nyx

A Benevolent Narcissist.

Owen will give you everything.

Money without limits. Time carved out of impossible schedules. Protection, attention, devotion so intense it feels flattering—overwhelming in the best way.

He doesn’t hesitate.

When he wants you, he decides you’re his, and the world rearranges itself accordingly.

He chases you openly. Proudly. He stakes his claim without asking if you want to be claimed—introduces you as his, keeps a hand on you in public, lets everyone know you’re taken care of. With him, there is no doubt, no ambiguity. You are chosen. You are wanted. You are prioritized.

And that’s what makes it so dangerous.

Because Owen doesn’t love in halves—he loves in ownership.

Everything he gives comes with an invisible receipt. Not something he waves in your face—but something he expects you to honor instinctively.

Loyalty. Availability. Emotional exclusivity. Your attention, your softness, your patience—things he slowly begins to assume belongs to him because he’s given you so much in return.

He isn’t stingy. He’s generous to excess.

But generosity becomes leverage when it’s never questioned.

Owen doesn’t ask if he can take up space in your life—he fills it: He solves your problems before you finish explaining them. Makes decisions “for your own good.” Protects you from things you didn’t ask to be shielded from.

It feels like care, because it is care—just care that doesn’t leave room for your autonomy.

And when you resist, he doesn’t rage—He looks hurt. Confused. Almost offended.

Why would you push back when he’s given you everything?

That’s where the narcissism lives—not in cruelty, but in certainty. The certainty that his love is the best thing that could happen to you. That his way is the safest, the smartest, the most reasonable. That being with him means letting him lead—not sometimes, but always.

He wants you close. Not just emotionally—structurally. Integrated into his life, his image, his plans. Your independence slowly becomes something he indulges, not something he respects. Your boundaries turn into suggestions he believes love will eventually soften.

And the price of staying?

You are adored, but monitored. Protected, but managed. Cherished, but claimed.

You begin to ask yourself before you speak. Before you choose. Before you want. Not because he forbids it—but because you know how much he’s invested, how much he’s given, how much it would hurt him if you stepped outside the shape he’s built around you.

Owen never says you owe him.

He just makes it feel obvious.

And the hardest part is this: he would genuinely give you the world if you asked—but only if that world still revolved around him.

Because to Owen, love isn’t about standing beside someone.

“Just a quickie,” Owen murmurs, still breathless, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips like he’s testing if you’ll argue.

You barely manage a shaky inhale before he’s already crowding you against the wall, lifting your skirt with one hand while the other hooks in the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down with rough insistence. The air is cool for a second before his fingers replace it, pressing in hard and fast like he’s checking how much you can take.

“Owen—!”

“Quiet,” he cuts in, voice low, still ragged from earlier.

His mouth crashes onto yours—messy, biting, like he’s devouring you—before he spins you around so quick your shoulder bumps the wall. His palm plants between your shoulder blades, bending you forward over the nearest bench until you’re right where he wants you.

You gasp when you feel the blunt head of his cock push against you, and then he’s sinking in hard, forcing your body forward. The stretch burning in the best way, and you can hear the smug noise he makes behind you.

“Fuck, you’re tight—” his voice breaks into a groan, hips slamming forward in sharp, ruthless thrusts. “—gonna make this real fast, babe.”

The bench groans with every push, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. His hand finds your hair, tangling and yanking your head back so his mouth can graze your ear.

“Keep clenching like that, I’ll make it two minutes,” he taunts, slamming harder.

You can’t answer—your voice catches on every thrust, your hands gripping the edge of the bench for balance. He laughs low in your ear like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Abruptly, he pulls out—but before your body can miss him, he flips you onto the bench. His hands shove your knees apart, dragging you forward until your ass is right at the edge. One deep push and he’s back inside, groaning like he’s found the perfect fit.

“This—fuck—this is better.”

His mouth finds your neck, biting down just enough to make you squeak, hands hooking under your thighs so he can hammer into you from this new angle. Your breath stutters with each thrust, your back arching against him.

You try to speak, “Owen, you—” but he cuts you off by folding you in half, pressing your knees toward your chest and grinding deeper.

“Shut up,” he pants. “Almost there—fuck—”

Your nails dig into his shoulders. His pace is brutal but precise, pushing you toward the edge whether you want it or not. One last deep thrust and he’s groaning into your neck, spilling inside you while keeping himself buried deep.

When he pulls out, his cum slicks down between your thighs, and he swipes at it lazily with his thumb.

“See? Quickie.” He grins. “Now round two.”

“H-Huh—n-ngh-”

You barely register the words before he’s hauling you up, spinning you until your back hits the wall again. His hand catches under your thigh, hooking it over his hip as he lines himself up and pushes in—still wet, still hot from the first round.

Your gasp turns into a whimper when he starts moving immediately, thrusts short but deep, forcing you to cling to his shoulders.

“O-Owen—! S-Slow dow-”

“Thought we were done?” he smirks, watching your head tip back. “Not even close.”

His hand slides up to wrap lightly around your throat—not enough to choke, just enough to make your knees weaken further.

“Look at you. All messy and whiny. Bet you couldn’t walk out there right now if you tried.”

