind—the boy who tripped over his own feet during movie nights, who blushed when your hands brushed accidentally. How had he transformed? It was like unleashing a storm you’d never seen brewing.

He chuckles low, the sound vibrating against your collarbone as he trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, savoring the salt of your skin, “yeah? Say my name like that again when I’m fucking you senseless.” 

His hand slides up your thigh, possessive and unhurried, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks—reminders that you’ll feel tomorrow, a secret map of this night. He stopped just for a minute, and you watched him take off his pants and boxers in a go, your eyes widening in process as you watched him undress, the dim lights accentuating every inch of him—even the ones you wondered whether you’ll be able to handle or not.

He hooks your leg over his hip, opening you up further, the tip of his cock now teasing your entrance, slick with your arousal and his own pre-cum. The anticipation builds like a slow fuse, every shallow nudge sending sparks skittering through your nerves.

“Please,” you murmur, the word escaping before you can stop it, your hips arching instinctively toward him. It’s not begging—not yet—but it’s close, the vulnerability cracking through your haze. You want to unravel him too, to see that beast roar, but god, the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing anchoring him—it makes your heart clench alongside the ache low in your belly.

Sunghoon pauses, his breath hitching, eyes softening for a fraction of a second as he searches your face. There’s that tenderness again, peeking through the cracks of his intensity—a silent question, a check-in amid the storm, “you okay, baby?” He asks, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. It’s so him, this blend of fire and care, and it only makes you want him more.

“More than good,” you reply, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair, tugging lightly to bring his mouth back to yours. The kiss starts soft, exploratory, lips brushing like a shared secret, but it ignites quickly, tongues tangling with renewed urgency. You taste yourself on him, musky and intimate, and it fuels the fire, your free hand roaming down his chest, nails scraping over the ridges of his abs.

He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, breaking the kiss to nip at your lower lip, “fuck, Y/N—you drive me crazy. Always have.” With that admission hanging between you, he shifts his hips, the head of his cock pressing insistently now, parting your folds with deliberate slowness. Inch by torturous inch, he sinks into you and it takes a while, leaving the room with reverberations of your moans and groans as you accommodate to his size, the stretch burning sweetly, your walls yielding to his thickness. You gasp against his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sound, but he doesn’t let you hide—his hand cups the back of your neck, forcing your eyes to meet his as he bottoms out, fully sheathed.

“Look at me,” he demands, though his voice wavers with the effort of holding still, letting you adjust, “feel how perfect you are? Made for this—for me.”His forehead rests against yours, breaths syncing in the intimate cocoon of your bodies. The fullness is overwhelming, every pulse of him echoing through you, but it’s the emotion in his stare that hits hardest—the need of wanting you. Lovers entangled in a way that feels inevitable.

You nod, words failing as you clench around him experimentally, drawing a hiss from his lips, “Sunghoon—move. Please, I need—”

“I know what you need, baby,” he cuts in, voice strained, and then he’s moving—slow at first, a languid roll of his hips that grinds against that spot inside you, building the tension like embers catching flame. Each thrust is measured, deep, his cock dragging along your sensitive walls, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tighter with every pass. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling in time with his rhythm.

“Like that?” He murmurs, lips ghosting your ear, his free arm wrapping around your waist to hold you flush against him. The position is intimate, chest to chest, hearts pounding in tandem, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he picks up speed, hips snapping forward with increasing force. The wet sounds of your joining fill the room, obscene and arousing, mingling with your shared moans.

“Yes—god, yes,” you cry out, head falling back as the pleasure mounts, your nails digging into his shoulders for purchase.

“No baby, say my name,” he chuckles when you do so on repeat, and he’s relentless now, the beast fully unleashed, pounding into you with a ferocity that borders on punishing, yet every so often he slows, grinding deep, whispering praises that melt your bones, “so tight—so wet for me. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you, love? Milk my cock until I can’t hold back.”

The words push you higher, your body responding with a flood of heat, slick coating him as you chase the edge. You can feel him everywhere—his sweat-slicked skin sliding against yours, the musky scent of him overwhelming your senses, the way his breath stutters when you squeeze around him. It’s raw, but threaded with that emotional undercurrent, the clumsy boy proving himself not through words, but through this worship of your body.

“Sunghoon, I’m—fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the coil snaps taut. He senses it, angles his hips just right, thumb pressing harder on your clit, and the world fractures. Your orgasm crashes over you, fiercer than the last, walls fluttering wildly around him as you sob his name, body arching in ecstasy. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure radiating from your core in endless waves.

He doesn’t stop, riding it out with you, his thrusts erratic now as your release triggers his own, “that’s it, baby—cum on me. Fuck, you feel so good—”

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep one final time, spilling hot inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt. His body shudders against yours, arms tightening like a vice, as if afraid you’ll slip away in the haze, in awe of how you clenched harder, squirting all over his cock and abdomen, which is something you had never really done before.

For a long moment, you stay locked together, breaths ragged, the afterglow wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He presses soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, murmuring nonsense words of adoration, “you’re incredible,” he breathes.

He watches you staring at him with your pretty eyes, and now, he feels shy, yet not ready enough to part ways, so he settles with hiding his pretty face in your neck, trying to be impossibly close to you, licking the spots he’d marked earlier, making you giggle slightly, his own smile blooming when he hears that, and somehow, everything feels right again. With you playing with his hair, he giggles, and the switch up in his demeanour amuses you, because the fiercely jealous guy who dragged you out of the party had entirely melted back into the sweet boy you’d been missing for weeks.

“You’re like two different people, Hoonie,” you whisper, your fingers gently detangling the dark strands at the nape of his neck.

He hums a low, contended sound that vibrates against your skin. He shifts his weight, wrapping his arms even more securely around your waist to pull you flush against him, as if he’s terrified you might still disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I’m just me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. Slowly, he lifts his head. His cheeks are dusted with a pretty, shy pink flush, and his dark eyes are incredibly soft, completely devoid of the panic or anger that had clouded them earlier. He looks at you with a vulnerability that makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, Y/N,” he confesses, his thumbs gently stroking the sides of your waist. He swallows hard, “I was so desperate for you to see me as a man you could desire, not just some harmless puppy you felt sorry for. I—I actually looked up a guide.”

You blink, your hands stilling in his hair, “a guide?”

Sunghoon groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as if trying to hide from his own embarrassment, “WikiHow,” he mumbles, “how to flirt with a pretty girl, uh—with pictures.”

The room goes completely silent for a second. You stare down at the top of his dark head, your brain struggling to process the information.

“Wait,” you breathe out, the pieces suddenly snapping together in your mind, “the staring contest at the pub during trivia night?”

“Step one: Make eye contact,” he grumbles miserably.

“The voice note asking me to get boba, and then immediately inviting Jake and Jay?”

“I panicked because the guide said not to come on too strong. I used them as human shields.”

A massive, overwhelming swarm of butterflies suddenly erupts in your stomach. The guy who looks like he belongs on a runway, was secretly reading step-by-step internet articles because he was so nervous around you. It is the most endearingly pathetic, incredibly sweet thing you have ever heard in your entire life. You can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up in your chest, bright and genuine.

Sunghoon flinches slightly, his grip tightening, “don’t laugh at me,” he whines, sounding exactly like a babie, “Jake and Heeseung already found it on my laptop and roasted me for it. It was humiliating.”

“Hoonie,” you laugh softly, cupping his face and forcing him to look up at you. His eyes are wide and entirely unguarded, “you didn’t need any of that. The steps didn’t make me like you—you made me like you.”

He searches your face, clearly searching for any trace of pity, but only finding absolute adoration, “really?”

“Really,” you promise, your thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones, “I didn’t fall for the guy trying to be a smooth, mysterious flirt. I fell for the guy who fought the doorframe and lost, the guy who shared his umbrella in the rain, and the guy who sang Disney songs with me in the park. You never needed a guide, Sunghoon, I wanted you.”

A beautiful, relieved smile breaks across his face, the one that reaches his eyes and shows off his cute fangs. He leans into your touch, completely melting into your space, “I like you so much it makes my brain short-circuit,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, “I’m entirely, hopelessly down bad for you, Y/N.”

“I really really like you too, you puppy,” you whisper, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips as he whined, making your eyes wide, “oh you’re into that—”

“Uh—i’ll get you some water,” he panicked, getting up, cock slipping out of you, and entirely forgetting about the clothes sprawled all over the floor, which made him yelp as he fell down. 

You laughed freely, cause gosh, you really were falling for this man. Grabbing his leather jacket, you wore it as he tried to hide himself with embarrassment. It was a stupid choice to get up when your legs were not stable, because it resulted in you wobbling and falling right over hoon, the jacket doing nothing to hide your body, pressed against his so perfectly. Now, it was his turn to chuckle as he grabbed a strand of your hair, kissing it sweetly.

“Damn, was i that good?” He smirked, clearly loving the way you were hiding your face in his neck now.

“Oh shut up, puppy,” you mumbled, and he held on to you tighter.

“Well—this puppy isn’t done with you. C’mon baby, let me help you shower.”

Safe to say, you did much more than just showering, and even though exhaustion took over, sleep wasn’t something you entertained, pecking each other sweetly all night, acting clingier than ever, and honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

MEANWHILE:

Jay rattled the handle one more time, putting his shoulder into it just to be absolutely sure. He slowly turned his head to look at Jake and Heeseung in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway.

“He locked it,” Jay said, his voice completely flat. 

Jake pressed his forehead against the heavy wood door, looking genuinely heartbroken, “you’ve got to be kidding me—tell me you’re kidding. My bed is in there, Jay, my toothbrush, my entire life.”

“I don’t care about your toothbrush, Jake,” Jay snapped, rubbing his temples, “I care about the fact that we are currently homeless because Sunghoon final-fucking-ly figured out how to flirt.”

Heeseung didn’t even argue, he had already accepted his fate, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the sky, “I planned this,” I muttered, “I planned the whole party with Beomgyu, and my reward is the floor.”

Down the hall, Jungwon and Karina stepped out, stopping dead in their tracks as they took in the tragic scene. Jungwon let out a loud snort, crossing his arms, “wow, look at this sad display. You guys look pathetic.”

Heeseung immediately sat up, he scrambled over to Karina, looking up at her with giant, desperate eyes, “Karina please, have mercy.”

Karina took a step back, “what are you doing?”

“Y/N’s bed is empty,” Heeseung pleaded, “i’m a great houseguest. I will literally buy your coffee for a week—do not leave me out here in the hallway with them.”

Karina looked down at Heeseung, then over at Jay and Jake, who were staring at her like abandoned stray dogs. She let out a long, suffering sigh, “fine, get up. Heeseung, you can take Y/N’s bed. But just you.”

“Bless you,” Heeseung whispered, jumping up and sprinting before she could change her mind.

Jungwon shook his head as they all made your way towards their dorm, looking entirely too amused as he walked over to unlock his own bedroom door down the hall, “well, good luck on the carpet, you two. Build a fort or something.”

He turned the key and pushed his door open. But the second the lock clicked, Jay and Jake exchanged a single, desperate look. Pure survival instincts kicked in, and no words were needed. Before Jungwon could even step inside, Jay and Jake shoved past him, rushing into the room like they were escaping a burning building.

“Hey! What the—” Jungwon yelled, spinning around.

It was too late. Jake was already laid across Jungwon’s mattress like a starfish, pulling the duvet up to his chin, while Jay wedged himself against the wall side of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing heavily to fake being asleep.

“You can’t kick us out!” Jake screamed, hair disheveled. 

“I’m asleep!” Jay announced loudly, “so deep in sleep.”

Jungwon stood in the doorway of his own bedroom, staring at the two fully grown men currently occupying his mattress. He looked at Jake’s death grip on the blanket. He looked at Jay, who was very clearly peeking with one eye. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.

Jungwon just let out a long, deeply exhausted sigh, slowly reaching over and grabbing a single throw pillow off his desk chair, and turned on his heel.

“I hate all of you,” Jungwon muttered flatly, dragging his feet out into the living room to sleep on the couch.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

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Dividers by @chrisssiren | images 1, 2 and 3

°˖➴ .ᐟ addie ── OK so i'd like to start off with saying last i checked this fic had 15k words...and then suddenly it has 24k... idk what happened honestly . but i ended up LOVING writing this sunghoon bc in my eyes he's a hot, clumsy dork <3 this is my first time ever writing smut so i am so so sorry if it sucks absolute booty hole bc it truly had me spinning in circles...i have so much respect for smut authors bc damn . anyways i hope u guys like, pls let me know what u think & also ty ronnie per usual for beta reading & encouraging me to explore out of my comfort zone heh. HOPE U ALL ENJOY :')

they say you never forget your first.

your first kiss. your first failing grade. your first crush. your first pet’s name.

for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly? he kind of wishes he could.

scratch that—he desperately wishes he could. then he wishes he could self-implode. then, he wishes he could rewind time and never agree to play catch with jay in the first place.

not to be dramatic or anything. but if you had been responsible for sending a football flying at full speed straight into someone’s face, you’d probably want to self-implode too.

and that’s exactly what happens.

it’s a quiet day. a peaceful one, almost. the kind of the day that feels soft around the edges, where nothing’s too bright, too loud, or too complicated. the one that almost makes sunghoon feel like simply a background character in the movie of his own life, which he doesn’t entirely mind either.

sunghoon’s morning starts like most of his mornings do—half productive, half running on pure autopilot. he wakes up to his alarm on time (a small miracle), beats jay to their shared bathroom before he can claim it for his thirty minute long skincare routine (a big miracle), and grabs a granola bar from the kitchen cabinet. said cabinet, by the way, is home to an endlessly growing collection of half-eaten snacks—chips that have gone soft, instant ramen cups with weird flavors no one remembers buying, and a mystery jar of peanut butter that’s been there since move in day.

sunghoon pays half attention in his 9AM statistics lecture (which is about as much as anyone can ask from him on a monday morning), and manages to grab his favorite sandwich from the café before they run out for the day. the café lady even remembers his name this time (although she calls him ‘sungoon’, which he lets slide because she gives him extra pickles).

it’s all wonderfully, boringly normal.

and for sunghoon, that’s saying something.

because his life isn’t exactly filled with chaos—he’s not that guy. but he does have a habit of stumbling into moments that feel like they were written by a sitcom writer and he’s the character created solely for the purpose of comedic relief.

like the time he ran into and tripped over the campus mascot in front of an entire basketball game. or the time he waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him and then had to commit to pretending he actually did know them. or the time he tried to flirt with a girl at a bookstore and accidentally knocked over an entire table of self-help books on himself.

you get the idea.

still, today feels normal. stable, predictable.

until jay shows up.

jay appears in sunghoon’s peripheral vision exactly how sunghoon predicted he would—hair sticking up in three different directions, wearing an oversized hoodie that may or may not be his sleep shirt, a cup of iced coffee in one hand even though it’s four in the afternoon and, for some reason, a football in the other.

sunghoon blinks up at him from his table in the campus courtyard. there’s an empty sandwich container on one side of him, a half-finished math sheet on the other, and that quiet kind of peace that only comes when you’re okay with the world not doing anything particularly interesting.

jay park ruins that peace immediately.

“what’s that for?” sunghoon asks, nodding at the football in jay’s right hand.

jay shrugs, sipping his coffee before putting it down next to sunghoon’s empty sandwich container. “found it on my way here. thought it’d be fun.”

fun.

sunghoon raises an eyebrow. that’s a bold word coming from jay—jay park, a business major who considers waking up before noon an accomplishment and whose idea of cardio is sprinting into lecture late.

still, sunghoon doesn’t judge. he’s learned his lesson about athletic optimism. the summer he was nine, he tried out for the neighborhood little league baseball team with nothing but poor hand-eye coordination and a dream. one swing, one very unlucky coach, and one black eye later, and sunghoon retired early from all things sports related.

which should’ve been foreshadowing in itself.

sunghoon’s first mistake is catching the football when jay tosses it at him. his second is not immediately throwing it back and walking away.

because somehow, between the caffeine in jay’s bloodstream and sunghoon’s chronic inability to say no to stupid ideas—five minutes later they’re standing on opposite sides of the courtyard, tossing the football lazily back and forth.

and it becomes easy, repetitive. jay’s talking about something mid-throw, probably the new band he’s into or some conspiracy theory about the campus squirrels. but sunghoon’s not really listening, not really. he’s too focused on the rhythm. catch, step, throw. catch, step, throw. it’s almost meditative.

until it isn’t.

because somewhere across the courtyard that smells like grass and cheap coffee, laughter suddenly carries through the air—a bright, unfamiliar kind of laugh that feels like home anyways and that makes sunghoon’s head instinctively turn.

and in that same half-second, jay’s voice calls out.

“yo, heads up!”

sunghoon turns back just in time to see the football not in his own hands anymore.

and it’s definitely not heading towards jay either.

it’s heading towards you.

and before he could do anything about it—the ball collides with your face with an impact so loud that the entire school might as well have witnessed it.

“oh my god,” jay whispers.

“oh my god,” sunghoon repeats under his breath.

