Noon 20+

If there was one thing you could count on in the world, it was that Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris were two lovesick idiots who could not keep their hands off of one another, even in a public – and gravely serious – situation. You watched as the two orange-clad boys intertwined their hands, fingers rubbing against palms and expressions sickeningly enamored as the interviewer pressed them for answers about their race performance. You knew you had no right to forbid them from being smitten; but it was just the fact that they were constantly caressing each other, every moment of the day. If you didn’t know better, you would assume that they had been superglued together.

And seeing them act so intimate was only making the burn in your heart worse. 

According to the calendar on your phone, it had been fourteen days since you had last spent time together. That was equivalent to two whole weeks filled with watching your boyfriends be starry-eyed lovers on a glossy television screen, and wishing you were there. Two whole weeks where you had woken up to an empty bed, staring at the twin spots between you where they used to lay their heads. Two whole weeks of living in a desolately quiet Monaco flat, with no raucous pranks and heartwarming laughter. The silence was nice sometimes, but it got to a point.

You slammed the laptop screen shut with more force than you should have used, frustration pricking at your skin like venomous needles. The constant yearning that was tugging at your heartstrings was depleting your energy. Soon, you would disappear into the same velvet couch where you had spent many nights curled up between them, absorbing their body heat as if you were a cat basking in the sun.

Your phone buzzed, and your hand shot out for it immediately, greedily waiting for a scrap of contact from either one of the boys. This time, it was a message in the group chat, sent by Oscar – or rather, Mr. Pastry, as his contact read.

[OSCAR] Hi, beautiful. Lando and I are both extremely sorry for not texting all day. I understand if you’re upset with us. Zak has us stuck in a constant rotation of meetings with PR managers, engineers, and strategists. It’s all preparation for the next race, but it blows. We miss you a lot and cannot wait to see you. Keep working on your thesis, we believe in you.

You smiled to yourself, already halfway through typing up a response in your head. Before you could send it, though, another notification came through. It was from your other boyfriend, Lando, who was saved in your phone as Mr. Norizz.

[LANDO] What he said. Love you babe!

The way they texted was ironic, particularly due to the fact that it was the opposite of how they acted in real life. Oscar was more private, cagey with his words. Contrary to popular opinion, however, maintaining a conversation with him was not similar to pulling teeth – if it was, it meant he disliked you. Thankfully, you were one of the few people Oscar enjoyed spending time with, something you were immensely grateful for. 

Lando, on the other hand, was quite chatty. Sometimes, you could not get him to stop talking; he always had something on his mind that he felt required a debate and full discussion. He was charismatic, witty with his words. Flirting was a sure-fire way to make you melt – just a few well-chosen words and that slick smile of his, and you’d be Lando’s perfect doll.

[YOU] Don’t worry about it, I love you both. Come home soon!

The message went through with a whoosh, and you dropped the phone on the cushion beside you, the spell broken. You were fully aware of the existence of triple-headers and how important they were in deciding who the championship leader was. Each time, you claimed that you were more than prepared to deal with them, saying you were fine to stay home. Yet without fail, you always wished that you could just wave a wand and make the concept disappear for good once it arrived.

Like you had joked before countless times, triple-headers were a test of endurance, patience, and just how far someone could stretch your sanity before it snapped.

f1gossip I can’t believe there was a time where Landoscar wasn’t a couple. They’re my emotional support himbos, and I don’t know what I’d do without them! Bringing them together is the only correct thing that orange team has done.

tagged landonorris, oscarpiastri, mclaren

comments 1.0k

user6 I can’t believe I chose the gayest team.

user7 Brocedes has nothing on them!

user8 THANKFULLY. WE DO NOT WANT HEARTBREAK IN LANDOSCAR LAND.

user9 The eyes never lie. They were always soppily in love with each other 😌

user10 Happy Pride Month to the papaya boys!

user11 I remember the “Guess That Song” interview they did back in 2023... They weren’t dating, but they sure acted like it!

user12 People say to focus on the sport, meanwhile the two of them are shoving their tongues down each other’s throats 😐

user13 I can’t wait for a future McLaren whistleblower to reveal every dirty thing they did

user14 MY SHAYLAS! 🥺🥺

user15 How much do I have to pay for somebody to write a romance book about them...

The knock on the door was soft, barely there. You jolted upwards, eyes blearily blotting away the post-sleep haze as you watched your best friend sit down on the bed beside you. The mattress dipped with her weight, and you shifted your position to face her. You had struggled through one last day in the unbearably noiseless apartment before caving and calling Zara to spend the next week with you. She didn’t mind; you had been roommates during your university years. 

“Everything OK? You’re usually up by seven in the morning, so I was worried,” Zara put a palm to your forehead to check for a nonexistent fever. Her expression was concerned, green eyes troubled by your abnormal behavior. “I know you miss the boys, but I promise that they’ll be back home quicker than a blink of the eye.”