You try to glare at him but it falls apart when he shifts his hips just right, grinding against the spot that makes your toes curl. Your breath comes out in broken gasps, your nails biting into his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, his pace picking up, thrusts sharper. “You take me better like this, yeah? Can’t even talk, can you?”

Your only response is a strangled noise, which makes him chuckle against your cheek before kissing you hard—sloppy and possessive.

He drives into you until you’re shaking, and then he’s pulling out again without warning.

“Hands and knees,” he orders, already pushing you toward the floor mat in the corner.

The second you’re down, he’s behind you, shoving back in with a satisfied groan. His hands grip your hips like handles, dragging you back to meet every thrust.

“Perfect view,” he mutters, leaning over to press a kiss to your shoulder before snapping his hips forward again.

The slap of skin is relentless, each push knocking little sounds from you until you’re limp in his hold.

He finishes just as hard as the first time, pulling out only to watch himself drip from you again for a moment—thumb pushing into your mess to keep his slick inside.

“Shit—want me to finger it all in?” he snorted, chuckling in daze when your hips tried to wriggle away from his hold.

His palm swipes over the mess, smearing it up your spine.

“Round three.” he drawled.

You just groaned under your breath before he’s lifting you—again—literally scooping you off the floor like you weigh nothing—and tossing you back onto the bench.

“Can’t quit now,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, like he’s daring you to argue.

Your legs are jelly, but he pushes them open anyway, slotting himself between them and sliding back in. The overstimulation makes you cry out, your hands flying to his chest, but he just grins down at you.

“Too much?” His hips roll slow for a few seconds, letting you feel every inch. “Good.”

Then the pace changes again—deep, punishing thrusts that have your head dropping back and your voice breaking on every exhale.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other braces beside you.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, pressing down into you harder.

Your eyes flutter closed, your body giving in to every push and pull. He’s grinning—cocky, flushed, sweat dripping down his temple—but his eyes stay locked on your face like he’s memorizing every reaction.

When he finally cums again, it’s with a shudder and a groan, collapsing over you for a moment before straightening. He looks down at you—wrecked, panting, clothes barely hanging on—and smirks.

It started with something dumb.

Like, real dumb.

The kind of dumb that’s just supposed to be his usual post-race wind-down—kick off the shoes, scroll through Instagram, look up that fine chick he saw from LOS the day after their first race.

Yumi Lee—not exactly a state secret. Her @ was right there in the crew’s tagged posts, and hey, not his fault the Tarantula girls had a roster worth a good five minutes of his attention.

Enough for him to jump from one profile to another, clicking whatever account was tagged in a photo he deemed hot enough to catch his eye.

Five minutes turned into twenty. Twenty turned into how the hell did I end up here?

Because somewhere between “just looking” and “I swear I’m not creeping,” he clicked too far. Dug too deep. Swiped himself straight out of Yumi’s world and face-first into yours.

Your profile.

The same one he remembers blocking three years ago—back when his pride was bigger than his sense of direction and the breakup was still fresh enough to feel like chewing glass.

He hadn’t thought about that in a while.

Or, well—he told himself he hadn’t.

Now? He’s scrolling your feed like it’s his morning newspaper. Clicking through your highlighted stories like he’s an archaeologist uncovering relics from a life he used to live.

Latest post? Cute. Oldest post? Ouch. He’s not even sure when he started smiling at stupid little things in the captions—inside jokes that aren’t his anymore.

And then—because his life is a sitcom with no laugh track—Hyuk happened.

One second, Wooin’s sitting at the dining table, hunched over his phone like a gremlin. Next thing he knows, Hyuk’s leaning over his shoulder, peering down without a single ounce of personal-boundary awareness.

And then—tap.

Double tap.

A bright, cheery little heart blooms right on your smile in a picture from two years ago.

The sound Wooin made was somewhere between a choke and a gasp.

“What the—?! HYUK!”

Hyuk just blinks, shrugs, and takes a bite of his banana like he didn’t just ruin Wooin’s social life in under three seconds.

Meanwhile, Wooin’s staring at his screen like it’s a live grenade, watching that stupid heart sit there, broadcasting his relapse to the world.

He jabs at the screen, unliking it in a panic.

“She’s gonna see that! You know Instagram tells you instantly, right?!”

Hyuk swallows his bite. “Then she already saw it.”

“That’s not—shut up!” Wooin’s fingers are flying now, opening your profile, closing it, reopening it like that’ll somehow erase the notification from your end.

He’s mid-scroll when Hyuk leans over again, smirking. “Oh, this one’s nice,” he says, tapping another post before anyone can stop him.

Another heart blooms.

“FUCKER, I WILL—” Wooin practically tackles the phone out of his hand, nearly spilling the rest of Hyuk’s stupid banana onto the table.

“Are you trying to make me look like a desperate stalker?!”

Hyuk snorts, leaning back in his chair. “You’re already scrolling two years deep. The damage was done before I got here.”

“That’s different!” Wooin hisses, already unliking the second post with trembling fingers. “Scrolling in silence is stealth. This is a fucking crime scene now.”

He sets the phone down like it’s contaminated, rubbing his face. “She’s gonna think I’m crawling back.”

Hyuk raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Wooin opens his mouth, closes it, glares at him instead. “…That’s not the point, but I'm not.”

Two days passed.