“oh my god,” you’re gasping, clutching your nose and stumbling back before you can catch yourself, your butt hitting the grass.

sunghoon’s stunned for a second, arms halfway raised, eyes flickering between you and jay and the football. he runs through a mental list of things that could maybe, possibly, reverse the entire past twenty minutes of the disaster that is his life (spoiler: there aren’t any).

and then he’s moving before he even realizes it, jogging over with wide eyes and a growing pit of dread in his stomach.

“oh my god—are you okay? did i—shit—is your nose broken?” the words fall out of his mouth in one frantic breath as he crouches beside you.

you hand is still pressed against your face as you blink up at the figure above you, your vision disorientated.

and when your eyes finally focus—the face that greets you is devastatingly pretty.

which would be fine under any other circumstance. except for the fact that this is the face of a man who literally just assaulted you via sports equipment.

and unfortunately for sunghoon, the face that greets him is just as devastatingly pretty.

which would also be fine…under any other circumstance.

because sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he’s had his fair share of crushes that lasted two weeks but ended in radio silence. he knows how to flirt when he needs to, knows how to make a girl laugh, knows what kind of compliment lands without sounding weird. he’s even good at the little things—opening doors, letting the girl have the booth side of the table, texting back on time but not too soon, pretending to like matcha even though it tastes like grass to him.

the problem is never getting their attention. he’s grown up around enough of his mom’s friends cooing at him during dinner parties—‘your son is so handsome!’ ‘what did you eat during your pregnancy to get a face like that?’— that he’s well aware he’s got at least one thing working in his favor. so no, getting attention isn’t the issue.

it’s keeping it.

because sunghoon is the kind of guy who accidentally ghosts first. not on purpose, he just forgets. he gets too caught up in assignments, or chores, or reorganizing his t-shirt collection by color again (even though it’s really only three colors: black, white, and a slightly lighter black). he’s terrible at balancing the whole dating thing and college thing and not knocking over self-help book displays in public thing.

and now, apparently, not breaking someone’s nose.

but right now, looking at you—bloodied nose, wide eyes, planted in wet grass and probably mildly concussed—sunghoon can’t think about any of that.

because, somehow, even like this, maybe even especially like this, he thinks you’re the prettiest person he’s ever seen.

which is horrifying.

sunghoon wants to dig a hole right then and there and crawl inside. maybe build a small underground home, maybe live out the rest of his days as a mole person.

“i—i’m so sorry. i swear, it was an accident—he—jay was supposed to catch it—”

that’s when jay conveniently shows up right behind him, a hand lifting up in betrayal, “bro, you looked away—”

“i was distracted—”

“by what?”

sunghoon freezes. his brain short-circuits, because the answer is, unfortunately, you.

he opens his mouth. freezes. clears his throat. tries again. “by…a…bird?”

you finally speak up from your spot on the ground, your head going back and forth at the two bickering guys through your watery eyes, “…a bird.”

“yeah,” sunghoon says, shrugging like this is an everyday conversation. “it was…really big.”

there’s a slight beat of silence where even jay looks like he feels pity for his best friend. then, you squint at him, tilting your head slightly.

“wait—” you start, voice still a little nasally. “you look familiar. have we met before?”

sunghoon stiffens. his entire life flashes before his eyes.

have you met before? god, please not the self-help book incident. or worse—not the person he accidentally waved to thinking it was someone he knew.

he feels his stomach drop. maybe it’s neither. maybe it’s both.

and maybe he should just crawl into the earth now and never come back up.

“that would be park sunghoon,” a new voice cuts in.

you turn your head towards the sound, relief instantly washing over your face when you see the tall boy approaching—baseball cap on backwards, plastic cup of boba in one hand, and a very mild look of concern on his face.

“jake.”

“y/n.” jake’s eyes flick to the scene in front of him: you, still clutching your nose; sunghoon, crouched nearby with a look only a guilty perpetrator could possess; and jay, standing behind him and sipping his coffee like he’s getting free entertainment (and he is).

“…i leave you alone for two minutes,” jake starts flatly, “and you’ve already managed to get injured by my friends.”

“accidentally injured,” jay corrects pointedly and very much unhelpfully.

jake ignores him. “he lives in our building, that’s probably where you’ve seen him.” he then gestures vaguely to both sunghoon and jay with the drink in his hand. “they both do. down the hall from us.”

he reaches down and helps you to your feet in one smooth pull, steadying you by the elbow before turning to the boys. “y/n, meet sunghoon and jay—two of my closest friends since high school, unfortunately. and also unfortunately, our neighbors.”

then he glances back at the pair, who now stand side by side in an awkward pose of guilt and discomfort. “and sunghoon and jay, meet y/n—my new roommate. remember? i told you guys she transferred here a few days ago. i was coming over to introduce you guys but…looks like you beat me to it.”

sunghoon makes a noise. not a normal human noise. a noise that lands somewhere between a startled choke, squeak, and what he thinks a goose being lightly stepped on would sound like. 

because no—he absolutely does not remember jake telling him this. because jake definitely mentioned it, but probably in the middle of a league match when sunghoon was functioning at ten percent brain capacity, half-listening while trying not to die in-game for the fifteenth time:

“new roommate, got it,” he had probably replied at the time, while actually registering none of it.

and now here you are. in front of him. because of course the universe would make you one of his closest friend’s roommate. of course the prettiest girl he’s ever accidentally assaulted with a football now lives ten doors down.

he hovers, like he wants to say something else—maybe something smooth so you think he’s charming, maybe an actual apology so you think he’s not an asshole with awful coordination. but his brain offers him nothing but static.

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. nothing.

he’s spiraling. he wants to evaporate. he wants to scream. but instead of doing any of these things, sunghoon does what any rational, socially competent person would do.

he sticks out his hand. straight. stiff. right in front of you. doesn’t say a word.

you blink. you glance down at it. then back up at him. you squint your eyes past the vision of your other hand still clutching your face, looking at him as if trying to puzzle something together. 

still, with your free hand, you eventually reach forward and give his a small, polite shake. his palm is warm, a little clammy, and you’re pretty sure you can feel him holding his breath the entire time. 

“nice to meet you, park sunghoon,” your voice small but with something else. 

the way his full name rolls off your tongue is smooth, deliberate. just on the edge of playful, but there’s something else beneath it. he can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or sincerity. maybe both. maybe you’re the kind of person who could ruin him with a smile and then apologize while doing it.

either way, it sticks. because it shouldn’t sound like that. like a challenge. like a secret he’s suddenly desperate to learn. and the worst part of it all? he likes it.

and for a second, everything else is tuned out—the sound of the commotion around campus, the breeze rustling the leaves around him, even jay’s straw scraping against the remaining ice in his cup—all sunghoon can focus on is the faint curve of your lips when you say his name. it hits him somewhere low in his gut. strange and foreign and sweet. sweet in a way that could be addicting if sunghoon isn’t careful.

and honestly, he’s not good with things that make him feel like this. because, sunghoon? sunghoon is far from careful. he’s clumsy in life—can’t keep his balance, can’t hold his composure, can’t even throw a football without committing mild assault.

and now he can’t think straight either.

“—and jay,” you nod towards jay, who lifts his now empty coffee cup in a small wave, “but i think i should probably go to the clinic or something.”

jake nudges you gently, which snaps sunghoon out of whatever trance he was sinking into, “yeah. let’s get you checked out before you lose your nose.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and definitely not a rational, socially competent person—the best he could manage is a crooked, lopsided smile and a stiff little wave as you turn to go.

you start walking, jake talking quietly beside you, but before you’re too far away, you glance back over your shoulder. and it’s quick, half a second at most—but sunghoons catches it.

a faint smile. the faintest. and he can’t tell if it’s teasing, curious, or dangerous. maybe all three.

either way, it stays with him and he freezes, watching you disappear around the corner, his heartbeat now annoyingly loud in his chest. and he doesn’t know what to think of it. because, again, sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he just doesn’t think he’s ever felt this before. but, to be fair, it’s not everyday you accidentally potentially break the nose of the prettiest-girl-you’ve-seen-turned-neighbor before.

“that…was amazing.” jay breaks sunghoon out of his mental spiral, nudging sunghoon’s arm with his own elbow, smirking.

sunghoon doesn’t answer. he’s too busy replaying every second in his head—the way your hand felt, the way you said his name, the way you threw that half-smile over your shoulder.

and somehow, some way, sunghoon’s wonderfully boring day had accidentally become something else entirely.

and that was the first time park sunghoon sees you.

the second time he sees you, he almost forgets about the entire football fiasco, honestly.

not because it’s anything personal against you. god, no.

but because he remembers something his therapist once said. something about how, apparently, if a memory is painful enough, sometimes the best thing to do is just…repress it. file it away. pretend it never happened altogether.

which, in hindsight, is probably, most definitely, not the best way to handle one’s crippling emotions. especially not crippling emotions involving a girl who looks like the kind of person that keeps you up at night after only exchanging a solid ten (10) words.

but to be fair, sunghoon’s therapist is also a twenty-something year old business major who listens to ‘character development’ podcasts every morning and calls it experience.

so yeah. his therapist is jay park.

which explains why the memory of meeting you now lives in the deepest and darkest corners of sunghoon’s mind—right between the mascot-tripping incident and the little league baseball trauma.

but again—sunghoon has the chronic inability to say no. especially to jay. and you’d think, after years of friendship, he’d know better.

he does not.

which is how he ends up here—standing in the middle of a frat house that’s definitely seen better days, clutching a red solo cup filled with what jay insists is just ginger ale, and silently wondering how to sneak out without anyone noticing.

because parties were never really sunghoon’s thing.

not only because he’s a self-proclaimed introvert. but because they usually involve three things: 1) loud music that usually consists of mediocre 2000s pop songs all mashed up together by a frat brother whose side gig is dj-ing, 2) sticky floors from mysterious substances that he refuses to think about, and 3) some guy named ni-ki who, for reasons unknown to science, keeps losing his left shoe at every function and makes it everyone else’s problem.

or all of the above. usually all of the above.

but now sunghoon’s too many sips deep into his maybe-not-ginger-ale mystery drink, with the floorboards vibrating underneath him, and the crowd of bodies around him moving in an off-beat rhythm to some one direction song.

he also thinks the room might be spinning, but he’s not sure if that’s from the strobing lights flickering across the ceiling or because he accidentally downed half of whatever this drink actually is. he should probably stop. he should definitely stop.

but before he can even gather his thoughts to make any semi-rational decision a semi-drunk person could make, jay shows up and slaps him on the shoulder with the force of a man who’s had one too many more than sunghoon has.

“dude,” jay shouts over the music, leaning in and nodding his head toward the other end of the room. “don’t look now, but—”

which is precisely the kind of sentence that makes sunghoon immediately look now.

and there you are.

you’re across the room, leaning casually against the wall, laughing at whatever jake just said beside you. your head’s tilted back, cup in hand, a strand of hair falling over your face, and sunghoon nearly forgets to breathe.

and you’re wearing exactly what’s going to keep him up tonight. and so, of course, he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

sunghoon’s pretty sure the air conditioning in this place stopped working about an hour ago, but the room suddenly feels suffocating, sweat prickling at the back of his neck and the crowd blurs into a backdrop, the music fading to a distance. all he can see is the curve of your mouth when you laugh—fully, invitingly, the kind that pulls a low heat to his gut—and the way your fingers twist a loose strand of hair absentmindedly, completely unaware of how it draws him in.

it’s not fair. you’re supposed to be a one-time occurrence. the one-time girl he accidentally maimed with a football and might awkwardly bump into while checking mail or when he comes over to visit jake—not someone who looks like she belongs in every dream he’s going to have for the next six months.

and sunghoon hasn’t even had a real first kiss, technically—unless you count that tragedy of spin-the-bottle in the tenth grade where he accidentally bit a girl’s lip and left her mortified and bloody—but all of the sudden, his mind floods with foreign, forbidden thoughts he really shouldn’t entertain. thoughts of closing the distance, backing you against that wall, his hands on your waist, how your lips would part under his, the faint taste of whatever you’re drinking mixing with his, your laughter turning into something heavier, needier. the way your body might arch into him, the soft gasps you’d make if his mouth trailed lower—god, it’s wrong, it’s too much, and sunghoon tries his hardest to veer his thoughts elsewhere. 

but because sunghoon is everything except subtle, jay follows his line of sight and smirks immediately.

“oh god,” jay warns, but the intrigued look on his face says otherwise. “you’re thinking about going over there, aren’t you?”

sunghoon freezes before subtly rolling his eyes, running a hand through his hair, “i just—i should apologize. right? like, properly. you know, be mature about it.”

jay gives a look despite the a playful tone in his slurred voice, “i’m just saying. she might walk away with a new broken bone if you do.”

sunghoon exhales, straightens up, takes a gulp of his drink and coughs from the burn—yeah, definitely not ginger ale. “statistically, lightning can’t strike twice.”

jay blinks. “how the hell are you quoting statistics while drunk?”

“because i’m not,” sunghoon says pointedly, slapping his own cheek once as if that’ll magically sober him up. and he thinks he’s at least…fifty percent sober. hopefully. “see? totally fine.”

he doesn’t stick around to hear whatever jay’s response is—because the second he notices jake disappearing into the kitchen, he’s already weaving through the crowd, heart pounding, brain screaming at him to turn around, and feet doing exactly the opposite.

you notice him before he even reaches you. there’s a flicker of surprise on your face, but it fades just as quickly—shifting into something that looks like amusement. like you were expecting this. like you’d been waiting for him to show up eventually.

“the park sunghoon,” you say once he’s close enough to hear you over the music. and when he is, the space between you feels heavy—maybe it’s from the heat of the room, maybe from the scent of alcohol and sweat. maybe from something else entirely. “i didn’t take you as a party person.”

sunghoon freezes mid-step.

because he thought he knew what he was going to say to you once he got here. maybe something clever, maybe something smooth. but your tone—the teasing ease of it, the way his name sounds in your mouth—it throws him off completely.

his fingers tighten around his cup and he takes another sip, pretending to look casual and not because he suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. then he lets out a laugh—nervous, stupid, a little too loud.

“i’m usually not,” he manages, trying to sound smooth as he leans a shoulder against the wall beside you. “but jay can be persuasive.”

a small smirk plays at the corner of your lips. “mmm. and the drink?”

sunghoon follows your gaze down to the red solo cup in his hand.

“jay told me it was ginger ale.”

you don’t say anything for a second. then, you let out another hum, reaching out before he can react and taking the cup straight from his hands.

you take a slow sip, your eyes trained on his own over the rim of his cup. it’s deliberate. it’s long. it’s dangerous. and he feels every. second. of it.

you lower the cup, swallow, then make a face. “yeah. definitely not ginger ale.”

sunghoon laughs, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, figures.”

a teasing smile tugs at your lips, “do you do everything jay tells you to?”

his eyes widen immediately. “what? no! no—no, definitely not.”

“uh huh,” you glance past him to where jay’s pretending not to watch the two of you from across the room. very badly. “did he tell you to come over here?”

sunghoon turns, spots jay’s unsubtle wave, and groans. “no, actually. i came over all on my own, i’ll have you know.”

“oh yeah?” you tilt your head, stepping just a little closer—close enough for him to catch the faint citrus of your perfume. “and why’s that, sunghoon?”

he opens his mouth, ready with something about apologizing again, but the words stall.

because here you are. up close. and you’re a little overwhelming—eyes steady, posture loose, smile daring. he thinks he can feel his pulse in his ears.

“because…uh—” sunghoon stops, clears his throat, then smirks, trying to look steadier than his heart feels. “i figured if i’m gonna cause another accident tonight, i should probably make sure it’s worth it.”

you laugh, and he swears it’s louder than the music, “smooth recovery.”

“i’m a fast learner.”

“from jay?”

he grins. “definitely not.”

and the way you smile at that—the slow, curious curve of it—makes him realize he’s in trouble. the kind of trouble he doesn’t exactly want to walk away from.

there’s a beat where neither of you say anything. the music continues to thump all around him, the lights flash across your face in a dizzy rhythm that makes sunghoon’s stomach flip, and you’re standing close enough now that he can smell the faint scent of your citrus perfume and feel the heat from your arm whenever you shift slightly closer to hear him over the music.

and god, it’s suddenly very, very hard to think straight again.

he clears his throat. “anyway. i, uh—i wanted to apologize too. properly, you know. for your nose. for ruining your face—i mean, not that your face is ruined! it’s a great face. a perfect face. or, maybe not perfect-perfect, but y’know, structurally sound—”

sunghoon stops. he thinks he’s never hated himself, alcohol, and maybe a little bit of jay more than he does in this moment.

you stare at him for a long second, lips pressed together like you’re biting back a laugh. then, slowly, the teasing smirk on your face softens into something warmer, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“sunghoon,” you say, his name coming out softer this time. “how about we just start over?”

the noise of the party tunes out again. it’s like the world narrowed down to just you, him, and the faint sound of ‘has anyone seen my left shoe?’ somewhere in the background.

“yeah,” sunghoon nods a little, nervous and hopeful all at once, his mouth twitching into an awkward smile. “yeah, i’d really like that.”

and then the conversation lulls into something easy after that. something comfortable. he manages to land a joke that makes you laugh, he learns your major, how you ended up as jake’s roommate—which spirals into a story about being cousins with his last roommate, lee heeseung, who graduated last semester and now moved onto bigger and better things in the adult world. and by bigger and better, we mean he graduated with a biology degree but now works for a music label and spends all his time obsessing over his co-worker-turned-girlfriend.

and everything feels good. it’s casual. it’s normal.

sunghoon feels like he’s floating—like he’s actually managing to exist around you without saying anything stupid about bones or noses or facial structures.

everything is just fine.

until it suddenly isn’t.

because when you turn away to refill your cup, sunghoon straightens up from the wall and blinks. once, twice. the lights all smear together in red and gold and blue. the floor tilts, or maybe he does. either way, his vision sways, just a little, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his head.

and that’s when it hits him. 

oh. oh no.

sunghoon is drunk.

the realization hits him at the same moment you turn back towards him.

your hair catches the light as you move, and your lips part—he can see you saying something, your mouth forming the beginning of a smile—but all sunghoon can focus on is trying his very best to look composed. his fingers dig into the side of the table next to him, the room ripples, the floor hums under his feet.

he blinks hard. again. and again, like that’s somehow going to stop the slow spin that’s started in his vision. it doesn’t. his heartbeat trips over itself. there’s too much heat in the room, too much sound pressing at the back of his skull, too much you in front of him.

“would you want to—i don’t know, maybe one day—”

sunghoon doesn’t hear the rest of your sentence. because suddenly his entire body stiffens. the nausea rises sharp and fast, his breath catches, and his face drops. and you barely have a second to register his expression before he’s leaning forward when—

it happens.

the end to park sunghoon’s dignity.

the music doesn’t stop. the lights don’t even flicker. but for sunghoon, the world falls completely silent as he realizes, in a slow motion way that only seem to exist in horror movies, that he’s just thrown up all over your shoes.

you stare down at your shoes, blinking.

sunghoon stares down at your shoes, horrified.

the silence between you stretches, thick and terrible. somewhere in the background, one direction is still playing, jay is shaking his head in a kind of not-surprised disappointment, and someone trips over a single, abandoned left shoe.

“oh my god,” sunghoon whispers, voice small and hoarse as he stares at the pile of him now covering your shoes. “oh my god.”

he then looks up at you, all glassy-eyed and pale, half-drunk but one hundred percent mortified, “i am so sorry—i swear, i didn’t—your shoes—”

you look down at your shoes again, then back at him, and then close your eyes slowly, not saying anything.

“—i promise i’m not like this normally,” he blurts out, words slurring together. “i—oh my god, i’m so sorry—”

sunghoon sways slightly where he stands, still holding the table for balance, his face stuck in the kind of panic that belongs to someone who’s guilty.

jake appears just in time, two cups in hand, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the scene in front of him.

“…what the hell,” jake says flatly, eyes darting between you, your shoes, and the man responsible.

and sunghoon can’t even look up. his hand is still clamped over his mouth, palm slightly damp, stomach twisting, throat burning, and mind praying that everyone else around them is drunk enough to ignore the situation.

he risks a glance. immediate regret.

your shoes, the mess, the smell, the whole awful, lingering reality of what he’s done. the sight alone is enough to make sunghoon sway again. his brain, fuzzy and slow, still tries to find the words to form an apology that’s at least fifty percent not pathetic.

you then inhale. “yeah,” you say finally, your voice weirdly calm for someone whose shoes had just been absolutely ruined. “i…i think i’m just gonna go home.”

your voice is quiet, barely above the music, but somehow, it cuts through everything. the pounding bass. the off key singing of the crowd. the ringing in sunghoon’s ears. it’s all he can hear.

jake sighs, glancing between the two of you. “yeah. yeah, that’s probably smart. let’s go.”

he gives sunghoon a pitying look—the kind you give a guy when you’re stuck in between both sides of a battle—before turning to guide you toward the door.

sunghoon still doesn’t move. he just stands there, stuck, heartbeat hammering behind his ribs, in his head, everywhere. his mouth opens like he might say something—apologize again, call out your name, beg the floor to swallow him whole. but nothing comes out.

so he just watches. watches the back of your head disappear into the crowd. watches jake’s hand settle lightly on your shoulder. watches the door close behind you.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face when jay appears beside him. he’s holding a now half-empty cup, the look on his face somewhere between pity and amusement.

“…i told you you were drunk.”

sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“shut up.”

jay doesn’t. instead, he hums, “and i told you not to come over.”

sunghoon thunks his head against the wall behind him, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“please stop talking.”

and that was the second time park sunghoon sees you.

the next and third time sunghoon sees you, he knows it’s coming.

sunghoon knew he was going to see you because he’s an observant guy. yes, he sits in the back of class and only speaks when spoken to, but he notices the little things.

like how the guy two seats to his left keeps a family-sized bag of hot cheetos inside his backpack and thinks no one notices. or how the girl in the third row plays papa’s freezeria on her laptop every single lecture, unbothered by the fact that the professor is talking about reaction mechanisms right in front of her.

and how the new girl—the pretty one who showed up one random day with the shiny hair and the voice that always knows the right answers—always gets there five minutes early and sits in the first row. aka, you.

sunghoon has always noticed you.

so yeah, he knew he was going to see you today. chemistry lab is predictable like that. but he didn’t think it was going to be like this—you coming in late, hair slightly frazzled but still somehow shiny, breath just a little uneven from probably speed walking across campus, cheeks warm with the rush of someone running late, eyes scanning the room for an open seat.

because you are never late. but the universe has a weird sense of humor sometimes. and today, it decided to silence your morning alarm all on its own (you smacked it in your sleep and gave yourself twenty-too-many-minutes of snooze time), cut off your shower halfway through rinsing out your conditioner, and let the vending machine eat your last dollar without giving you your granola bar.

so the sight of you hesitating in the doorway makes the entire energy of the room shift just a little for sunghoon. he watches you mumble a quiet apology to your professor before your eyes quickly scan the room for an empty seat. and then his heart stalls for one horrifying second.

because he swears he can hear the universe laughing. laughing at the fact that the only seat available in the entire room…just so happens to be the one next to park sunghoon.

sunghoon, who immediately pretends to be incredibly invested in the periodic table projected on the side wall.

sunghoon, who is currently praying that someone will miraculously volunteer as tribute and take the empty chair beside him out of nowhere. no one does.

sunghoon, who tries his very best to quietly will himself invisible (he has never succeeded at this before. he does not succeed now).

your eyes land on the seat. then on him. and your expression does this tiny thing—something between oh! and oh…and something else that sunghoon cannot, and probably should not, interpret for the sake of his emotional stability.

then, with a small flash of hesitation and what seems like acceptance, you make your way over.

“hey…sunghoon,” you say, voice soft but steady as you pull out the chair.

sunghoon turns his head just slightly, offering you a nervous half smile that feels about three seconds away from collapsing into a full panic.

“hey,” he manages, voice a little too quiet, a little too soft. you slide into the seat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and the faint citrus scent of you hits him like déjà vu and disaster rolled into one. and because it completely throws him off, he doesn’t even realize what he says next until the words are already out, “so how was your weekend?”

and then he freezes.

so do you. you are mid-bag-unzip. there is a soft still in the air as his words hang in between you two. how was your weekend.

the weekend where he vomited all over you.

sunghoon looks away and mentally slams his head into the table. maybe you didn’t hear him. or maybe he’s hallucinating and didn’t actually say that. or maybe he did actually say that and you’ll pretend it didn’t happen out of pity for him.

none of that happens.

because, eventually, you turn to him fully, a small smile on your face as you casually shrug, “oh, it was good!”

sunghoon stops for a second. he stares. okay. okay, good. maybe we’re safe. maybe this is forgiveness, maybe this is grace.

“—until i had to throw away my favorite pair of shoes.”

and there. it. is.

sunghoon thinks he dies. just a little. or a lot, internally. his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the pen in his hand so hard he swears the plastic actually creaks.

“yeah, um. that’s…fair,” he says back, but it comes out more like a croak. “listen, i’m really—”

“it’s really okay, sunghoon,” your voice interrupts as you tap your pen on the notebook, the tone light and casual and teasing—not at all the sound of someone who recently got assaulted by the same guy twice in the past week. “i mean, i think you just really owe me now, though.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap open. he glances over to look you and—

you don’t look mad. you don’t sound mad. if anything, you look…amused, really. and the tilt in your voice just now sounded almost fond, even. which is objectively worse for sunghoon’s emotional well-being.

sunghoon tries to speak. tries to be cool, collected, charming, normal. tries to ignore the fact that the pretty new girl with shiny hair that usually sits five rows ahead of him is currently still talking to him after he messed up with her twice.

“i—yeah—yes. absolutely. i will. i promise—”

and sunghoon literally does not know what he’s promising, nor does his mind give him the chance to find the words before the professor’s voice cuts through the room, “alright everyone. today’s experiment will be done in pairs. your partner will be the person you’re currently sharing a lab bench with.”

there’s a beat of silence.

because, again, the universe has a very weird sense of humor.

then, a soft inhale. and sunghoon isn’t even entirely sure if it came from him or from you. could be both.

“…so,” you start, turning slightly toward him just enough that your shoulder brushes his, “lab partners?”

and approximately within the next two seconds, park sunghoon goes through all five stages of grief:

denial — no. surely not. she means across the lab bench. diagonally. someone else. fate would never be this cruel to me.

anger — this is jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. why did he convince me to go to that party. why does alcohol exist. this is all jay’s fault.

bargaining — if the universe lets me get through this without causing any physical harm, i will donate to charity. i will recycle properly. i will stop ignoring mom’s text messages. 

depression — i am going to die. right here. in a room that smells faintly of citrus (you), acetone (lab), and sweat (me).

acceptance — okay. okay. we got this. we persevere.

sunghoon swallows. clears his throat, once, then twice. but his voice still cracks like a thirteen year old boy when he turns to you, “lab partners.”

you give a small smile. it’s not mocking, it’s not pitying. just…warm. like you know exactly how nervous he is. like you know how sorry he is. like you aren’t holding the past two disasters against him at all. and sunghoon will take it. he’ll take whatever he can get.

you both stand and begin gathering equipment from the front bench—beakers, pipettes, safety goggles that look like they were designed by someone who has never seen a human face in their entire life.

so when sunghoon returns to the table and tries to put them on, it’s all a tragic scene—the strap catches, the goggles twist, his hair gets stuck. and through it all, you watch with a smile playing at your lips, but you don’t laugh. instead, you step closer, simply tilting your head.

“here,” you murmur, your voice gentle in a way that makes something inside sunghoon want to claw at his own skin. your hands lift, slow and careful, fingers sliding lightly into his hair as you adjust the straps behind his head.

“bend down a bit,” you say, struggling to reach his height, and sunghoon does what he’s told. you finish adjusting the goggles, smoothing down a strand of hair near his temple before your fingers linger for a brief second. the moment is light. short. harmless. but still long enough for sunghoon.

“thanks,” he says in a voice that isn’t really a voice. it’s low and careful, like if he speaks too loud the moment will shatter.

because you’re still close. close enough that he can feel your own warmth. close enough that if he tilted his head forward just a fraction, his lips would be right near your own. and he is trying so hard not to focus on that. he miserably fails.

all he can focus on is your breathing—soft and a little uneven, like you’re not totally unaffected either, which would be insane, because this is you and this is him and the universe should not allow him to have this much hope. that would be cruel.

but then your eyes flick up to meet his, and the world gets quiet for a second, like someone hit pause on everything except the two of you.

sunghoon swallows hard. his eyes dart elsewhere, anywhere, but then it hits him.

it hits him abruptly and mortifyingly, with the force of a preteen revelation:

there’s the subtle sheen of sweat tracing the line of your collarbone, where the lab’s humid heat has your skin glistening just enough to draw his eye to the hollow of your throat, where you’re wearing the tiniest necklace he has ever seen in his life.

and somehow that is the most scandalous thing he has ever encountered.

because it sits there, tiny and delicate and soft—and he thinks back to the way you spoke to him at the party. the way your eyes didn’t back down from his, the way his name sounded from your mouth the first time he met you. like you knew exactly what you were doing. 

you are everything but delicate. and something about that contrast, the softness laced with boldness, the gentle curve edged with something sharp—makes something in sunghoon go frighteningly, beautifully still. because sunghoon realizes he want more.

and not just in that casual, lab-partner-who-lives-ten-doors-down-and-occasionally-asks-to-borrow-sugar way. but in the remember-your-favorite-snack-and-stock-the-pantry-with-it, memorize-your-handwriting, learn-your-schedule-by-heart, hold-your-face-in-my-hands-and-finally-know-what-you-taste-like kind of way. the kind where he’d trace the line of your jaw just to feel your pulse quicken under his touch, where late-night texts turn into confessions whispered into the dark, where the world narrows to just the heat of your breath mingling with his, close enough that one right move could unravel everything else.

park sunghoon is 22 years old but his brain reacts to this realization like he is eleven, standing at the edge of the community pool and realizing that girls have collarbones and the world will never, ever be the same. his ears go hot. his heart beats faster. he looks away.

“no problem,” you clear your throat, stepping back, smoothing down your skirt with your palms. your voice is light again, controlled. but there’s a little curve at the corner of your mouth—like you know.

and somehow, everything after that falls into a quiet, simple, routine. because, in theory, the experiment is simple. measure, mix, heat, observe. nothing that a normal college student with half a functioning brain shouldn’t be able to handle.

which is precisely the issue. because the second sunghoon thinks he’s in the clear, the second sunghoon thinks he can maybe, possibly, start a normal conversation with you, maybe even pretend like the past two incidents never even happened—

you lean slightly over the lab bench, shifting slightly when the edge of your sweater brushes against his wrist. and that’s all it takes.

sunghoon forgets everything he just told himself.

“okay,” you tap your fingers playfully against the table. “we just need ten millimeters of solution A.”

“right,” sunghoon says, nodding immediately.

sunghoon says this with confidence.

sunghoon does not know what solution A is.

his hands are still steady though, surprisingly. he reaches for a beaker, a dropper, a labeled bottle.

“careful,” you say softly, fingers brushing his wrist as you help guide the pipette from one bottle to the other. sunghoon tries to ignore it. he really, really tries. he then looks at you, and you’re already looking at him.

“you’re really focused,” you tease with a small smirk, an eyebrow lifting.

“yeah,” he says without thinking. but he’s focused on you. not the beaker. not the measurement. and most definitely not the very important instruction that says pour ten millimeters and not thirty.

so when he pours—it’s too much. way too much. there’s a hiss, a bubble, a foaming roar before sunghoon could stop it even if he wanted to.

“wait—no that’s too—” you start, but it’s too late. and all sunghoon can do is stand there, and watch. watch as the reaction is already shooting upward, a fountain of foaming mixed colors exploding straight into the air before dropping right back down and directly—

on you.

all over you. from your hair to your eyelashes to your lips to your sweater to the floor.

the entire room goes silent. sunghoon swears he can hear 1) the way the professor closes her eyes slowly, like she’s lived this exact nightmare seven semesters in a row, and 2) someone in the front of class whisper a small, “holy shit.”

and sunghoon is frozen in horror. completely, absolutely, done. wishing death upon himself. his soul leaves his body, watches from the ceiling, and considers not returning.

you blink. foam slides down your cheek in slow motion. “okay..,” you say, very calmly, as though you saw this coming from a mile away and yet still trying to process what happened. “..cool. of course.”

“i—i am so—” sunghoon’s voice breaks as he inhales a heavy breath, the words tumbling before he even knows what he’s apologizing for this time. the explosion? or maybe still the throw-up? the almost-broken-nose moment? “i don’t even know how that—”

you hold a hand up, stopping him mid-sentence. a blob of foam falls from your face.

“sunghoon,” you deadpan, eyes slowly opening. and your expression says it all—not annoyed, not surprised, not even disappointed. just the acceptance of fate. and sunghoon mentally accepts the fact that maybe he should not be allowed within ten feet of you.

“i know,” you sigh, voice strangely gentle for someone covered head to toe in chemicals and is the current center of attention in a room full of people, “and it’s okay.”

sunghoon squeezes his eyes shut. there is nothing he can say. no apology that will undo the last ten minutes, the last few days, the last entire week. no sentence in any human language that can fix this.

maybe this is punishment for that one time he ghosted a girl because she used too many laughing emojis. maybe this is karma coming back. maybe someone hired a witch to curse him. maybe it was jay. honestly, it was probably jay.

your voice breaks him out of his downwards spiral, “i think i need to…go wash this out.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and a man powered entirely of panic, impulse, and bad luck—he moves before he thinks. his hands are already tugging his own hoodie over his head, the hem catching awkwardly on his shirt, his hair going everywhere, and earbuds (why did he put his earbuds in his pocket) flying out and clattering to the floor.

but then he’s holding the hoodie out in front of him.

just…holding it. straight armed. eyes avoiding yours and trained on the material in front of him.

and you just stand there, foam still dripping, but now staring at the hoodie. then back at him.