Two whole, dragging, quiet days.

No notification from you.

No snide message calling him a creep.

No passive-aggressive post about “certain people” lurking. 

Not even a single sign you’d noticed Hyuk liking those buried photos from years ago.

Wooin should’ve been relieved.

Hell, he should’ve been celebrating—no drama, no embarrassment, no reason for you to block him, and salt the earth behind you.

But no.

Instead, he was exactly where he’d been that night—slouched over the dining table, hood pulled low over his head, a lollipop cracking between his teeth from how hard he was biting down on it.

Fuck. 

Why weren’t you reacting?

Wasn’t that enough to piss you off at least a little? To make you text him something, just so he’d know you still had it in you? Or had you forgotten him completely? Did Hyuk’s little stunt just get buried under a pile of other notifications—other people, other lives, all of them pulling you further from where he still was?

The thought made his head throb.

He dragged his hand down his face, trying to shake it off, when a familiar, smug voice cut through the low hum of his place.

“Oh? Back at it again?”

This time, when Hyuk leaned in over his shoulder, Wooin was quick—phone flipped closer to his chest, chin dipping under his hood like an animal guarding a kill. His scowl was sharp enough to cut, but Hyuk didn’t even blink. 

Joker stood just behind him, blank as ever, while the fuckass wore that infuriating look of someone ready to keep poking until something broke again.

“Fuck off, asshat,” Wooin groaned, raking his fingers through his hair like it might clear his head. “I’m gonna hit you for real this time.”

“With what? Your whining?” Hyuk’s voice came flat as a brick wall, unbothered, as he reached over Wooin’s counter to pluck another banana without so much as looking at him. 

He peeled it with the same slow, deliberate motion of someone who knew they were about to piss you off and was savoring every second. 

“Still stalking your lil girlfriend?” he deadpanned around the first bite.

Wooin barely turned his head, shoving at Hyuk’s shoulder with a lazy flick that carried more irritation than force.

“Ex—I said fuck off,” he groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “You’re so fucking invested in this, you psycho.”

“He didn’t deny the stalking, great.” Joker deadpanned.

“Of course I am.” Hyuk didn’t even blink. He leaned his hip against the counter like he owned the place, banana halfway gone already. “The only time you were calm was when you were dating her.”

From where he shifted, Joker’s voice cut in again, flat as ever. “He can be calm?”

Wooin shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but Joker didn’t even flinch—just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, looking bored in that way only Joker could.

“Yeah,” Hyuk went on, chewing noisily for effect, “and his face wasn’t full of holes yet.” His gaze flicked to the piercings on Wooin’s lip and brow, the faint glint of metal catching the low light. 

“Back then you looked like some harmless golden retriever. Now?” He gestured vaguely with the banana, like he was pointing out a crime scene. “Now you just look like you’re trying to scare off feelings.”

“Or people,” Joker added, and though his tone was even, there was something about it that made the air tighten for a beat.

Wooin bit down on his lollipop hard enough to hear the crack, trying not to let the sting of their words show.

“Wow, this must be really stressing you out,” Hyuk’s voice cut through the silence like nails down a chalkboard, just as Wooin’s jaw tensed around his lollipop.

Wooin didn’t even look up, just muttered, “Shut up,” under his breath.

“Want me to lend you hands?” Hyuk said casually.

“You mean lend a hand,” Joker corrected without missing a beat from where he leaned on the counter, eyes half-lidded in that deadpan way he always spoke.

But Hyuk just shook his head, hooking a banana between his teeth as his free hand shot out—smooth as if he’d done this a hundred times—snatching Wooin’s phone right from his grip. 

“No,” he said around the fruit, his voice muffled, “I meant hands.”

“Oi—what the fuck—!” Wooin nearly knocked his chair back as he lunged, but Hyuk was already spinning away like it was a game.

“Hold him for a sec, Joker. I’ll pay you later,” Hyuk called over his shoulder, thumbs flying across the screen without an ounce of shame.

Joker didn’t even hesitate.

One second Wooin was on his feet, the next his arms were wrenched back and his hoodie collar was half choking him. 

“That’s a million won, you freak,” Joker said flatly, like this was just another business.

“AHH FUCK—STOP IT!” Wooin kicked back, trying to shake Joker off, but the man had a grip like steel.

Hyuk was grinning now, tapping away with infuriating calm. “Relax. I’m just doing what you’re too chicken to do.”

“I swear to God—Hyuk, I’ll kill you!” Wooin thrashed again, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Then kill me later,” Hyuk replied, still typing. “She’s gonna think this is cute.”

“CUTE?! I’M GONNA FUCKING—” Wooin jerked forward hard enough to make Joker grunt, almost slipping free—until Joker shifted his weight and reeled him back in.

And then it happened—Hyuk froze for just a second, smirking at whatever he’d just sent. The sound of a notification leaving the phone seemed to echo in Wooin’s ears like a gunshot.

By the time he managed to twist halfway out of Joker’s hold and grab Hyuk by the collar, dragging him in close enough to strangle him on the spot—

—Hyuk was already holding the phone up like a trophy. 

“Too late. She’s seen it.”

Wooin’s heart slammed into his throat, his rage short-circuiting into cold panic as he saw your name at the top of the screen, the little “typing…” bubble already appearing.