“sunghoon—”

“just take it,” he blurts, his cheeks flushed pink and voice embarrassingly earnest. “please. before the chemicals…seep…or—spread? i don’t know—”

and sunghoon has no idea what happens when lab foam dries on skin. he just knows it sounds bad and cannot, and will not, be the reason you get third degree chemical burns.

but when you take the hoodie from his hands, a small thank you on your lips, you look at him with something soft, something understanding, something that looks real, and not tossed out of politeness or pity. something that makes sunghoon’s heart want to beat straight out of his ribcage.

and when you come back a few minutes after, sunghoon thinks he’s ready.

he is not ready.

because, see, sunghoon did not think ahead (he has never once thought ahead, historically speaking), and therefore he did not anticipate the sheer consequences of his own actions playing out. of him handing you his hoodie. of you actually wearing his hoodie.

but there you are.

and it swallows you whole. the sleeves bunched slightly at your wrists so they don’t slip past your fingers. the hem hits right at the end of your skirt. the collar sits a little wide and off-center because the hoodie is well-loved, and because sunghoon studies in it, because he sleeps in it, and because he chews on the drawstring when he’s stressed—so one string is short and the other is stupidly long, uneven in the exact way only his hoodie is uneven.

your hair is pulled up now, strands slightly damp from the sink, your cheeks pink from your attempt of scrubbing mysterious chemicals off, and you look like you belong in it.

sunghoon’s body has a reaction that can only be described as malfunctioning. his breath catches in his throat, his pulse jumps, and that foreign feeling of something coiling tight and low in his gut comes back, heating spreading uninvited, unwelcomed, but definitely undeniable. 

because you look good. and soft and warm and heartbreakingly casual. like you’ve worn his clothes a thousand times before. like you will wear his clothes a thousand more.

and definitely like something sunghoon could be stupid about for the rest of his life. like there is a universe—maybe just slightly left of this one—where this is normal. where you wash your face at his bathroom sink and steal his clothes on purpose and drink the orange juice from his fridge without asking.

and he would let you. every single time.

so yes, the third time sunghoon sees you—he knows it’s coming. he just didn’t expect to want it this time.

“so let me get this straight,” jay leans over the table with the wide eyes of someone who already heard the story (he did) and is simply here just to see his friend in agony (he is), “…you blew her up?”

sunghoon peers his eyes from across the courtyard table, nearly scoffing, “no, i didn’t blow y/n up.”

“so…you blew up all over her?”

sunghoon throws his hands up exasperatedly, gesturing to his still very intact self, “well, evidently not!”

“okay…so,” jay draws his voice out, slow and unimpressed, dragging the fork through his lunch, “…what did you blow up?”

“why—” sunghoon drags a hand down his face, “—is everyone saying i blew something up?”

jay looks straight at him, chews on his pasta, and does not answer. instead, he pulls out his phone.

“because,” he scrolls through the screen once before turning the screen up to sunghoon, “of this text i got from jake saying ‘sunghoon blew up y/n. eye roll emoji.’”

sunghoon stares. blinks, then stares again.

traitor.

“i blew up our science experiment,” sunghoon mutters through a sigh, pinching his nose like the memory physically hurts him. “all. over. her.”

jay pauses mid-bite. lets it sink in. then—

“oh god,” he bursts into full laughter, “all over her?”

sunghoon ignores him. rolls his eyes.

“jay, it was so bad,” he groans, burying his face into both hands now. “i don’t even know what happened. she was so close to me and her hand brushed mine and it’s like my brain just—” he then looks up and claps his hands together dramatically. “—stopped.”

jay doesn’t say anything.

sunghoon, however and unfortunately, continues.

“and then it gets worse, jay.”

there’s a long beat. jay gives sunghoon a look that tells him there’s no possible way it could get worse. but, once again, because the universe has a weird sense of humor, sunghoon’s existence is living proof that it always will get worse.

jay takes another bite before he nods solemnly, as if gearing up for what’s coming. “alright, lay it on me. what’s next, what else could possibly have happ—”

but jay doesn’t finish.

because at that exact moment—you walk into the courtyard. hair still pulled into a loose ponytail, the sunlight catching in your face like the sun only came out today to make sure you’re seen by the rest of the world, a smile on your face as you walk besides jake.

but none of that matters.

because you’re still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie. his hoodie. and he can’t take his eyes off you. you look like you got dressed in his bedroom. you look like you belong in his bedroom.

sunghoon stops breathing. from beside him, jay also freezes.

“…isn’t that…your hoodie?” his chewing slows down to a a stop, voice going flat. then, just for dramatic effect, “…on y/n?”

sunghoon does not look away. in fact, he’s full on staring. stares like a man witnessing both the holiest and worst moment of his entire life.

“that, jay—” sunghoon says, voice low, hollow, and utterly destroyed, “—is exactly how it gets worse.”

jay looks at you—completely swallowed by the hoodie, laughing lightly at something jake says, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the drawstring.

he looks back at sunghoon and squints.

“…this is bad,” jay starts slowly, nodding as if he totally knows what’s going on but definitely doesn’t, “because…?”

sunghoon turns to him with a look, “BECAUSE, JAY. SHE’S WEARING MY HOODIE. and it makes me—” he gestures weakly, helplessly, and vaguely to himself— “feel things.”

and that’s when jay sets down his fork very gently, the realization hitting him in real time, “oh my god, you like her.”

sunghoon doesn’t respond. he just closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to remember the exact breathing pattern his therapist (again, jay) recommended for moments of emotional crisis (four counts in, six counts out, something like that)—which, by the way, he is strongly considering firing him now because none of his advice ever helps in the moment.

because yes. sunghoon does like you.

he likes you. he likes the way your laugh sounds just a little breathier when you’re trying to not show you think something is funny. he likes the way you talk like you’re choosing your words on purpose, but never too carefully. he likes that you didn’t freak out on him when he, multiple times, was the direct cause of your suffering. he likes the way you look at him like he’s not the complete wreck he is. he likes that you’re kind, but not in a soft, fragile way. kind like you’re aware and like you choose to be.

he likes you, and the only times he has ever interacted with you, he’s probably taken another two years off your lifespan.

sunghoon, by all known definitions, should never interact with you ever again.

“oh wow,” jay continues, laughing now, breathless, delighted, and the worst therapist-slash-best-friend in the world. “no, dude. you totally do. you have a crush on the girl you’re, like—” he holds his fingers up half an inch apart, “—this close to actually killing.”

sunghoon slams his palm on the table and immediately regrets it because it rattles and now people are looking, “shut up, jay.”

jay raises both his hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face says he’s not surrendering at all.

“no, like—think about it,” he presses, leaning in closer. “that’s probably why you keep messing up. you’re nervous around her. like, elementary playground crush behavior. you’re basically pulling her pigtails.”

sunghoon stares at him, horrified. “jay. let’s not compare this to elementary school kids please.”

jay shrugs, picking his fork back up and goes back to twirling his pasta like this is a regular tuesday and not a life-changing-revelation for sunghoon.

“whatever,” sunghoon continues, voice deflated, shoulders sinking, “it doesn’t matter anyway. it’s not like she feels the same way. especially after i—” he pauses and gestures vaguely to the lingering memory of disasters that has defined his existence lately. “all of that.”

he doesn’t specify which disaster. he doesn’t need to. jay knows. you know. the world knows. God definitely knows.

sunghoon rubs a hand over his face, voice growing quieter, smaller. “i should just stop. stop talking to her. stop trying. just…distance myself or something.”

that’s when jay’s fork freezes mid-air. he sets it down and looks at sunghoon like he just suggested he run off to the mountains and join a cult.

“okay. woah. relax, drama queen. absolutely not.”

sunghoon blinks. jay picks his fork back up and points it at him with the authority of something who has never once been correct but speaks confidently anyway.

“first of all, please never say the words distance myself ever again. you sound like an awful romance-novel-series-turned-movie-franchise.”

sunghoon glares weakly from across the table. “i’m being serious, jay. she probably hates me. or worse—” he has to swallow because the next words taste bitter, like something he never wanted to even consider but could be highly likely, “—she’s probably, like, i don’t know—into jake. or something.”

and jay actually physically recoils. his whole upper body leans backwards like someone just threw a raw fish at him and he has to grab the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling back.

he then furrows his brows at sunghoon, eyes squinting, “you’re joking, right?”

sunghoon doesn’t answer. because he is, surely, not joking.

jay looks over his shoulder to where you’re standing across the courtyard—still smiling, hair still catching sunlight, still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie—then looks back at sunghoon with the expression of someone witnessing unprecedented levels of stupidity.

“sunghoon,” he says carefully, slowly, “y/n looks like the kind of person who probably color codes her google calendar and knows the exact expiration date of every condiment in her fridge. and jake—” his thumb points vaguely behind him, “—jake once microwaved a fork because he thought it would make his food taste warmer. the entire reason why we don’t live with him.”

sunghoon just stares. jay nods to himself, like there’s no possible argument to this. “trust me. i don’t think y/n would want to choose that life.”

sunghoon opens his mouth to argue—because at least warmer meals by microwaved-metal sound better than an almost broken nose by football—but then his gaze flicks over jay’s shoulder.

“jay. stop. talking.”

and jay isn’t even talking anymore, but he shuts his mouth anyways. he goes still. sunghoon goes still. then, sunghoon’s eyes widen a fraction, the smallest warning signal.

because you’re coming over. you’re walking across the courtyard next to jake, food in hand, and waving over at the two boys, completely unaware of the quarter-life-crisis occurring only a few feet away.

sunghoon keeps his face still, but his posture changes slightly. he pulls his shoulders back, takes a deep breath, straightens out the water bottle sitting in front of him for absolutely no reason.

“hey,” jake calls out, slapping jay lightly on the back as he drops into the seat next to him, “mind if we join?”

you’re already sliding into the empty spot next to sunghoon, easy, natural, like it’s just what you do. like this is normal. like sitting beside him is just…your place.

“’course not,” sunghoon mutters, politely, evenly, eyes fixed on absolutely anything else that isn’t you. the water bottle, the condensation, the way the light hits the plastic. fascinating stuff, really.

you shift, just a little—knees angled toward him, shoulder brushing close enough that he can feel your warmth, not touching, but enough to notice the space between you.

“hey,” you say. it’s small, soft, casual. it’s nothing dramatic, but yet, sunghoon feels it like someone tugged a string from somewhere deep within his ribs.

he doesn’t look up, just nods.

“hey.” it’s neutral, nothing to analyze, nothing to misunderstand.

if you’re weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t think anything of it. but here’s the thing, you are paying attention. so you offer him a faint smile, the kind that’s quiet, doesn’t demand anything, just acknowledgement.

and sunghoon sees it. his chest goes painfully warm. because he wants to look back. wants to return it. wants to ask how are you in a way that means i’ve been thinking about you and not just saying it to make small talk.

he wants to tell you he keeps replaying the sound of your laugh in his head and wants to say something stupid and honest and reckless like i hope the hoodie’s okay. actually, please just keep it. forever. i don’t want it back.

but instead, he focuses harder on anything and everything else around him. the way jake’s enthusiastically talking to jay about something with his hands. the wrinkled label on the water bottle. jay’s pasta, now stale and definitely cold. everything he doesn’t care about. because, right now, looking at the one thing he does care about feels too dangerous for himself.

and you notice. not in the dramatic why-are-you-avoiding-me kind of way, but in the micro-shift in your posture. the way your smile lingers for half a second longer than it should, like you were waiting for something. the way your fingers tap the edge of the table a few times. the way you let out a small exhale through your nose.

“—thinking just something small at our apartment,” jake’s voice finally cuts in, bright and loud. he’s gesturing big enough to knock jay over if he wanted to. “drinks, music—maybe ni-ki can dj if he doesn’t lose his shoe again.”

jay groans. “one, he is not dj-ing. last time was a one direction blender remix from hell. and two, ni-ki will never not lose his shoe.”

you laugh at that, the sound light, amused, genuine. and sunghoon swears his chest has never felt more tight.

jake continues, eyes wide and excited, “anyways—you guys are coming. this weekend. both of you. no excuses.”

sunghoon nods once, quick and automatic. “yeah. sure.”

your head tilts at that, just slightly—a tiny furrow in your brow, like you can sense something in the air is different.

and sunghoon tries his best to pretend he doesn’t notice. tries to pretend that the sudden distance between you isn’t something he’s actively building with his own hands. but it feels awful.

because he knows what he’s doing. doing the exact thing jay told him not to do—the easy thing. pulling back, shrinking, playing it safe. as if safety has ever saved him from anything.

he swallows hard. his jaw clenches. the collar of his shirt suddenly feels too hot, too tight. but the conversation keeps moving around him anyways—jake rambling about playlists, jay complaining about how he’s going to be forced to help clean afterwards—voices blended together into one long, meaningless sound.

meanwhile, sunghoon is somewhere else entirely. somewhere between panic and longing and the quiet awareness of his own undoing. he finally risks a glance, quick and careful, but just enough to look at you. and you’re already looking back at jake now, laughing gently, the kind that sunghoon could definitely get used to, but—

your fingers still tap against the table. your leg bounces next to his, as if in anticipation, as if aware.

and sunghoon’s chest aches in a way he can’t explain. not to himself. and definitely not to you.

the next time sunghoon sees you, he swears it’s not his fault.

at least, he’d like to think so. but statistically speaking—and sunghoon knows his statistics—it probably was his fault anyways.

the parking lot is nearly empty, close to sunset hour—that small time in between where the sky is barely turning colors and everything looks a little softer around the edges, the campus quieting down in the way it only is when all classes have ended for the week and everyone’s going home.

sunghoon’s already halfway through the lot, keys dangling from hand, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. and he’s so close. dangerously, blissfully close to freedom. to going home, collapsing onto the couch, arguing with jay over takeout before inevitably eating cereal and playing league until his eyes dry out. so, yes, almost free.

almost able to pretend today didn’t happen. almost able to pretend he didn’t, once again, cause minor emotional and physical harm to the girl who has done nothing but exist and be moderately nice to him.

he unlocks his car, swings the back door open, tosses his backpack in with a soft thud. and then—he looks up.

and he sees you.

you’re a little ways across the lot—just far enough that sunghoon could pretend he didn’t notice you if he were a stronger man (he is not), but still close enough to see his hoodie’s sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a frown on your face as your phone is pressed to your ear, and the hood of your car propped open.

sunghoon watches as you pop your head back into your car and turn the key back into the ignition again and again and again—

to no avail. the car stays dead.

sunghoon hesitates. he internally debates. argues with himself for, like, three whole minutes.

he could leave. he could absolutely leave. you haven’t seen him yet. he could get in his car, drive away, go home, take a nice, warm shower even though it has weak water pressure, eat cereal over the sink, and pretend he never witnessed anything.

but instead, he stands there. like an idiot. staring across the parking lot with the look of someone who’s fighting with only himself.

don’t go. she definitely thinks you’re a curse.

go. she’s wearing your hoodie.

don’t go. what if you break the car somehow.

go. now. before she calls roadside assistance and meets a guy who’s better at life than you. or worse, jake.

don’t go. you’re supposed to be distancing. that’s the plan. that’s the safe thing. the smart thing, the—

you look up.

and when your eyes meet his, your expression softens, breaking into something comforting and relieved. like you’re glad to see him. you lift your hand and give a small wave.

and that’s it. that’s the end of sunghoon’s entire distancing plan.

he sighs.

fine. he is going.

he is a moth and you’re the closest open flame and he will simply have to deal with the consequences later.

his feet start to move before the rest of him agrees to it, shoulders stiff, posture trying very hard to look normal and calm and definitely not like he just had a full internal monologue breakdown. you give him a smile when he’s close enough—bright, easy, familiar, somehow—and sunghoon has to physically look away for a beat to reorient his mental wellbeing.

“car won’t start?” he says, even though he definitely already knows the answer.

you let out a breath, the sound coming out like a laugh as if the situation is somehow funny instead of deeply annoying. “yeah. i think the battery’s dead. or the universe hates me specifically. either one.”

sunghoon’s lips twitch because he’s sure if the universe hates anyone specifically, it’s him. “could be both.”

your smile widens as you look up at him, “definitely both.”

there’s a short pause that falls between you two for a second before you speak up again, “i tried calling the roadside people but it keeps going straight to voicemail, which feels pretty ironic.”

“i’m pretty sure roadside assistance is a scam anyways,” he says, shrugging as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. “i think they just nap in trucks and hope people give up.”

you laugh at that, fully this time, and it’s even softer, warmer, like the joke wasn’t even that funny but you like the way he said it. and sunghoon is ridiculously glad his hands are in his pockets now, because his fingers twitch at the sound.

and park sunghoon is not a car guy. not even a little bit. he failed his driver’s license test twice. and not even the driving part—he failed the written part. both times. he still has to google which side his gas tank is on. and he’s pretty sure his car is two years due for an oil change.

so what he does next is absolutely logical, because sunghoon is not touching your car with a ten foot pole. what he does is what any rational, non-car expert, guy with a raging crush and a fully functioning car would do in this situation:

“do you…want a ride home?” he offers, though it comes out more like a question to himself.

your lips part just slightly. surprise flickers across your face—and then something else. something unreadable. something that feels like a soft yes. “really? you don’t mind?”

sunghoon nods—casual, casual, very casual—despite the fact that his heart is jumping around in his ribcage at the thought of you sitting in his passenger seat.