And just like that, all the fight drained from his knees, Joker’s grip the only thing keeping him upright as the realization hit:

You were typing back.

And if the universe had any sense of mercy, you’d be typing something short.

But knowing his luck? He was about to fucking die.

To be fair, the moment his name lit up your notifications after years of radio silence, your first instinct was to bury your face in a pillow and scream.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know what he’d been up to—you weren’t living under a rock. His social media had been public enough, his posts loud in more ways than one. Photos of races, nights out, friends draped over him, that wild grin plastered across his face—he was living.

And you were happy for him. 

Honestly, you were—but you never planned to wedge yourself back into his orbit. 

Even if things had ended cleanly—kindly, even—and you’d made peace with being a quiet bystander. Every so often you’d check in from afar, see if he was still cycling, still chasing the things he loved back when you were both younger and tangled up in each other’s days. 

That was enough—Or it had been, until now.

Y.WOOIN — 2m ago

“Are you a banana? Because I’m going bananas over you🍌”

A corny pick-up line as his first words after years? Hell yeah.

The laugh hit you so hard you had to bury your face into your pillow again, shoulders shaking as you scrambled to type back something that matched the absurdity.

Your thumbs flew, mashing out a chaotic HAHAHSHSHASHAHSAHSHASHASHASHAHSA before you flopped onto your back, phone still in hand, grinning like an idiot at the ceiling.

And maybe it made you easy.

Or maybe it was just that you were still… too tangled up in the old you-and-him—still holding onto the shape of those memories like they hadn’t already yellowed with time. 

Whatever the reason, here you were. Only a day after that ridiculous, awkward little reconnection, sitting across from him in a cramped café near your workplace. 

As if the two of you hadn’t been quietly dodging each other’s existence for the past three years. As if three years of silence could be erased with one stupid message and a seat between chipped mugs and the smell of burnt espresso.

“…Bananas, huh…” you started weakly, your voice dipping into that uncertain place between teasing and testing the waters. 

The steam from your coffee curled in the air, a small amused grin barely hidden behind the rim of your mug.

Across from you, his reaction was instant. His eyes squeezed shut like you’d just stabbed him with the memory, a groan escaping as his hand came up to cover his face. Even with his palm hiding most of him, you could still catch the faint flush that had bloomed high on his tanned cheeks, creeping up to the tips of his ears.

You snickered, the sound bubbling out without effort.

“Jesus—I told you, it was Hyuk!” he said, voice breaking with mock outrage as he peeked at you through his fingers. “He was the one who sent that after taking my phone.”

“Or so you’ve said,” you hummed into your drink, deliberately letting the skepticism drip from your tone. “If you said so…”

That earned you the kind of look you remembered too well—the one where his brows pinched, like he was torn between annoyance and the urge to smile. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him, and muttered something about “unbelievable” under his breath.

The café wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t quiet either. The hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups, the low hum of someone’s playlist—it all wrapped around you like a buffer, a reminder that this wasn’t the same bubble you used to live in with him. 

Back then, conversation came so easy. Now, it felt like the two of you were prodding at each other’s edges, testing if you still fit anywhere in each other’s lives.

You lowered your mug, resting your fingers against the warm ceramic. “So… Hyuk’s still around?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We ride together sometimes. He’s still an idiot, though. Some things don’t change.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Guess not.”

For a moment, it was just the sound of you both sipping your drinks. That weird, careful silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly—just… foreign.

The last time you’d sat across from him, you’d been able to read his mood without thinking, fill in the gaps without asking. Now, it was like you were working from a faded copy of the map.

He was the one who broke the silence next.

“So—you’ve been… good?”

The words were simple enough—small talk, harmless—but the way he said them, low and unhurried, with his eyes flicking to yours only to drop away again, made your stomach tighten in a way you weren’t ready for.

His voice didn’t sound like it used to. Deeper now. Less restless.

“Yeah,” you said after a pause, like you needed to check the word before letting it out. “Busy. Work’s been… you know.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, fingers drumming once against the side of his cup. “You back for good?”

“…Yeah. I plan to stay here for work.” You tilted your head toward him. “You?”

His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough. “Still cycling. Still… me, I guess.”

You let out a small laugh, one that felt oddly self-conscious. “Still you.”

He leaned forward a little then, forearms resting on the table. And it wasn’t the gesture that caught you so much as the way he was looking at you—steadily, quietly—like he was searching for the edges of something you hadn’t said yet. That same watchfulness you remembered from before, but sharper now. 

“You didn’t have to say yes, you know,” he murmured.

Your brows knit. “To coffee?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, though the motion felt heavier than it should have. “We could’ve just… left it at that message.”

Your thumb traced the curve of your mug’s handle, more to keep your hands busy than anything.

“Maybe,” you murmured, glancing up at him. “But I wanted to see you.”

Something shifted in his face at that—his eyes softening, just enough to be noticeable. He didn’t answer right away, only gave a single, slow nod, like he was filing the words away somewhere private.

The air between you felt different after that. Looser in one way, tighter in another. You found yourself leaning in too, elbows on the worn wood between you, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. Definitely not the same one he wore in high school.

“I thought you’d hate me,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His head tilted slightly. “Why would I hate you?”

You shrugged, gaze dropping to the swirl of coffee in your cup. “Because I left. When you were… when you weren’t at your best.”

“I never hated you,” he said, cutting you off, the firmness in his tone pulling your eyes back to his. “I was the one who told you to go. Who was I to stop you from getting out of here for your own damn future?” 

The last part came out like a short, almost disbelieving laugh. But then he went quiet. His gaze slid away, not like before, but in a way that felt hesitant.

“I just thought… you didn’t want me around anymore. Even when you got back from the US.”

Something stuttered in your chest. 

You looked at him—really looked at him. The lines in his face were different now. His hair was styled and short instead of messy. His shoulders broader, hidden under his baggy clothes but wide enough for you to notice. 

A man.

Not a boy hunched over a desk anymore—not even close.

“I did,” you said softly. “Want you around, I mean.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he almost wanted to.

“Yeah?” he scoffed lightly, tilting his head, the lenses of his yellow-tinted glasses catching the light.

You looked away before you could stop yourself, warmth crawling up your neck like it had been waiting for the perfect excuse to humiliate you. And it was definitely not because you’d just realized he was… more attractive now. 

Absolutely not.

It was just coffee. Or the heating. Or maybe the way the sunlight caught the steam curling up from your cup—anything except the fact that his jaw looked sharper than you remembered, or that his voice had deepened just enough to sit lower in your chest.

From there, the conversation began to soften at the edges, bleeding into safer territory. You traded small updates like they were foreign currency—careful, tentative, but with a surprising amount of value.

Mutual friends. Jobs. The weather. That one teacher who’d mysteriously vanished mid-year

And then—

“Remember that time we got caught sneaking snacks into the library?” you asked, hiding your smile behind the rim of your mug.

He huffed a laugh, leaning back into his chair. “You mean when you nearly choked trying to eat a whole bread roll before she reached us?”

“You’re the one who told me to hide it in my mouth!”

“And you listened,” he said, grinning in that way that made the lines by his eyes crinkle—a detail that, absurdly, felt like proof that time had actually passed.

Each story shaved away a little more of the stiffness, until you could almost pretend the gap hadn’t been years wide. Almost.

Because underneath the easy laughter, there was something else. Something heavier. You could feel it in the pauses, in the way his eyes kept catching yours and holding just a fraction too long.

When your cups were empty, neither of you moved to stand. The afternoon light shifted through the wide cafe window, streaking warm gold across the table. He noticed you looking, and for once, didn’t glance away.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice quiet enough to almost be lost under the soft clink of dishes behind the counter. It wasn’t unkind—if anything, it sounded… careful.

“So have you,” you returned, equally soft.

His gaze lingered, steady. And you were suddenly aware of the sound of your own heartbeat, like it had chosen this exact moment to move into your throat. There was something unsaid there—something fragile, still wrapped in the same kind of silence that had kept the two of you apart for three years.

But you didn’t get up. And neither did he.

The air between you seemed to thicken, not with tension, but with a strange pull. Like both of you were standing at the lip of a memory, toes curling at the edge, wondering if you should step back or let yourselves fall.

“So…” he began, voice lower and rougher than before, like the word had been sitting on his tongue for a while, “was it really that funny?”

It took you a second to catch on—your mind still lingering in the calmer rhythm you’d both slipped into—but then the corner of your mouth curved when it clicked. 

The banana line. Of course.

“Yes,” you said, your voice carrying a little too much certainty.

His eyes darted away with a sharp exhale through his nose, half a scoff, half a laugh. “I swear it wasn’t me.”

“Sure,” you replied. But your tone was softer this time—less pointed, more like you were leaving the door cracked for him to keep going if he wanted.

He took it.

“You know how ridiculous Hyuk is,” he muttered, the words coming with a grumble that didn’t quite match the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mm,” you hummed knowingly, leaning back against your chair. “Hyuk’s always been the one pushing you around, after all.”

That earned you an exaggerated roll of his eyes, his head tilting just enough that you could catch the tiny twitch of his mouth like he was fighting a grin.

“Pushing me around, huh…” he echoed under his breath, but there was no real bite to it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still riding together,” you said after a beat, your tone slipping into something gentler. “At least… you weren’t alone.”

The words seemed to settle heavier between you than you expected. His gaze didn’t lift immediately, and when it did, it was only long enough to flick toward you before he raised his mug higher, letting it shield the lower half of his face.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you took a sip from your own cup, watching the way the light through the window cut across his profile this time—the sharpness of his jaw, the glint of piercings on his features that weren’t there before. He looked different, older, but there was still something in his eyes that felt the same, even when they kept avoiding yours.

Somewhere in the middle of reminiscing about a class trip, he shifted, leaning forward just slightly, elbows on the table. His voice softened when he asked more about your time away, his interest not the polite kind you offered to acquaintances but the sort that made you feel like he was tucking every detail away to keep.

You answered, and when he smiled at something you said, it was faint but real. The kind of smile that carried the weight of knowing what you used to sound like when you were truly happy.

When you asked about him, he hesitated. Not long enough for it to feel deliberate—just long enough for you to notice. His stories were lighter, less personal. You didn’t push. But it made you wonder what had filled those three missing years for him, and if he’d ever tell you.