“i mean…” he clears his throat, eyes down to the ground just to avoid yours. “we literally live down the hall from one other. i wouldn’t exactly be able to sleep peacefully knowing you got stranded in a parking lot.”

your smile widens a bit more, real and grateful, as you fidget with the ends of the hoodie now. “okay,” you say. “yeah. i’d really appreciate that.”

and that’s how sunghoon finds himself walking you to his car—unlocking the passenger door for you like he was raised by parents who taught him manners (he was) and how to fall in love too fast (he does).

he gets in on his side, starts the car, and the radio is too loud, so he turns it down. then it’s too quiet, so he turns it up again. then regrets everything.

but he starts driving anyways, silence falling in between the two of you. he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and he clears his throat just to have something to do.

the engine hums, the sky slowly going from pink to orange around you two, but the one and only thing sunghoon can perceive is your presence in his hoodie in his car.

you look out the window, watching the campus buildings pass. “i always forget how pretty it gets around this time,” you murmur, suddenly breaking him out of his own thoughts.

sunghoon glances at you before focusing on the road again. “yeah,” he says, a little small. “it kind of sneaks up on you.”

you smile, not looking away from the window. and then suddenly, “you strike me as a sunset person.”

sunghoon stills and blinks, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “a what?”

“like…you seem like someone who appreciates that kind of stuff,” you explain, glancing slightly at him. “sunsets. late-night convenience store runs. peeling fruit the slow way. that kind of person.”

sunghoon opens his mouth. then closes it, because he does not know what to do with that sentence.

“i..i guess?” he tries, trying very hard not to panic at the idea of someone, namely you, having thoughts about him. “well, you seem like a…sunrise person.”

you turn to look at him fully now, and you laugh under your breath, “i’m definitely not a morning person.”

“no. not morning,” he says, shaking his head a little. he turns right at a stop sign, his hand loose on the wheel now, almost relaxed. almost. “just…the feeling of starting fresh.”

you don’t say anything right away. you just look at him, eyes trained to the side of his face, as if you’re trying to figure something out.

and sunghoon nearly drives into a parked prius, but he hopes you don’t notice that.

you look back out your window, but your smile stays, “that was weirdly poetic of you, park sunghoon.”

sunghoon swallows hard, but his grip loosens some more. the quiet settles again after that, but now it’s different. lighter, easier. you start talking about the small things, nothing earth-shattering, but something comfortable. something about the terrible on-campus breakfast, the vending machine that stole your dollar this morning, how jake broke your coffee machine after two uses. but the whole time—sunghoon can’t help but think.

think how maybe in another universe, this is normal.

maybe in another universe, you’re always in his passenger seat at the end of the day. maybe he drives you home not out of chance, but because it’s routine. because you’re just in each other’s lives. because this is what you do. because he knows what songs you like to play when you’re tired and which stores you stop at on the way home and how you hum when you think about what you want to eat for dinner.

maybe in another universe, he didn’t meet you by accidentally hitting you in the face with a football. maybe in that universe, he’s…normal. not whatever this is—this mess of nerves and second guesses and catastrophes that only ever seem to happen to him whenever he’s with you.

maybe in that universe, he meets you at one of jake’s parties he throws too often. maybe you’re laughing at something someone said, holding a red cup and leaning against the counter, and sunghoon sees you from across the room the way people see things they were always meant to find.

maybe he walks over—all steady and confident—and says something easy, something light, something that makes your smile bloom slowly and softly at him. not out of politeness, not out of pity because he threw up all over you. just because you want to.

maybe in that universe, he gets the girl. but this is not that universe.

and when the car rolls to a stop outside the building, sunghoon still finds himself walking you to your door.

because of course he does. because he wants to. because he doesn’t know how not to.

you stop in front of your apartment, keys already halfway in the door, and turn to him, meeting his eyes fully.

“thank you,” you say, and the look in your eyes is soft. honest. and something else, something sunghoon can’t quite place and, frankly, is afraid to. “for the ride—” and then you look down, fingers toying with the drawstring of the hoodie, like it means something you don’t have words for just yet, “—and the hoodie.”

and as sunghoon looks at you in the quiet of the hallway—just you, him, the flicker of the dying lightbulb a few doors down, and the pure warmth he feels around you—he thinks there’s a version of this moment where he says it all.

where he doesn’t swallow everything down, doesn’t mistake silence for safety. where he tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the first time you laughed in his direction, that the sound of it still sits in his chest. where he admits that every stupid mistake, every clumsy accident, somehow only pulled him closer.

but instead, this version has him standing still, heart in his throat, pretending that wanting you quietly is the same as not wanting you at all.

so he just nods.

“yeah. of course.”

you smile one more time, soft and unsure, lingering just a beat too long—like you’re waiting for him to say something else, or maybe trying to find the courage to say something yourself.

but then you turn, hand halfway reaching to the door handle, and pause. your fingers hover mid-air. the hallway hums with nothing but silence and the heaviness of everything left unsaid between you two.

sunghoon straightens instinctively, caught off guard by the stillness that follows.

you turn back to him. “can i—” your voice comes quieter this time, hesitant in a new way he hasn’t heard before. “—can i ask you something?”

sunghoon blinks, his throat suddenly dry. “uh…yeah. of course. what’s up?”

“we’re cool, right?” you ask, eyes wide and searching his face. “like…we’re friends?”

and the words hit harder than they should. sunghoon does not know how to answer that. because how exactly does he even define what this is? a one-sided crush? forced proximity? neighbors-turned-accidental-victim-and-perpetrator-turned-friends?

“um—yeah,” he finally says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “i’d say so.”

you study him for a long second, lips parting like you’re testing to see whether he’s lying. “okay. i just…didn’t know if i did something wrong. you seemed a little off earlier, at lunch.” and your laugh that follows is small, nervous, the kind people use to soften a truth. “and i overthink sometimes, so…yeah.”

sunghoon’s heart twists sharply at that. you, overthinking. you, worrying if you’d done something wrong when he’s the one building the wall between you.

“no,” he blurts before he can stop himself. it comes out too fast, too honest, but he keeps going anyways. “no, you didn’t do anything.” he clears his throat, a bubble of nerves rising too fast. “i just…wasn’t feeling great. long day, you know? classes and…exploding chemicals and stuff,” he exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching.

your shoulders relax, the worry written all over your face fading into something gentler and amused. “okay,” you say with a nod, your smile returning. “just wanted to make sure. friends, then?”

the word stings again, but sunghoon forces a smile anyways. “friends.”

you grin—wide and bright—and it makes something in his chest go weightless and heavy all at once. because, sunghoon realizes, not for the first time, this is what he likes about you, maybe. that you’re not all sharp edges and confidence like he thought. you’re also warmth and thoughtfulness and awkward timing, the kind of person who checks in even when you don’t have to. just because you want to, and just because you mean it.

“i’ll see you tomorrow then?” you say, hand going back to unlock your door. “at the party?”

sunghoon nods. “wouldn’t wanna miss it.”

you look back and smile at him one more time before slipping inside, the door closing gently behind you. sunghoon stands there for a moment, clinging to the warmth of your presence still in the air, lungs tight, and heart somewhere between the pavement of the parking lot and the memory of seeing you for the first time that day in the courtyard.

and he thinks—not for the first time, and definitely not for the last—

in this universe? he is truly, utterly, deeply doomed.

“so you’re really not coming?”

jay’s already standing by the door, shoes on, dressed in what he considers casual party attire, which means a wrinkled overshirt that might be clean, with a white shirt under that definitely isn’t, and jeans he absolutely pulled off the back of his desk chair. his keys jingle in his hand as he leans against the door frame, waiting for sunghoon to fold.

“yes, jay. i’m staying.” sunghoon doesn’t even look up from the couch, eyes trained on the random documentary that he found on the nature channel playing in front of him. “and frankly, you can’t make me go.”

jay lets out a huff. “jake could. and he will. we literally live ten feet away, he’ll drag you by your ankles if he has to.”

“then tell him i’m sick,” sunghoon mutters back, slouching deeper into the couch like he’s trying to merge with it. “like the flu or something.”

jay’s laugh that comes after is a loud, disbelieving, ha.

“that’s so bull. you only ever get sick for two reasons,” he holds up two fingers. “one, when you drink too much, and two, when you get that suspicious ass chinese takeout i keep telling you to stop ordering.”

sunghoon finally looks up from the tv to glare at him. for a second, it looks like he might get up—stand his ground, be a grown man, assert dominance or whatever the sunghoon equivalent is to that.

he doesn’t.

he just grabs the nearest couch pillow and launches it in jay’s direction with zero aim, zero strategy, and zero strength.

jay looks at the pillow. then at sunghoon. “wow,” he says flatly before tossing it back onto the far end of the couch.

“okay, fine,” jay continues, a mix of amusement and pity in his tone, “but you’re really gonna sit here on a saturday night—” he cranes his neck toward the tv, brows furrowing, “—watching a documentary about…dinosaur extinction?”

“dinosaurs are cool,” sunghoon says, eyes narrowing in defense. “plus, i’m tired.”

“no,” jay crosses his arms. “you’re lying.”

sunghoon then lets out a sigh through his nose, because—yeah, he is. but he doesn’t let jay know that. because what he wants to say is that he’s exhausted, but not in the way that sleep can fix. the kind of exhaustion that comes from thinking too much and saying too little. from the drive home yesterday that replayed in his head so vividly he’s starting to remember it like a movie he’ll never get to rewatch. from the realization that every time you smile, something inside him shifts a little, softly, painfully, and permanently.

and that terrifies him. because sunghoon has never been that guy. not the one who gets the girl, not the one who says the right thing at the right time. he’s the background character—the one who holds the door, smiles too late, apologizes too much.

so no, he can’t go to that party. he can’t stand in a crowded room watching you light up the way you do—laughing at something someone else will say, someone else’s story, someone else’s joke, someone who isn’t actively avoiding you for your own good—reminding him of all the ways he can’t have you.

jay stares for a beat longer, studying him like he’s about to bring up the topic sunghoon’s been avoiding all day and night—but he doesn’t. he just exhales, slow and knowing, and reaches for the door. “fine. i’ll tell jake you caught the plague or something.”

and after jay leaves, sunghoon’s not sure how much time passes. the apartment settles into that kind of quiet that lets you hear the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway that jay insists adds ambience, the low static of the tv playing in front of him.

sunghoon is still on the couch, now half under a blanket he stole from jay’s room, his eyes fixed on the screen, where a cgi triceratops is doing something probably scientifically inaccurate. but it doesn’t matter anyways because he hasn’t been paying attention for the past forty minutes. because his mind is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else since you shut your door one night ago, wearing his hoodie and smiling at him like he hadn’t spent the whole day overthinking about you.

and he tells himself—again, again, and again—that this distance thing is good. smart. necessary. that the safest point between your two paths is the one where he never hurts you again. where he removes himself before he ruins something that could’ve been easy, simple, normal.

and sunghoon almost believes it, too.

until his phone buzzes.

it buzzes once, and it’s quick and sharp, yet cuts through his silence. he glances at the coffee table and stares at it. he almost doesn’t want to pick it up, as if he knows who it is and is avoiding the inevitable.

but he reaches for it anyway.

Y/N (11:15PM) : hii sunghoon

and his heart drops. he stares at the screen. doesn’t type. doesn’t move. his thumb hovers just above the message box just as his phone buzzes again in his hand:

Y/N (11:16PM) : jay told me you weren’t feeling well :( i hope everything’s ok

sunghoon inhales sharply through his nose. his jaw tightens. because, no, nothing’s okay with sunghoon. not really. not the kind of ‘not okay’ that he could exactly explain to you, though. it’s not a headache or a fever or whatever lie jay came up with. somewhere more like the ache of wanting something he’s convinced he shouldn’t. something that looks a lot like you.

his brain starts the war almost instantly.

don’t answer. you’re supposed to be distancing, remember? this is the plan.

don’t be an asshole. just say thanks. be normal for once in your life.

sunghoon groans quietly, head hitting back against the couch as he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

then your third text lights up the screen.

Y/N (11:18PM) : do you want me to bring anything?

and sunghoon’s brain short circuits completely.

yes. you. here. now.

you standing in his doorway, wearing his hoodie again like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. you filling the apartment with that quiet warmth you seem to carry everywhere. you sitting beside him on this stupid couch watching stupid documentaries with him until stupid hours of the night.

but because he can’t exactly put that feeling into logical words, he instead stares at his screen for a little too long, fighting with the part of him that’s screaming to stop pretending he doesn’t care.

he stares long enough at your words that the screen dims, and he has to tap it once just to see your name again.

his thumb twitches—hovering, shaking—because a part of him wants to break the rules he set for himself. wants to answer you. wants to let himself want you.

but he doesn’t.

he shuts his phone off, flips it back down on the table, and pushes it away like it’s the devil himself. his throat burns, his chest hurts. he leans back into the couch, closing his eyes, and exhales—slow, heavy, resigned.

because if he answers, he’ll just want more again. and wanting has never ended well for sunghoon. so he tells himself you’re just being kind, that this is what you do because this is who you are. you care, you reach out, you text first. you say things like hope you’re okay and ask if he needs anything because you ask everyone that. because you’re a friend.

sunghoon sinks deeper into the couch, trying his best to breathe through the tightness that refuses to leave. the clock ticks, the documentary plays, the phone stays face down.

and just when sunghoon finally feels himself settle—

the front door slams open.

“—OKAY. first of all, you’re coming to this party. and second of all, you’re so stupid.”

jake storms in at full volume, the door slamming shut behind him with the force of someone who has no respect for privacy and apparently door hinges. he’s flushed—cheeks pink, eyes bright, hair a mess, which means he definitely pregamed his own party.

sunghoon jolts upright so fast he nearly falls off the couch. “jesus christ—”

but jake is already toeing off his shoes like he lives here, marching across the living room like a man on a mission, and unfortunately for sunghoon, that mission is him.

“dude,” jake says, pointing at him like an accusation, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

sunghoon groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is jay’s fault. this is all jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. jay never locks the door and this is the consequence for sunghoon not checking. this is karma. this is the plague he supposedly caught. he’s never lying again.

“so tell me why jay said you’re sick,” jake even air quotes it. “‘sick.’”

a beat.

“which is a lie, by the way.”

sunghoon glares weakly. “why does everyone just casually know the conditions under which i get sick?”

“because,” jake raises a finger, counting, “one, you only get sick when you drink too much—”

sunghoon mutters, “oh my god—”

“and two—” jake continues, louder, a second finger in sunghoon’s face, “—when you get chinese food from that cursed corner place i keep telling you not to order from. so unless you did either of those tonight, which you didn’t—because they only take venmo and i checked your venmo transactions—”

“why the fuck are you checking my venmo transacti—”

“—you’re not sick.” jake finishes triumphantly.

“you, jay, and i need to have a conversation about boundaries,” sunghoon deadpans at the boy in front of him.

“don’t deflect,” jake snaps at him. “you’re avoiding the question.”

sunghoon slumps back into the couch cushions, silently praying for death. or a sinkhole. or spontaneous combustion. he’s not picky, really.

“i’ll just go to the next one, okay?” he mutters from his spot. “it’s no big deal.”

and jake gives him a look that says he’s offended. like, genuinely offended.

“it is a big deal,” jake squints, marching a few steps closer. “you’re not skipping this just to avoid y/n. what are you, twelve?”

sunghoon instantly shoots upright again, a look betrayal on his face, “i—what, who said anything about—”

“jay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. exhales. counts to three.

jay is fired. jay is beyond fired. he is never telling jay anything ever again.

“and also, i just know you,” jake continues, pacing the living room like this is an intervention sunghoon is now apparently a part of. “you can’t keep doing this. moping around, feeling sorry for yourself just because you made a few minor accidents.”

“a few major—”

“—yes, sunghoon. a few minor ones,” jake says, waving a casual hand through the air. “just go to the party, talk to her, apologize. kiss and make up—actually, don’t do that one unless the vibe is right—but you get my point. just don’t sit here doing this sad boy act and torturing yourself.”

sunghoon narrows his eyes at him, because he forgets—he always forgets—how stupidly well jake knows him.

jake, who once sat with sunghoon on the curb after a failed calculus final and talked him out of dropping out entirely by buying him a churro and saying, ‘your brain just had a lag.’

jake, who memorized sunghoon’s stress tells by sophomore year of highschool—right thumb tapping: anxious; left thumb tapping: spiraling.

jake, who once dragged him out of bed at 2AM because he ‘felt in his soul’ that sunghoon needed fresh air and a convenience store slushie.

jake, who has known every single crush sunghoon’s ever had—most of whom sunghoon barely even realized were crushes until jake said something.

so yeah. of course jake sees right through him.

sunghoon looks away, jaw tight. eventually, he lets out a sigh, “jake, it’s not that simple.”

“sure it is,” jake stops, hands on his hips. “you just make it complicated.”

sunghoon looks up then, and his expression isn’t defensive. just resigned—the kind that comes from trying too hard to convince yourself you don’t care that there’s no way you could go back now.

“i’m not going,” he says finally. “end of story.”

and for a moment, jake looks like he might argue again, brows drawn together, mouth opening. but then he stops. his mouth shuts and something soft flashes in his eyes. he lets out an exhale.