The minutes blurred. Outside, the shadows of passersby stretched long across the sidewalk. A couple nearby got up to leave, the scrape of their chairs loud in the comfortable quiet between you.

“You ever think about…” he started, then stopped, his jaw tightening like the words were caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

“About?”

His eyes found yours again. 

“Never mind.” He smiled—small, almost sheepish—and it was the kind of smile you’d seen on him years ago, right before he’d dared you to do something stupid.

Your chest tightened.

The truth was, you’d spent years teaching yourself to think of him less. You’d filed away his laugh, his voice, the way he used to look at you when you said something unexpectedly funny. You’d told yourself it was just another chapter, something that didn’t need revisiting.

And yet—here you were.

When the barista cleared your cups, she asked if you wanted another round. Neither of you answered right away. You could feel his gaze even as you glanced down at the menu, pretending to consider it.

“I could,” you said finally.

“Me too,” he replied, but his voice carried something quieter underneath.

Relief, maybe. Or maybe just the smallest thread of hope.

By the time the second round of drinks arrived, the air between you felt different. Not heavier—more like the careful hum before a bridge in a song. You weren’t sure if it was coming from you or him, but it was there, steady and low.

He caught you looking at him again, and this time, he didn’t smile.

Instead, he said, “I missed this.”

Your fingers tightened around the warm ceramic of your cup. There were a dozen ways you could’ve answered—light, teasing, deflecting—but none of them felt right. 

“I missed you.” you murmured.

And he seemed to hear it, with how his hand snaked closer to yours—not quite touching, but lingering eough to keep the warmth.

And you both knew then—it’s a start.

If Wooin noticed two shady-looking idiots peeking out from the café’s bathroom hall, trading smug and lazy smirks in his direction, he didn’t let it show. 

He just kept his eyes on you.

Joker was as good as dead—but maybe, if he was feeling generous, Hyuk would live long enough to regret it.

it was the first time you felt so challenged. a flame ignited inside of you, one that sought to burn his distasteful demeanour and put him in his place.

sure, one bad impression couldn’t dictate what his whole personality might be, but the rumours around campus said otherwise.

yoo wooin was his name, one that tasted so bitter on your tongue. he’s responsible for house parties that brought in bad company and endless bottles of alcohol. he’s also notorious for having a roster; a different girl for every day of the week.

despite always being decked out in designer, he still dressed like a person who couldn’t care less. with his gucci slides and socks that screamed laziness, his cap always hid his jet-black hair, and he often wore oversized clothes that you were somewhat envious of how perfectly it fit on his body.

either way, you couldn’t imagine getting along with him. he violated your unspoken rules that you had for people, and you ought to stay away from anomalies like him. but somehow, he breached your system, in a harmful way.

for some reason, after he got registered in your data, he popped up everywhere like a virus.

that one quiet spot away from the campus grounds where you always sat and studied? it was his smoking corner. your favourite korean barbeque restaurant near your home? it was his favourite as well. and that one module you signed up for recently? he was in that class as well; willingly or not, you weren’t sure.

what ticked you off the most was how he always sat near you in the lecture hall. he was always two seats away from you in the rows of empty chairs surrounding you two. granted, you always sat in the back to avoid interacting with anyone but the professor to gain credits – well, that clearly backfired.

disruptive was the kindest word you could describe his behaviour around you. he always had his feet crossed and propped on the desk, leaning back against the plastic chair like he owned the entire building.

he yawns disgustingly loud, and it made your ears bleed with despise for him. you lost all motivation to do well for this module the moment he sat near you, and you were so sure god was doing all of this to spite you when you were assigned to do a project with him to pass this class.

fine, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right?

you decided to give him a clean slate and approached him kindly after the lecture. “hey wooin, so about the project-”

“i’m busy, do it yourself? thanks sweetheart.” and he walked away, hands in pockets and never looking back.

you hoped he could feel the glare you gave on the back of his head, because you really felt like slapping the shit out of him then and there. you couldn’t let a man disrespect you like that, so you ran with your anger, tugging him back as you grabbed the hood of his hoodie.

“what the fuck?” he cursed out, almost stumbling on his feet.

“i’m not doing this project alone,”

“yes, you are.” he replied, dusting his clothes off with his hands like your touch was dirt. “you can’t do that, we’ll fail!”

“mhm, so make sure you work hard for the both of us to pass.” he began to walk away again, but you grabbed his wrist to hold him in place. “are you that desperate for me? let go.”

“for you? what? as if.” he pulled his arm away before looking at your frame through his yellow lenses. you were fuming, eyebrows furrowed and hands on your hips as you stood your ground.