“fine,” he turns to the door, already putting his shoes on. “stay here. be mysterious and tortured or whatever.”

sunghoon doesn’t reply. he just watches the glow of the tv flicker across the living room—tiny prehistoric creatures moving across the screen, narrator droning on.

and right as jake is about to leave, he pauses. “oh, by the way—” he adds casually. “she was asking about you.”

sunghoon freezes. his heart does something absolutely violent and traitorous inside his chest.

jake then glances over his shoulder, “she was looking for you, actually,”

and that’s it. that’s the crack in sunghoon’s entire resolve.

because logic means nothing when it comes to you. because distance means absolutely nothing when you’re still thinking about him. and restraint? restraint dies instantly because he can already see it—you, at that party, somewhere in the crowd, wearing something that’s definitely going to make sunghoon stop breathing, holding a drink and smiling at someone who could be him, but isn’t.

jake opens the door. “see you there, yeah?”

sunghoon didn’t really know what the plan was. not really, anyways.

but here he is.

the music’s too loud, the lighting’s too low, tinted red in that way that makes everyone look vaguely better but slightly untrustworthy, and everything smells faintly of fruit punch, cheap beer, and body spray. there’s a sticky patch on the floor that catches the sole of his shoe everytime he shifts his weight, and someone spilled an entire drink near the door but everyone’s pretending they don’t see it.

and now sunghoon’s standing in the corner, yet again, red solo cup in hand, the deja vu washing over from last time. he’s already warm—cheeks flushed from the multiple shots jake forced into his hand the moment he arrived, calling them ‘celebration shots’ for finally showing up. jake took three. jay took one, immediately regretted it, but took a second one anyways. sunghoon took two and was rudely reminded him and alcohol don’t like one another.

now he’s approximately three minutes into a conversation with a classmate whose name he absolutely does not remember but is pretending he does because lying feels easier than admitting he forgot. the poor guy is saying something about his econ midterm, but the words wash over sunghoon like static. because even while nodding politely, even through the chaos of the environment, sunghoon’s eyes find you.

of course they do.

you’re across the room by the couch, cup in hand, laughing at something someone just said. your head tilts back a little, your mouth curves in that way that knocks the air straight out of his lungs. it’s the kind of laugh that makes strangers look your way without knowing why. the kind of laugh that gets stuck in his head for days after.

and, of course, you look good.

unfairly good.

your hair soft under the shifting lights, your cheeks glowing, your sweater hanging just right on your frame. there’s something about you—always something—that makes you look like a secret sunghoon wants to keep, a discovery he wants no one else to find, something he wants to learn slowly, quietly, intimately.

he swallows hard. looks away. then looks back again, because he can’t not.

and then, almost as if you can feel that he’s staring—you glance up. your eyes scan the room lazily, drifting over faces and shoulders and the mess of people. until they land on him.

your expression softens. surprised, but warm. a small, easy smile curves onto your lips—one that says oh, you came, and something else he’s too scared to interpret.

and sunghoon, because he’s sunghoon, and a complete, absolute idiot—panics.

he panics and turns away. pretends to be very interested in the contents of his red solo cup that he knows isn’t even close to edible. nods along to whatever econ-related nonsense the guy in front of him is saying like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

and he doesn’t see it—but you frown slightly. doesn’t see the way your smile falters, something uncertain flickering across your face. doesn’t see the slight confusion in your eyes before you turn back to your group.

and that’s how it starts. the night spins on just like that—full of almosts and not quites and hesitation.

you find him in the kitchen a little bit later. he’s pouring something that looks just as inedible as before into his cup, and you smile when he notices you.

“hey—i’m glad you made it, you feeling better?”

but sunghoon startles like you’ve caught him doing something wrong. he steps back too quickly, nearly bumping the counter, muttering something along the lines of ‘yeah—i’m okay, fine—’ before he excuses himself to find jay.

later, you end next to him in the circle when jake—who’s already too many shots in—suggests a game of truth or dare. you sit, knee brushing sunghoon’s for a second, before he abruptly stands up, mumbling about needing more ice in his cup before disappearing into the crowd.

and then it keeps happening. you’re mid-conversation with jay and jake, laughing at something ridiculous they just said, when your eyes move across the room, as if your body can’t help but instinctively search for him. when you finally find him again—leaning against the wall across the room, phone in hand, eyes meeting his for a brief second—his gaze darts immediately back down to his phone as if nothing just happened.

you start to notice it—the way he never stays in the same place as you for long, the way he keeps his shoulders angled away from you, the way his smile turns tight and fades when you step too close. the way his eyes flash with something heavy and unspoken before he drags them away from you as if touching you would be dangerous.

you try to tell yourself you’re imagining it, that maybe he’s tired, that it’s the alcohol or the lighting or ni-ki’s loud karaoke or anything else.

your chest feels tight. the air feels heavier than it should. jay is rambling about unplugging the karaoke machine before ni-ki loses his voice, jake is doubled over laughing, red cup in hand that you should definitely take away from him, but none of it feels right anymore.

and it’s ridiculous, really. because you shouldn’t care this much. because, technically, sunghoon is no one to you. just a boy you met recently. a boy who happened to be decent-looking—very, very, decent-looking. who happened to be clumsy in a way that drew you in instead of away. who happened to be your neighbor. your roommate’s best friend. a guy with pretty hands and a nervous laugh and a tendency to panic whenever you tried to flirt with him on purpose.

and, honestly—at first it was fun.

because you’re not oblivious. you’re not dense. you noticed the way he got nervous around you. you saw the way his eyes widened the first time you ever said his full name, the way his breath caught when you leaned in, the way his hands shook the tiniest bit when you wore his hoodie.

and god, you liked it. you liked getting a reaction out of him. liked watching the way he came undone so easily around you.

but now? now that same boy won’t even look at you?

it feels worse than it should. worse than you want it to. worse than anything he’s done so far—and that includes accidentally assaulting you three times.

you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that you’re overthinking again, like you always do.

you laugh at something jake says. you clink your cup against jay’s and take another sip just to have something to do ith your hands. you smile, chat, pretend nothing’s wrong.

but then, from the corner of your eye, you see it.

the way sunghoon’s head turns when you laugh, just barely. the way his gaze flickers toward you for a second too long. the way his jaw tightens before he looks away again like he saw something he shouldn’t have.

and that’s when something inside you snaps. the ache shifts sharply, into something close to frustration, confusion and something hot behind your ribs that makes your drink taste too bitter and makes the room feel too loud.

you set your drink down on the table next to you, too hard. it spills over the rim. you don’t even care.

because what is this? what is he doing? and why does it sting so much?

jay says something to you—something that makes jake laugh again a little too loudly, but you barely hum in response, eyes already scanning the room again.

you find him again, now closer to the back hallway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. he looks uncomfortable, like he almost always does, but there’s something else tonight. something distant.

and you’re done trying to figure it out.

you held back, you didn’t push. you swallowed your pride enough to ask him point-blank if you were even friends. you tried to read him, tried to be patient, tried to be understanding.

and now he’s avoiding you? after he’s the one who kept messing up? after he offered you his hoodie? after he drove you home? after everything?

you feel heat bubble in your throat, not from embarrassment, but something closer to hurt. something that feels too close to rejection from someone you barely even know.

you’re done. you’re done wondering. done overthinking. done waiting for him to make the first move.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving. through the crowd, past the couch, past jay’s raised eyebrows, jake’s knowing smirk, and ni-ki’s off-key singing.

and when you finally get to him, he barely has a second to react before your hand catches his wrist and you’re pulling him into the dim hallway of the apartment that leads to where the bedrooms are. 

it’s quieter here, the thumping bass of the music fading into a distant pulse behind him, like a heartbeat finally slowing down—unlike his own. the air is cooler, laced with the faint scent of spilled beer you’re going to lose your mind over in the morning and whatever cheap air freshener jake sprayed earlier—but it’s still a relief from the chaotic swirl of bodies and flashing lights in the living room.

sunghoon stumbles a little as you tug him along, finally stopping with a soft thump when his back hits the wall. he’s trapped—stuck against the peeling wallpaper and your hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. his eyes widen, the look on his face equal parts confusion, surprise, and something else, something that makes your stomach flip.

“so are you going to tell me why you’re ignoring me?” your voice comes out sharper than you intended, raw with the sting of it all—the silence, the distance, the hurt flashing in your eyes as you watch him falter.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, then closes, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. his cheeks are flushed pink under the dim lighting, and you can’t tell if it’s from the shots he knocked back earlier with jay and jake or from the way you’re standing so close.

“i—i’m…” he’s stammering, his voice low, almost like a whisper stuck in throat, like he’s afraid the words will shatter everything between you. “i don’t—” 

“because first of all,” you step closer, “you tell me we’re fine, we’re friends, we’re cool, that i didn’t do anything wrong—”

his eyes flicker in panic. breath stutters, chest rising too fast. 

“—and then you ignore my texts. completely avoid me. won’t even look at me. in my own apartment.” you exhale sharply. “i’m confused, sunghoon.” 

and for a moment, neither of you move. the music muffled now, just an echo behind you, and the hallway feels too quiet. too intimate, too charged, like the world narrowed down to just the two of you. you loosen your grip on his wrist, but you don’t drop it. and he doesn’t pull away. he just looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. then, he swallows hard, “i—it’s not like i want to—” 

“...okay,” you cut in but your voice is softer, steadier, “then what is it?” 

you watch as sunghoon takes a breath as if to ground himself before he starts, “it’s just—i…” and suddenly his words tumble, trip, collapse over themself. “i don’t know. i just keep messing up. everytime. like the football, the shoes, the lab, probably somehow your car breaking down had something to do with me, literally everything—” 

“sunghoon—” 

“—and it’s like my body just glitches around you or something,” he blurts, running a hand through his hair. “i get nervous, then do something stupid, then you get hurt, and then i feel like an idiot—” his voice cracks and he has to take a breather before continuing again, “and i don’t know how to get myself to stop screwing up around you. i don’t know how to just be normal. not with you.”

his eyes drop. shoulders tense. he looks like he hates himself for saying any of that out loud.

you don’t say anything. you just look at him, studying the way his cheeks glow that soft pink, the slight part of his lips as he breathes unevenly, the way he looks at you with that raw, boyish vulnerability and nerves.

and then your anger melts into something else. something warmer, deeper, something that understands. something that makes the frustration soften and something that tugs at your chest. 

you step closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off of him, close enough that he sucks in a breath like you just touched him even though you didn’t. a small smile makes its way to your face as you tilt your head to meet his eyes fully. your eyes flicker down his face—along the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way he swallows hard under your gaze. 

“okay then…just stop messing up,” you whisper, lips quirking just the tiniest bit. your tone is lighter now, teasing, like it’s the simplest solution in the world. 

sunghoon blinks at you. once, then twice. because you say that as if it’s easy. as if your simple existence being just mere inches away doesn’t set every nerve inside his being on fire. as if his heart isn’t pounding so loud and wild that he’s convinced you can hear it, drowning out the rest of the party around you. as if you’re not looking at him with your glossy eyes and lips, so close to his own, that he doesn’t know if he should kiss you or melt into the ground.

but none of that matters.

because you decide for him.

because the silence is too thick, too charged, and you can’t take it anymore. so before you can even think to stop yourself—

you lean in and close the distance, your lips brushing his in a hesitant, soft way that sends a jolt through you both. and it’s cautious at first, like testing the waters, and sunghoon genuinely believes he’s in a fever dream for a second. but then his hands suddenly find your waist and pull you in closer, and it shifts into so much more.

his lips move against yours with a newfound urgency, one hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. his back hits the wall again with the sudden motion, but he doesn’t care. in fact, in this moment, nothing else matters to sunghoon right now.

because you’re deepening the kiss, tasting the faint bitterness of beer on him, mixed with something sweeter, something unmistakably sunghoon, something that pulls you into a quicker, messier rhythm. a low groan escapes his throat, vibrating against your mouth, and it only fuels you further. you break apart for a breath, but only for a second before your lips crash into his again, your hands fisting in his hoodie as you push him harder against the wall. his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you flush against him until the heat between you becomes nearly unbearable.

“come on,” you murmur against his lips, your voice breathless as you grab his wrist again, but this time you tug him toward the first door in the hallway—your room—and push it open with your free hand.

the door clicks shut behind sunghoon, and he barely has a moment to take in the surroundings—dimly lit by the small lamp on the nightstand beside your bed, a string of lights laced along the headboard, a stack of annotated books piled on your desk, and a row of succulents perched on the windowsill. it’s all so warm, so utterly you.

that’s all he manages to register within the first 0.5 seconds of entering your room. because you don’t hesitate. your lips crash into his again, more fervent now, hungry, backing him hard against the door until the frame digs into his back but he doesn’t even care. 

sunghoon kisses you like he’s terrified it’ll end if he stops—too much tongue at first, then not enough, teeth clashing in the mix because he tilts wrong, nose bumping yours, a startled little huff escaping him when you nip his bottom lip and he doesn’t know whether to pull back or chase harder. his hands are everywhere and nowhere—gripping your waist tight, then loosening like he’s scared he’ll bruise you, then wandering up your back and fisting your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him on earth. 

it’s sloppy, breathless, desperate in a way only a kiss can be when the person has waited twenty two years and repressed every memory that came before it. his rhythm falters with every push and pull, chasing your mouth when you pull for air, making these soft, involuntary sounds—half-whimper, half-groan—that he’ll probably overthink about later. 

“park sunghoon,” you whisper against his swollen lips, pulling back just enough that he instinctively follows, chasing, eyes still closed, and completely, utterly, wrecked. your hands knot in his hoodie, “am i your first kiss?” 

sunghoon’s eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with pure want as he looks down at you. “yeah—well, n—” the rest dies when your drag your teeth over his lower lip, slow and deliberate. a broken, needy sound tears out of him and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, “—no. yes? i think.”

“you think?” your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping lightly, and tug just enough to tip his head back. the soft thud of his back hitting the door again doesn’t even register—his arms only tighten around you, fingers everywhere like he’s trying to memorize your exact shape through fabric. “tell me.” 

“technically—” he starts, voice cracking. “there was this girl in tenth grade—” 

you cut him off again with your tongue this time, licking into his mouth slow and filthy, and whatever story he had dies against your lips. he makes another helpless noise, raw and surprised, and tries to copy the motion. his nose bumps yours again, his grip on your hips stutter, and every time he thinks he found the rhythm, you change it, and he whimpers like it hurts. it’s all messy, desperate, and perfect. 

one of his hands slides down—hesitant, then sudden—and cups the back of your thigh. he lifts it experimentally, and when you immediately hook your leg around his waist he groans like he’s been punched. you smirk against him, giving him credit for the confidence you didn’t think he had in him as he pulls you flush against his body. 

“—spin the bottle,” he manages to gasp out when you trail your mouth along his jaw now, nipping at the skin here and there. he tilts his head back, offering more as his eyes flutter closed again, a soft moan on his lips. “i bit her lip and she bled—”

you giggle softly against his jaw, teeth grazing the sharp line of it, and he shudders so violently his knees almost buckle. his voice is strained now, another small gasp cracking from his throat when you roll your hips once, the friction going straight to his core. “—and my therapist told me to repress traumatic memories so i don’t count it.” 

you freeze and pull back slightly, lifting an eyebrow as amusement flickers in your eyes despite the heat pooling in your core. “your therapist?”

sunghoon’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen and red and still chasing yours. “uh. yeah. jay. jay is my therapist.”

your lips twitch, a small laugh bubbling out before you can catch it. god.

“fuck. you’re so cute,” you murmur, and the sound of your laugh seems to snap the last thread of any and all restraint sunghoon had left. you crash your mouth back into his the same second he surges forwards, kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re his oxygen, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded at this point. you’re already moving, tugging the front of his hoodie, walking backward, pulling him with you step by stumbling step across the room. 

he follows without question, hands roaming everywhere all at once—up your back, into your hair, down to your ass like he can’t decide what he wants to hold onto most. his mouth never leaves yours, swallowing every soft noise you make, and every time you nip his lip he makes that same desperate little sound and tries to kiss your harder, deeper, messier. 

your legs hit the edge of the bed first, and you tumble backwards with a small thud. sunghoon stays standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, lips parted and shiny, hair a mess. his eyes rake over you—lips swollen, hair fanned across your pillow, that infuriating, knowing smirk still clinging to your mouth like you already know exactly what you look like sprawled out waiting for him.

and god, sunghoon thought he knew what living felt like. he thought he was pretty damn accomplished already—decent grades, a color-coded closet, the occasional victory when he plays league with the guys. but this? sunghoon just stares, like this sight of you like this is a religious experience he’s not worthy of. 

he’s never felt more alive.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, tilt your head, and your smirk widens. 

“gonna keep me waiting, park sunghoon?” 

you tease, an eyebrow arched as sunghoon shakes his head frantically in an almost comical, desperate no. he scrambles forward like a man possessed, knees sinking into the mattress before his weight is on you just right, one thigh easily slotting between yours as he leans down to capture your lips again. his hands shove under your sweater, palms hot and trembling against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra like he’s afraid to go higher but dying to.

your hands roam up his back under his shirt, light enough to raise goosebumps, but hard enough to make him arch and grind down with a muffled, broken moan that vibrates straight into your mouth. his mouth trails everywhere, hot and open against your neck, tasting the cool metal of that stupidly delicate necklace, teeth nipping in that perfect, impossible way that hitches your breath and makes you wonder how the hell this could be his first time doing this.

his thigh presses firmer, rough denim rough against your bare skin where your skirt has slightly ridden up, and you can’t help it—you roll up into him, shameless, chasing the pressure, hips circling slow and needy—not sure what you’re after, just something, anything, to relieve the rising ache.

and that makes sunghoon freeze. just for a split second—his mouth hovering over your collarbone, breath ragged and uneven against your skin. you feel it right away, the faint tremor in his hands where they’re gripping your hips, the way his body tenses against yours. he pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes—his own wide, pupils blown but laced with something else—uncertainty and pure, raw, nerves that make your heart twist.

“wait,” he breathes, voice low and rough. his forehead drops to yours, nose brushing, lips so close you can feel the ghost of them against yours, “i…i don’t know what i’m doing.”

and it’s the way the confession spills out. the way it sounds so vulnerable, jagged edges and all. the way his cheeks burn a deeper red that starts to creep down his neck. the way his fingers flex against your sides, like he’s afraid to let you go but equally afraid to keep touching.

the way his eyes hit you—with desire so thick it aches in your core, tangled with that boyish charm that only makes him so much more endearing, more real. you tilt your head up, your hands softening where they clutch his shoulders.

“sunghoon,” you whisper, voice soft but steady, thumb tracing a slow circle onto his hoodie. “that’s okay. we can stop, or we can keep going. whatever you’re comfortable with.”

and sunghoon swallows hard. every nerve he owns is screaming—your body soft and there beneath him, the way your legs are hooked around his waist, it’s all overwhelming, intoxicating, like he’s edged too close to the sun and has absolutely no intention of backing away. and sunghoon’s never been here before, never had anyone look at him like this. but he’s also never felt this way about anyone before. and that’s what makes his heart slam against his ribs.

his eyes drop to your lips before flickering back up. “yeah?” it’s barely a word, more like a pure plea, and god, the vulnerability in it tugs at you harder.

“yeah,” you lean in, brushing your mouth against his in a feather-light touch, not quite a kiss, but just enough to make him chase it. his breath hitches, hands sliding up your waist under your sweater again, hesitant but warmer now, like your words unlocked something for him.

“i just—i really like you, y/n,” his words are so soft and quiet you almost think you made it up. “—and i really don’t want to mess this up. more than i have.” his hands shake slightly on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over your skin as the confession hangs there between you like something holy and obscene at the same time. 

you lean up and give him a full kiss this time, soft, gentle, and reassuring, then smile against him, shifting your hips just enough against him to draw a sharp inhale from him. “you won’t, hoon,” you whisper, nipping at his lower lip, tugging it gently between your own until he groans. “trust me, you’re not going anywhere.” you fingers weave back into his hair, guiding him back down as you capture his lips again—slower this time, letting him set the pace even as you arch up to meet him.

and sunghoon melts into it, his tongue shyly tracing your lips until you part for him, letting him in with a soft sigh that goes straight to his core. his hands gain confidence, sliding up your sides, palms warm and slightly calloused as they explore the curve of your ribs, stopping just shy of your bra like he’s silently asking for permission. you nod into the kiss, arching your body into his hands, and he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. fingers shove your sweater up and off in one frantic motion, and the cool air hits your skin the same second his mouth does—and it’s hot, open, starving against your throat. 

your hands go down to the ends of his hoodie, dragging the material up his chest yourself, nails raking over his abs, feeling them tense under your touch. “off,” you mumble into his mouth. 

sunghoon doesn’t hesitate—he takes it off so fast and clumsily, in park sunghoon fashion, that he almost elbows himself in the face but that doesn’t matter. it’s tossed blindly into the corner of your room before he’s back, chest pressing against you, skin already boiling hot. 

his lips find your throat again, this time sucking a small mark just below your jaw, harder than before, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, and when he pulls back to check your face, there’s still that flicker of hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to tell him no.

“this okay?” he murmurs against the bruise he just left, voice wrecked, his hips rolling down experimentally—a slow, grinding press that has you gasping, thighs tightening around him, the rough drag of his pants over your bare thighs sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly. sunghoon’s breath catches—sharp and audible—like he’s just discovered something forbidden, his eyes flicking down to where your bodies connect, then back up to your face, searching, pleading. 

you can’t answer with words. you just arch up even more, grinding your heat against the now obvious length of him, and the broken moan that rips out of his throat is unholy. he starts to move a little faster, barely holding it together as he chases the way you’re arched off the bed. his hands brace on either side of your head, arms trembling faintly from the effort of holding himself up, caging you in the best kind of trap.

you nod, biting your lip to stifle back a moan, your hands sliding down his sides with a firm press. “yeah, just like that,” you whisper, voice laced with encouragement that makes his pupils go wider. “keep going, just feel me.”

he follows your lead, eyes locked on yours, lips parted in awe as he follows your rhythm. “fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours again. another roll, deeper this time, heavier, his hardening length unmistakable through his jeans, pressing right where you need it, drawing a whimper from your throat. “like this?”

“yes, perfect, hoon,” you let out, rewarding him with a tilt of your hips that has him cursing again under his breath, his movements faltering for a second before he steadies himself again. “use your hands, baby. touch me. here.” you take one of his palms and guide it between your bodies and beneath your bra, molding his broad hand over your breast and squeezing it lightly with your own fingers laced over his.

sunghoon’s eyes darken to near black as he stares at his hand on you like it’s a miracle. the hesitation flickers again—he bites his lip hard, eyes darting to yours for that final green light. you nod, arching into his touch and removing your own hand before he finally moves, thumb circling slowly at first, then bolder, pinching lightly until you gasp his name, “sunghoon—yes, harder.” 

he obeys instantly, rolling the bud between his fingers while kneading with a confidence that borders on desperate. the sensation releases another moan from you, this time loud enough that he clamps his free hand over your mouth instinctively, his eyes blown in a panic. 

“shh—people might—” but you don’t let him finish. 

you take his thumb between your lips, sucking it without any hesitation that leaves him choking on a sound that’s half-moan, half-whine, hips now jerking erratically against yours. his hand falls away, replaced by his mouth crashing into yours—messy, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your moans as he grinds harder, faster, the rough drag of fabric and heat coiling tight between you until you’re both chasing that edge, breathless and lost.

sunghoon should be embarrassed, really. the only one coherent thought left rattling around his skull is: 

he’s about to cum in his pants like a goddamn middle-schooler and there’s not a single thing he can do to stop it.

he can’t stop the obscene sounds spilling from his mouth, his gut feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible, and he’s jerking his body against your soaked heat like it’s trying to fight its way through the pathetic fabric. it’s his first time with a girl, and he might not even make it to the first time part at this point. 

“skirt. push it up,” you pant against his lips, and he does, fumbling his fingers to fully hike the fabric to your waist, exposing the thin barrier of your underwear. his hand hovers there, burning over your thigh, inches from where you’re aching and soaked for him. “touch me, hoon,” you urge, not waiting to take his wrist and press his palm right over your wet core, letting him feel the way you’re absolutely dripping through the lace.

sunghoon’s entire body locks at the sensation, eyes in shock, lips shiny and swollen as he stares down at you, chest heaving. “i—fuck, you’re…wet.” the word comes out slowly, almost disbelieving. his fingers flex, tracing the outline of you through the thin fabric. your mouth drops open slightly at the sensation as you buck up into his hand with a sharp whine, nodding.

“yeah, for you, hoon. now rub, like—” you move his fingers for him, showing the motion—slow, firm circles over your clit that already have your legs trembling, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. he easily takes over after two strokes, copying perfectly, his touch turning slick as he presses firmer, learning your body like it’s his new religion. “oh god—yes, right there, don’t stop—”

and he definitely isn’t planning on it. sunghoon’s mesmerized, forehead pressed to your shoulder now, watching his own hand work between your legs like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. his hips keep grinding, chasing his own friction clumsily against your soft thigh, breaths coming in hot gasps against your skin.

“sunghoon—fuck,” you whimper, the praise spilling out as his thumb finds that perfect rhythm on your clit, circles tightening, faster now, the slick sounds filling the room obscenely. he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard, his free hand clamped on the headboard above you to steady himself.

“am i—is this good?” his words come out cracked and rough, raw desperation threading through it as he presses two fingers experimentally against your entrance through the soaked fabric, feeling you flutter and pulse for him. his hips grind down harder in response to your every twitch, the bulge in his jeans now straining, hot and insistent against your thigh. sunghoon’s unraveling—muscles tense, cheeks flushed, abdomen flexing with every roll—but those big, pleading eyes keep flicking up to yours constantly, almost as if begging for reassurance, for you to keep leading him through this fire.

“perfect, baby. so, so good,” you choke out, your hand shooting down to cover his, guiding his fingers to slip right under the edge of your underwear now. “inside—now. curl them up, like this.” you demonstrate with his hand, pushing one long finger past your folds, then two. and he slides in so easily, your arousal coating him instantly. the stretch burns sweetly, and you both moan—his a broken, addicting sound that sends a vibration straight through you.

sunghoon stops again, buried to the knuckles, eyes staring down at where he’s disappearing inside you. “holy shit,” his voice is wrecked, feeling the way you clench instantly around him. “you’re so—tight—fuck, i can feel you—” his fingers twitch inside you, curling just like you showed him, brushing that one spot that makes your eyes roll back instantly.

“right there. right there, hoon. please—” you cry out, back arching off the bed, nails raking down his bare back hard enough that it stings but he doesn’t care. your words give him the confidence to move—gentle thrusts at first, scissoring his fingers gently, learning the slick glide of you around him, then bolder, fast, his thumb never leaving your clit. the dual sensation has you seeing white, the pleasure coiling violently tight in your core, breaths coming in sobs now.

his forehead drops to yours, noses bumping, lips brushing yours in frantic, open-mouthed kisses that are more shared air than anything. “tell me—fuck, tell me what else,” he’s panting against your mouth, his free hand moving from the headboard to palm your breast fully, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “want to make you—cum—please, show me how—”

and that plea—raw, ruined, his—snaps the coil. 

you shatter—walls clamping down hard on his fingers that they stutter inside you, your orgasm rushing through in sudden waves before you could see it coming. “sunghoon—yes, yes, yes—” your cries muffle into his shoulder, thighs shaking uncontrollably, gushing over his hand in a rush that soaks his fingers, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

sunghoon whines, all high and uneven as he watches you come undone on his fingers, squeezing him like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. his hips jerk forward in messy, desperate snaps against your thigh, cock leaking steadily through his boxers now, chasing friction he’s too wrecked to control. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—pumping you through it, thumb grinding ruthless circles over your swollen clit until you’re twitching, oversensitive, thighs clamping around his wrist like a trap, a broken sob ripping out of you that sounds like his name and mercy all at once.

only when your body limps, boneless and gasping, does he ease his fingers out—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the way your slick coats him, strings of it clinging to his skin as he holds them up to the dim light. his breath stutters at the sight of his glistening fingers, dripping with just pure you. “did i—fuck, did i do that?” 

he doesn’t wait for an answer. brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean with a filthy, broken groan that vibrates straight to your spent clit, making your body jerk again even as you’re still coming down. his tongue swirls, greedy, eyes fluttering shut like he’s tasting heaven and hell at once.

you’re ruined—face flushed, lips bitten raw, hair stuck to your forehead with sweat—but that smirk still clings. you grab his wrist, yank him down hard, and crash your mouth to his, tasting yourself on his tongue—a little salty, a little sweet, but all filthy. “we’re not done,” you murmur, wrecked and hungry, hands already fumbling for his pants. “off—now.”

sunghoon nods frantically, hips lifting just enough to help you shove the material down his legs, boxers tented obscenely, a dark stain already blooming in the front. before he can even process, you hook your fingers in the waistband and drag them down too, freeing him and—fuck. he’s thick, flushed a deep red and curving up toward his stomach, already twitching under your gaze untouched.

he immediately tries to hide his face in your neck, mortified. “don’t—don’t stare like that.” 

you giggle, low and filthy, wrapping your hand around him without warning—one firm stroke from base to tip, thumb swiping through the bead of pre-cum leaking from his slit, spreading it down his length in a slick glide.he immediately bucks into your fist with a choked sob, one hand clutching your shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“baby, you’re gorgeous,” the words drip off your tongue like honey or poison but sunghoon doesn’t know the difference at this point. your thumb swipes over his silt again, and sunghoon has to shut his eyes to restrain himself from finishing all over your fingers right then and there. “feel how hard you are for me? fucking dripping.” 

another stroke—tighter, faster—and his head slams against the pillow next to your head, throat bared, a high, desperate whine tearing out of him.

“touch yourself,” you order, guiding his trembling hand to wrap around yours. “show me how you do it when you think about me.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap to yours, wide and scandalized, breath picking up. “w—what? i—fuck, i don’t—” but his hand moves anyways, wrapping around yours where you stroke him, guiding you together—slow twists at the head, then long pulls back to his base. he’s so responsive, every drag pulling more and more. more moans from his throat, more precum from his tip, leaking steadily over your knuckles.

“good boy,” you praise, and he preens, chest puffing slightly, a desperate whimper spilling out as his free hand braces the headboard above you again for leverage.

“faster—” you tighten your grip, speeding up, and he follows your lead flawlessly, both your hands working him in brutal sync until he’s babbling nonsense pleas mixed in with your name like a prayer he’s too far gone to control. 

then you feel him twitch, once and hard, and you stop cold, releasing him. sunghoon almost pouts at the sudden, aching void—the sharp denial hitting like a punch, but you’re already shifting, too fast to let him dwell.

“not yet—i want your mouth first,” you murmur, sitting up and shoving at his chest until he’s forced back on his heels between your spread thighs, cock bobbing heavy and desperate, flushed dark and leaking. his gaze drops—your face, your bitten lips, then lower to where you’re still exposed, folds swollen and glistening, lace shoved aside and ruined, dripping with the mess he made of you. “get off the bed. on your knees, hoon. want you to taste me.”

he drops instantly—knees thudding against the floor at the foot of the bed, hands grabbing your thighs and yanking you to the edge so fast the mattress springs groan. his face is inches from your core now, breath punching out hot and frantic over your sensitive skin, making you twitch.

he swallows hard at the sight. “i—you need to…show me please,” he’s nearly begging, his voice raspy yet so earnest that it makes your heart stutter at the sight.

you thread your fingers in his hair, guide his mouth forward, pressing his lips to your inner thigh first, letting him kiss and lick small, gentle patterns up toward where you’re aching. “start slow, baby,” you breathe, thighs trembling. “kiss it, then tongue—flat and wide.” 

he obeys like it’s the only thing he was born to do.

lips brush your folds—hesitant, reverent—then his tongue comes out, one broad, filthy lick from your entrance to your clit that punches the air out of your lungs. you immediately roll your hips into his face shamelessly.

“fuck—yes—just like that—suck my clit now—”

and sunghoon doesn’t need to be told twice. he devours you—nose bumping your mound, tongue sloppy and urgent, latching onto your clit with a perfect amount of greed that it pulls a small scream from your throat. he’s messy—chin slick, eyes glassy as he glances up through his lashes for approval, moaning into you every time you tug his hair like he’s on the receiving end. 

“mmph—good?” he mumbles into you, the vibration nearly sending you over, and then—without waiting—he sinks one long finger back inside you, curls it hard, and starts pumping like you taught him.

“oh my god—sunghoon, fuck—yes—” 

your ankles lock behind his head, heels digging into his back, and you ride his face without shame—hips rolling, grinding, fucking yourself on his tongue while he devours you, thriving on every gasp, every quiver, tongue delving deep, lips sucking with starvation. like it’s his last meal and his punishment and his salvation all at once.

sunghoon’s free hand then drops between his own legs —wraps around his aching cock and starts stroking in frantic, sloppy pulls, hips thrusting into his fist in time with the way you’re riding his face. pre-cum drips onto the floor, splattering the wood, and he doesn’t even care—just moans into your cunt like a broken thing, eyes rolling back every time you clench around his finger.

you force yourself up on shaking elbows just to look at the view.

sunghoon on his knees, hair wrecked from your hands, face buried between your thighs, skin slick with sweat that catches in the dim light, mouth shiny with you, pumping his cock recklessly—and those dark, glassy eyes flicking up through wet lashes, begging for approval even as his tongue fucks you into oblivion.

the sight alone almost ends you.

so you decide you’re going to ruin him. and he’s going to thank you for it.