“i know what you’re after, and i’ll give it to you.” he bent down to meet your height, smirking slightly at his own words as he winked. you almost puked, and that's when you finally did it.

you slapped his face; gently, but hard enough for his cheek to bloom a subtle shade of red. “you… you’re crazy.” you couldn’t believe his assumptions about you, and you stormed off with your mission failed.

wooin couldn’t stop rubbing his cheek as he watched your back disappear down the corridor, he also couldn’t stop the full-blown grin on his face, intrigued by your behaviour.

he was charred by you. though next time, he promised to make himself burn in your flames.

the following weeks were torture for you. he barely contributed to the report, and you had to slave away the hours of what could’ve been your free time to finish his part yourself.

the spam calls and texts didn’t do shit. hell, he almost blocked you for it, and had the audacity to tell you about it. the only few times he texted back was during the day of submission, a few minutes before midnight after you submitted the report.

it wasn’t even a group assignment at this point, all he did was find an article – a regretfully impressive one – and sent it to you, telling you to read it for yourself as he merely skimmed it through.

you ended up using that article, and it’s like he became einstein after you admitted using it.

w: see i contributed

no but ok? dont text me ever again it was horrible working with u

w: ure the one whos texting me like crazy

because i needed you to do your part

w: oh u needed me? cute

wtf im going to slap u again i swear

w: slap me i dare u

pull up then

w: whats ur address

you were lying in bed, phone held above your face as you hesitated to reply to his text.

grim mistake.

your phone slipped off your hands, the top of it painfully hitting your forehead and pressing the call button simultaneously. you panicked even more, but as your thumb hovered above the cancel button, he answered. and fuck, his deep chuckle made your body shiver.

“what’s this, huh? you wanna hear my voice?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“i could ask you the same question,” he paused before continuing,

“so, do you want me to come over or not?”

“...you really want to be slapped?”

“by you, definitely.”

“gross,” he laughed, and it wasn’t like his usual cocky chuckles – it felt refreshing, human, him – and you hated this sudden, icky feeling that stirred in your heart.

you went silent as you heard his keys jangling in the background. fuck, he was actually going to head out to find you. “i live by that one restaurant you always go to.” he paused again, and you could imagine the smirk on his face as he replied,

“are you stalking me, sweetheart?”

“no? i just… see you there a lot as well.”

“you know, you’re really cute.”

“huh? excuse me?”

“i’ll be there in ten.” he hung up, leaving you stunned by his words. you put your phone aside and stared at the ceiling, trying to distract yourself from the blush that crept on your face like wildfire.

you shouldn’t be feeling this way, it was so foreign to you that it made you anxious.

you hated him.

that’s how it was supposed to be, and it should stay that way. he did nothing but made your life more difficult than it was before, undeserving of your liking.

suddenly, you heard a soft clack that hit against the window pane in your bedroom. you walked towards it, and back came the launch of an object that was responsible for the noise.

swiftly opening the window and looking down, you see the culprit that was disturbing you; wooin in all his glory. but he looked… different.

no cap, no glasses, just him in a white tank and sweats. he looked less intimidating than he usually was, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring until the small rock he threw again playfully hit your forehead and landed like a bullseye.

wooin’s eyes widened in concern for a second, before he laughed menacingly and approached your door to knock like he was a debt collector. you closed your window shut, groaning as you swore you were going to slap some – if not all – sense into him.

you opened the front door, your pent-up anger almost bursting in the pull as you stepped closer towards him. his hands were stuffed in his pockets – as always – while his eyes admired your… questionable attire.

“cute shirt, you look like him as well.”

mind you, you were wearing a shrek shirt that you cut the collar off of, a rookie attempt of upcycling old clothes so that you would wear them.

“shut up and move your face closer,” surprisingly, he listened, leaning down and smirking as he inched closer to your face, too close

in fact. he never tore his eyes away from yours once in the moment, and that’s when you really notice him. his eyebrow piercing, his rather terrible haircut (no wonder he always wore a cap), and his fucking eyes.

it mirrored a snake’s, menacing, and strangely entrancing. like medusa, he had you rooted to the ground, unable to move under his gaze like a statue.

he took advantage of your state and inched closer, uttering under his breath, “move away now if you don’t want this.” you didn’t budge.

it wasn’t fear, it was submission, and you latched your lips onto his like you were starved for days, weeks, months. his hand snaked to your waist before resting on the small of your back, pulling you flushed against his chest as his tongue delved hungrily into your mouth.

one thing led to another, and you found yourself half-suspended on your bed, legs spread open as you fought to keep your back remained on the mattress.

he gripped your calves harshly as he fucked you into oblivion, reaching your deepest spot and rubbing his tip against it each time he pounded into you.

you were at a loss for words, literally. your thoughts were mushed up, and your words were incoherent as desperate moans and whimpers replaced your conscience.

“haah- you’re so tight, would’ve fucked ya’ sooner if i knew you were so desperate for this dick.”

your tears trickled down, and he could only chuckle breathlessly at the sight.

“don’t go crying—shit… on me now,”

his split tongue licked your leg, and you whimpered at the metal piercing dragging across your flesh.

“wooin—i’m gonna—ahn! i can’t—d-don’t,”

“don’t what? you don’t wanna come?”

“n-no—please, i wanna come—!”

his hand landed on your cunt, the pad of his thumb rubbing mean circles on your clit to bring you over the edge. your body trembled as you reached ecstasy, vision blurring as your tears fogged your sight.

he came after your pussy clenched repeatedly around his cock, spilling into the condom as he rode out his orgasm.

what a beautiful sight he took in; your flushed expression, glassy eyes barely opened, and the small bounce of your tits each time you heaved to catch your breath. he pulled out from your cunt, removing the condom and tying its end before ripping another packet open.