“hoon—fuck—come here,” you haul him up by the hair until his mouth slams into yours, slick with your release, tasting like salt and sin. you feel the heavy, slick weight of his cock pressing against your thigh, twitching wildly with need.

you shove him back with a teasing palm to his chest—flip him in one sharp twist—and he goes down easy, hitting the mattress with a small grunt, eyes huge and black as he puts together what’s about to happen. you straddle him in a heartbeat later, knees digging into the sheets on either side of his hips, hovering just high enough that your soaked heat brushes the flushed head of him—once, twice—drawing a needy, high-pitched whine that rips straight from his chest.

his cock lines up perfectly—throbbing, veins bulging, slick with both of you—and he bites his lip bloody trying to hold back the whimper, hands shaking violently where they clamp your waist for dear life. “wait—shit—i don’t have a condom—”

“sunghoon,” you shoot, voice raw and impatient, already lifting your hips to torture him at your entrance, sinking down just enough to swallow his tip in tight, wet heat. “i really don’t fucking care right now.”

his head slams back against the headboard with a thud, a raw moan tearing free as his hips jerk up involuntarily, trying to bury himself deeper.

“just wanna make you feel good, yeah?”

he nods wildly, eyes pleading—utterly lost, wrecked, and completely yours. “please—fuck, yes please—”

you don’t wait any longer. you drop, sinking down fully in one brutal, merciless move. and the stretch—the sweet, burning stretch of him splitting you open has you both gasping, the pent up tension that’s piled up for days finally shattering into a pure ecstasy that has you blinded.

he fills you to the brim, thick and pulsing, every inch dragging against your clenching walls as you bottom out, your hips now flush against his. you can’t make sense of it—how he’s stretching you impossibly wide, the burn delicious and overwhelming all at once, your body fluttering around him in desperate adjustment. his head snaps back against your headboard again, his throat exposed and veins bulging as he can’t stop the deep moans coming from his chest, hands clamping onto your hips—bruising, possessive, the only way to keep himself grounded.

you collapse forward, forehead to his, breaths mingling in hot, frantic pants. his eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet against his pinked cheeks, lips opening and closing from the pure pleasure, “oh my god—you’re…fuck you’re—so tight—” the words tumble out, his hips twitching up, chasing the sensation, making you both gasp at the jolt.

“shh—stay still,” you whisper as best as you can, hands holding his face to force his glassy eyes open. and you have to collect yourself for a second. because park sunghoon is a vision—lips swollen red, pupils dark and blown, sweat trickling down his temple. “breathe, hoon.” you clench around him deliberately, and he tries his hardest not to snap immediately, his cock throbbing deep inside you. 

“c—can’t—it’s too much—gonna—” his voice cracks, hands scrabbling at your waist, dragging you down harder even as his thighs shake violently under you, every muscle rigid, restraint shattering second by second. he’s pulsing inside you, fighting with everything he has not to cum, teeth gritted, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes because it’s too good, too perfect, too much. 

you lift your hips carefully, just an inch, then sink back down, slow, torturous, letting him feel every slick of you swallowing him whole. “fuck—yes—” his eyes roll back, mouth falling open on a silent moan, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway on their own, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud and filthy. “tell me—fuck, tell me if it feels good—”

“perfect, baby. you feel perfect,” you gasp immediately, voice trembling as you finally start moving—hands braced on his sweat-slick chest, nails carving red lines into his skin. “just like this—harder now, hold my hips—help me—”

and he does—fingers pressing as he hauls you down onto his cock as he suddenly slams up, meeting your movements in brutal, punishing thrusts that turn the air filthy, wet slaps echoing, obscene, and unrelenting. the bed starts to creak in protest beneath you, the string lights on your headboard blurring into hazy streaks as the pleasure turns into tears stinging your eyes. 

“hoon, yes, yes—faster,” your voice breaks into sobs, head tipping back, spine arching so hard your breasts shove up into his face. 

he absolutely loses it. 

he’s seventy percent sure he’s blacked out—the rest of him drowning in the symphony of your broken whines, the way your pussy sucks him in like it’s starving, the intoxicating sensation of you around him—every wet clench, every flutter squeezing him. but he’s still determined, feral with it, a man suddenly possessed—one hand flying up to palm one of your breasts hard, rolling the nipple rough enough between his fingers to draw a small yelp from you, the other shoving between your bodies to rub messy, perfect circles over your swollen clit.

 “s—so tight—fuck, so mine,” he chokes out, voice breaking on every thrust. “mine, mine, mine—fuck—please say—” 

his thrusts turn erratic, sloppy, with a new found determination as he chases his release, eyes locked on where he splits you open—you stretched around him, white slick coating his thighs, his balls, every inch of skin where you two collide.

“yours,” you moan, nails digging further into his chest. “been yours ever since you hit me in the fucking face, baby.”

and that does it. sunghoon just breaks. 

back arching off the bed, whole body spasming, a strangled cry of your name tearing from his throat as as you feel him cum hard, his cock pulsing and swelling impossibly thicker inside you, the harsh and hot spurts filling you up quickly. the heat of it, the throb, the way he jerks inside you shatters you instantly after. 

your second orgasm hits you with a sob against his mouth, clamping down viciously around him, milking him dry as you gush—violent, soaking pulses that drench his cock, his lap, the sheets, everything in a hot, filthy flood that leaves you shaking, blinded, ruined.

you collapse together—boneless, shuddering wrecks tangled in the sweat damp sheets that now cling to your skin. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his cock still twitching deep inside as the aftershock ripples through you both. the room spins softly in the dim glow of your lights, the only sounds the distant party you both forgot about and your breathes mingling in a ragged harmony—his chest heaving against yours, heartbeats syncing in a frantic yet slowing pattern.

sunghoon buries his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, trying his best to catch his breath, each exhale hot against your skin.

“did i—was that okay? are you hurt anywhere?” voice small, vulnerable again despite the literal fact that he’s still buried deep inside you, his release leaking warm and sticky down your thighs, pooling beneath you in an intimate, filthy reminder. his hand moves to stroke your back gently, tracing the curves of your body as if mapping every inch for damage.

you giggle against him, the sound exhausted yet euphoric, vibrating through your chest as you lift his chin with a single finger, tilting his flushed face to yours. the kiss is soft, slow, lingering—tongues lazy and unhurried, a stark contrast to a few minutes ago, tasting all like salt and sex. “hoon, i think you ruined me,” you murmur against his lips, half-teasing, half-serious, your voice strained from the moans he pulled from you.

he lets out a small, relieved laugh, warm and genuine as his hands stay gentle on your back, thumbs circling soothing patterns over your damp skin. you shift slowly, lifting off him with ease, both of you exhaling in a sharp unison at the sudden emptiness.

you don’t pull away far, nestling into his side, draping a leg over his thigh as he tugs your crumpled up blanket over you both. his arm curls around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy swirls along your arm, the touch sweet and affectionate.

“ruined you, huh?” he echos after a beat, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to your temple, lips curving into a shy grin against your hair. “is that…good ruined or bad ruined? because if it’s bad, i swear i’ll make it up to you—after i make up for your nose. and shoes. and clothes. i’ve got a lifetime supply of apologies, honestly.”

you snort softly, cuddling closer into his neck, inhaling the comfort and warmth radiating off of him as your fingers dance lightly over his chest. “good ruined, idiot. like, the kind where i might not be able to physically get up tomorrow. so now you owe me at least breakfast in bed.”

“deal.” sunghoon chuckles, the sound vibrating through you both, his free hand slipping under the blanket to find yours, lacing your fingers in a loose, effortless hold. “pancakes? or—wait, do you even like pancakes? god, i don’t even know that yet. we should probably fix that before i ruin you again.”

you tilt your head up, eyes narrowing playfully before a small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, “baby, is that your way of asking me out?”

his laugh melts into a groan as he buries his face into your hair again, arms tightening around you as he pulls you impossibly closer, bodies fitting perfectly together, “keep calling me baby like that and we’re skipping the pancake date—i’m just gonna ruin you all over again.”

your grin widens as you lift a brow at him, a mix of teasing and challenge written all over your face. then, your hand begins its slow, deliberate descent, fingers trailing a lazy path down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, your eyes watching his adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, his breath catching in anticipation as your hand moves lower and lower.

you part your lips just enough, voice laced sweetly with promise: “deal, baby.”

and after that night, everything kind of falls into an abnormally normal rhythm.

sunghoon did get you pancakes—because he’s a man of promises.

but not until after he ruined you a second time, because, well…he’s a man of promises.

he eventually makes up for the other accidents too. he starts knocking on your door at 8:03AM every morning—two coffees balancing in one hand, a paper bag of something warm in the other, hoodie string still uneven but now on a different hoodie because he let you keep that other one. he starts showing up—after class to drive you home with him, in your texts to ask you which cereal he should buy for the week, in your kitchen, handing you clean dishes while pretending not to stare at the way you hum along to whatever song is playing. 

he starts showing up in parts of your life where you didn't even know he was missing but now that he’s here, you never want to go back. 

and through it all, sunghoon learns you. he learns that you can’t drink iced coffee without stirring it exactly three times first, that you sometimes talk in your sleep, that you always pick the m&ms out of trail mix, that you hate parallel parking but love late night drives, that you laugh with your whole face, and that someway, somehow, between the pancakes and drives and mornings and the softness—you’ve managed to carve out a permanent place in his life without either of you really meaning to.

so yeah. everything becomes accidentally abnormal after that night.

sunghoon still wakes up on time like he always does—but now he gets ready faster, just so he can walk ten doors down the hall and meet you before class.

you still sit next to him in chemistry, but now your hand is slyly trailing up his thigh under the bench table while he’s trying (and desperately failing) to measure 25 milliliters of sodium hydroxide without shaking.

when you’re at his apartment, curled up together on the couch, jay walks by and gives sunghoon a look that says finally.

when he’s at your apartment, head resting in your lap, jake walks by and gives you the same look.

it’s all wonderfully, beautifully, accidentally abnormal. which, for you and sunghoon, feels just right.

so, yeah—they say you never forget your firsts.

your first love, your first kiss, your first time.

for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly?

he kind of really hopes he never will.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ ty all again if u made it to the end <3 mwahmwahmwah

m.list here!

You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.

Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.

“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”

You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”

You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

He grinned. “A little,”

You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”

Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”

The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.

Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.

You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.

“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.

The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.

”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.

The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.

“Please, be seated.”

You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.

“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.

“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”

Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.

“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”

Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.

Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.

You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.

Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”

Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.

“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”

Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.

With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.

Across from you, Jongseong did the same.

The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.

It was done. You were married.

The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”

The word felt hollow.

The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.

The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.

The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.

Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.

Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.

Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.

“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”

An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.

You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”

Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”

You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”

Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.

You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.

The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.

You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—

A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.

You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”

You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.

“What’s that?” you asked warily.

Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.

A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.

You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”

He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”

You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”

Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.

A beat of silence.

Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”

Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.

“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”

Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”

You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”

“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”

Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.

That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”

You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”

Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”

The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.

Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.

It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.

Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.

You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”

Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”

You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”

He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”

And for some reason, that stuck with you.

Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.

He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.

“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”

Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”

Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”

Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”

But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”

Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”

“Is she at least decent company?”

Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”

“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”

Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.

the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”

The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”

Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.

Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”

rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”

Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”

“See you at lunch, hubby.”

Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.

Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.

He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.

This morning was no different a few weeks later.

By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.

You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.

“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.

Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”

He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.

You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.

But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.

You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.

“Expecting someone?” you asked.

He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”

The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.

“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”

Your stomach dropped.

Jongseong had not finished dressing.

He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.

You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.

“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”

Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.

“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.

Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.

Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.

She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:

“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”

Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.

You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.

At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.

“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”

Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”

“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”

Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”

“You’re impossible.”

Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”

Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.

“I’ll… think about it.”

When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.

“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.

“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”

You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”

Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life” 

“Ah, I see.” 

He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”

And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.

You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.

Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.

His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.

You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”

He smirked. “It is, actually.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.

The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.

His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”

Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”

As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.

You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.

You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.

The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.

Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.

Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”

You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?

Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”

Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”

The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.

Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”

Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”

You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”

And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The table burst into cheers.

As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”

Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”

Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”

Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”

Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”

Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”

Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.

“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”

Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”

Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”

Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”

Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”

Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.

Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.

The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.

You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”

Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.

The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.

Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And then came the first real break in the routine.

You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.

For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.

It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.

You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”

Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”

Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”

You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”

A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.

As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.

At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”

You glanced at him. “With who?”

“My friends.”

You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”

Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“They like you too.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?

“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.

Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”

Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”

You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.

But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.

Why did he come to get you in the first place?

It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.

It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.

A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.

Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.

After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”

Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”

Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”

You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”

The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.

You swallowed. “I should—”

“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.

The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.

Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.

Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit. Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.

You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”

Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.

“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”

Silence.

The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

“We need to practice.”

You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”

He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”

He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.

“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”

You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.

“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.

You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.

“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.

You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”

He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”

You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.

“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”

You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”

His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.

The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.

Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.

A slow, deliberate slide of lips.

Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.

There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.

Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.

And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.

Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.

Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.

Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”

You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”

He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.

That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.

The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?

You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.

"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.

By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.

You accepted it.

Maybe even welcomed it.

By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.

"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.

You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.

It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.

"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.

Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.

Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.

"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.

"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.

"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."

He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.

Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.

Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"

Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.

Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.

The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.

You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.

You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?

You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—

You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Again.

Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”

You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.

“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”

“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”

Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.

Panic seized your chest.

“They’re early?” you hissed.

Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.

Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.

“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.

“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.

“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”

You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.

The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.

“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”

Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”

The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”

You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?

Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”

You nearly choked on air.

The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”

Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”

That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.

The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”

The air in the room thickened.

Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”

The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.

“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”

Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?

The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”

Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?

The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”

Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”

The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”

The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”

You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.

You should’ve seen it coming.

His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.

By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.

The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”

Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.

The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.

“That was—”

“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

You had no answer to that.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.

And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.

You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.

You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.

You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.

“You said it so easily,” you muttered.

Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”

Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”

His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.

You swallowed. “We have a week.”

“Six days.”

Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”

He shrugged. “It’s important.”

You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.

You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”

“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”

He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.

For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”

His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”

You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”

Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.

Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.

Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.

“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”

He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline. 

“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.

Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.

“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.

You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.

Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch.”

“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.

Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”

You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”

His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”

You nodded slowly. “Sides.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Neither of you moved.

The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.

Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”

You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”

Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension. 

Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.

Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”

His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.

______________________________________________________________

The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.

Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.

When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.

The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.

Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.

“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.

You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”

Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”

Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”

You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.

You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”

He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”

Would you?

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”

He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”

Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”

Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”

You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.

“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.

You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”

Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”

You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”

Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”

You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.

He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”

You nodded. “Okay. That works.”

Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."

You hesitated. "Are you sure?"

He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."

Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay." 

“You sure you’re comfortable?”

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.

Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”

Just him.

The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.

After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"

There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."

Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.

Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.

You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.

Then you looked toward the bed.

Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.

Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”

Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better. 

You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.

You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”

You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”

“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”

His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.

Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.

“What happened after that?”

“Did you tell them off?”

“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”

By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.

By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.

You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”

Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”

You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”

His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face. 

"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.

You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual. 

Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep. 

You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.

The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”

Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”

You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”

He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”

The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”

Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”

You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”

He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”

You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”

Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.

Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.

You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"

Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.

You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."

Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.

When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?" 

"You should kiss me more," he teased.

You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”

Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”

You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.

As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.

Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."

You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.

Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.

“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.

You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”

Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”

There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.

You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”

Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”

You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.

Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."

You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."

The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.

The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.

"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"

You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."

Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."

You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."

Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"

Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."

Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."

You nearly choked. "Mina!"

She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."

Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process." 

She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."

Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.

Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.

The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.

Jay was different today. More touchy.

The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.

Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."

Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."

Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"

He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."

You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"

Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."

You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."

Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."

It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.

You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Jay smirked. “Come here.”

You scoffed. “Why?”

He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.

“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

The worst part was that he was warm too.

After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.

“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.

Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”

You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.

"Jay—"

He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.

It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.

Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.

By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.

His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.

Your breath hitched. "What?"

Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."

The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.

Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."

His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."

You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.

"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.

“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.

He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”

And you hated that he was right.

You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.

But relief was the last thing you felt.

There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.

Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.

You should kiss me more.

You feel safe.

Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.

The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.

“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”

Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”

Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”

You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”

The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”

Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.

She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”

Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.

Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”

Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.

“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.

You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.

“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”

And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”

Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”

He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”

You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”

Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.

“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”

Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”

“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”

Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."

Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"

You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."

"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."

You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."

Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"

"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"

You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.

You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."

Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."

Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”

You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.

“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”

Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”

The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.

By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.

Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.

Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.

A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.

Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."

Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."

His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.

His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."

The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.

You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."

She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."

The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.

Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.

His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.

"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"

You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."

Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."

You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."

His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?

Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."

His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."

His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."

The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.

His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."

You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.

After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."

You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.

"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.

The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.

She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."

You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."

Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."

You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."

She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."

You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."

She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.

Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."

The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."

Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.

"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."

The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.

You pushed the door open.

Jay was there. Waiting.

He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.

He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.

The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.

Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.

You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.

“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.

Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."

The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.

You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."

That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."

Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."

More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.

Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."

The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."

Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."

You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.

Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.

Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.

“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.

A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.

Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.

"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."

Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.

"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."

You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.

You settled into his lap.

Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.

Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.

He kissed you deeper.

You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.

By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.

Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."

Jay froze.

Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"

Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."

Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."

You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."

Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."

For the first time that night, everything felt right.

The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.

His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.

You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Then, he tightened his grip.

You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.

"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.

You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.

Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.

And then, realization hit.

You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."

Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.

"If you say so, baby."

The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.

You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.

When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.

Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."

You glanced at him. "So are you."

His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"

You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.

It started small. A test. A game.

You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.

Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.

And Jay? He played back.

His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.

Then came the moment when he finally called you out.

One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.

"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.

You scoffed. "In your dreams."

Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.

"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.

So, you did something reckless.

As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.