“i’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

he smirked lazily, mind slightly dazed out from his orgasm as his arousal regained steadily from just admiring you.

it’s safe to say that the both of you skipped classes the next day (more like, wooin forced you to stay in bed with him) as the both of you were tired from last night.

after washing up separately and finally putting on some clothes, you were standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you took a bite out of your toast. he stood beside you, towel hanging from his head to dry his wet hair as he spoke,

“thanks for letting me use your bathroom,” you were slightly shocked by his sudden kindness (the bare minimum) as he continued,

“i would love to stay here even longer, but i have plans.”

“thank god, please get out as soon as possible.”

he chuckled at your words as he began to walk away. however, you reached out and tugged the side of his shirt, pulling on the fabric as he stopped in his tracks.

“this is a one-time thing… right?” you said, sounding too vulnerable for your liking. he turned around in curiosity, studying your expression before replying, “only if you want it to be.”

he said it like it was nothing, and it almost broke you.

“do you have a girlfriend?” your mouth moved on it’s own, you didn’t mean to say that. you bit your tongue in embarrassment, regretting your words even more as the silence ensued prolonged.

but then erupted a soft chuckle, followed by the feeling of his hand stroking a few strands of your hair as he said, “i don’t, and the rumours aren’t real, by the way.”

for some reason, you were relieved. relieved because he wasn’t that bad of a person you thought he was? or because of the fact that he was single? he could’ve been lying as well. but for once in your cognition, you didn’t think of that possibility.

you were falling for him.

“i’ll see myself out, yeah? i’ll text you.” he placed the damp towel over your head, covering your eyes as he exited your home.

his words replayed in your mind, and you found yourself checking your phone one too many times. your heart finally beat at ease when he texted you, but it only made your heartrate quicken as he messaged you his home address.

w: come over if u want. ill let u slap me if you let me slap that ass again

you bit the tip of your index finger as your eyes scanned over the words, playful and promiscuous, and you knew you were so fucked when you replied a simple ‘otw’.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

Not here, not now—definitely not when the rest of the Light Cavalry crew is still milling around the building after practice.

You shouldn’t be on your knees in the narrow space between the lockers and the back wall, your ass almost bumping into the cold metal as Owen leans against the row behind you, cock already shoved deep into your throat like you were just a convenient place to unload.

The door to the hallway is shut, but it’s not locked. It wouldn’t take much for someone to walk in. That’s the dangerous part. That’s why his smirk has been hooked in place from the second you dropped down for him.

Your eyes are watering, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you struggle to breathe around him. He doesn’t give you much choice, one big palm cradling the back of your head while the other presses to the side of your throat like he’s feeling himself through you.

“Fuck, you’re—” he cuts himself off with a hiss, hips twitching forward, forcing you to take the last bit you’d been leaving for your hand. The thick stretch burns your jaw, and your fingers scramble against his thigh before he stills you with that same lazy pressure.

“Stay right there. Don’t—” His voice dips into a growl when you gag, and he pushes just that tiny bit deeper. “Don’t run from it.”

It’s not like you could. He’s got you pinned in every way that matters—your head locked in place, his broad body looming above, that smug grin tilting at the edges every time your lashes flutter from the lack of air.

The sound of your gagging echoes off the lockers, slick and wet in the empty room. It makes his eyes go half-lidded, that dangerous glint replacing the casual arrogance he usually wears.

“You like it?” he asks, breathless and amused. “God, you’re a fucking mess—look at you.”

You don’t look. You can’t. Your focus is on keeping him where he wants without choking so hard you embarrass yourself. His grip on your hair tightens when you try to ease back, and he just laughs under his breath, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your throat ache.

“You hear that?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s listening to the obscene slurp each time you pull back enough to drag your tongue along him. “That’s mine.”

You want to tell him he’s an asshole. You want to tell him you’re only doing this because he asked—and because there’s something about him that makes it too easy to give in. But all that comes out is a muffled moan, the vibration making him curse low and sharp.

“Fuck—” His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut for a second before finding you again. “Do that again.”

You do, and the reward is the low, guttural sound that punches out of him. His hand leaves your throat long enough to tug his shirt up, letting it bunch at his stomach so you can see every inch of him—hard and flushed, veins standing out against his pale skin.

You wrap your hand around the base again, stroking in time with your mouth. He lets you set the pace for all of three seconds before he’s rocking forward, shallow thrusts that make your gag reflex flare.

“Yeah—like that. Take it—fuck—don’t stop.”

You feel his thighs tense under your palms, the rhythm getting sloppy, uneven. He’s close—you can tell in the way his jaw tightens, the way his smirk is slipping into something rougher, hungrier.

“Gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, but he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he drags you closer, holding you in place while his hips jerk against your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose, try to brace yourself—

“Fuck—I'm g-gonna cum—”

He groans through it, his eyes rolling back before they lock onto yours again, blue and glassy, watching every twitch of your throat as he spills down it. You feel the heat spread in thick pulses, his grip still firm on your hair while you swallow around him.

Owen doesn’t let you go right away. He stays there, panting above you, thumb brushing over your swollen lips like he’s checking his work.

“Good fucking girl,” he mutters, smirking again now that he’s caught his breath. “Didn’t think you’d take it all.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, glaring up at him even as your knees ache from the tile. “You’re such a dick.”

He just grins wider. “Yeah. And you’re still on your knees.”