You let out a low, pained groan, flopping back onto the bed with a dramatic thump. “They’re so fucking sentimental it makes me want to puke. I mean it; someone is going to catch them having sex in each other’s drivers’ rooms and I’m not dealing with the fallout.”

Zara barked out a surprised laugh. “I don’t think they’re having sex at work, Y/N. Isn’t Formula One supposed to be super stressful? How would they find the time?”

You scoffed, curling your fists in the blanket as a very explicit image floated to the forefront of your mind, clear as day. “Zara, I walked into them humping in the bedroom and I almost had a heart attack. I think that if there’s a way, they’ll find it. Oscar’s smart, and Lando will do whatever he says, never mind the risks.”

“Their sex drives must be incredible,” she mused, standing up and tucking a loose strand of curly hair that had escaped her hibiscus-patterned headwrap behind her ear. “You’re lucky.”

“In no world am I lucky,” you retorted defensively. How dare she call you fortunate, when they were halfway across the globe and able to seek comfort in one another’s embrace? It wasn’t like Zara would let you cuddle with her, no matter how close you were. “I’m needy and abandoned.”

Zara shrugged her shoulders. “Not my problem, girlie. Just hang on for this last week, and then you can get all freaky and kinky with them as much as you like.”

You huffed. “This is a stinking load of rubbish, and I hate it.”

“Well, that’s what you get for dating two boys who are extremely clingy and…” Zara paused, working past a knot in her throat. “Aroused.”

You bobbed your head in agreement, chuckling at her accurate description. Despite everything, it was hard to be aggravated with Lando and Oscar. Had it been up to them, they would live in Monaco full-time with you, but their ambitions and talent led them down another path. You couldn’t be bitter over that. “Quite.”

She gave you a look. “Come on. You can’t be languishing in bed, even though I know you wish I’d let you. We should go get some donuts from the bakery down the street. That should cheer you up, yeah?”

“I go there all the time with the boys,” you said tremulously. Oscar always ordered the same thing: a chocolate eclair and a double espresso. Lando’s order varied, but he liked the raspberry bear claw the most. You cleared your throat, attempting to dissipate the memories before you broke down into tears. “But sure, we can make some new memories.”

Zara clapped her hands together, the sound startling you. “Great! Be in the kitchen in five minutes, or I’ll drag you out of here myself. I love you, but I hate seeing you be depressed because of two rich white boys.”

Race weekend was on the horizon. Just three more days – involving a trio of intense practice sessions, qualifying, and the actual race – and you would be able to see your boyfriends again. The endless suffering would cease. Finally.

You turned on the television, switching from a boring local news channel to the sports broadcast that livestreamed the race. A salt-and-pepper-haired journalist was talking in chirpy French about the rookies; particularly Isack Hadjar, who had a streak of achieving points in every race so far in this triple-header. You hummed, tapping your foot against the tiled floor as you waited for the camera to pan to the McLaren motorhome.

When it switched, you instantly became alert, body instinctually shifting closer to the television as your eyes scoured the garage for signs of your boyfriends. Your eyes snagged on Lando’s familiar neon green helmet as he positioned himself inside the cockpit, your fingers reaching out to the screen like you could touch him.

The angle switched to the interior of Oscar’s car, a close-up showing his squished cheeks and bright brown eyes while he waited for instructions. You grinned, unable to contain your joy at seeing even a fraction of your boyfriend’s face. It was pathetic, how much you missed them. They might be idiots, but they were yours, and you wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

The race, when it ultimately occurred, had been incredibly eventful, with multiple DNFs and safety cars. You had been at the edge of your seat the whole time, listening to every painstaking word the commentators said. Rather than allowing Zara to head back to her apartment downtown, you roped her into keeping you company, claiming that her presence would keep you grounded. Together, you baked your traditional lemon-blueberry muffins, and throughout the course of the Grand Prix, you ended up devouring half the tin.

Once the race had concluded, ninety petrifying minutes later, you sunk back in your seat, grateful that neither one of your boyfriends had crashed. The podium celebration was due to start soon, but you decided to take a shower beforehand. Zara had already collected her belongings and was halfway out the door before you noticed and rushed over to say goodbye. She wasn’t a sentimental person, but unfortunately for her, you were.

You gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for staying with me. I had a great time with you.” 

She smiled wanly in response.  “I’ve been fighting off nostalgia this whole time. Where has the time gone?”

You pouted. “We’re not that old, Zara.”

“Still.” Her lips thinned, and for a moment, you thought she might start crying. “I’ll see you soon, girlie. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Zara had barely left when your phone began to chime, a steady flow of messages pouring into it. Oscar, Lando, even Oscar’s mother. You chuckled, swiping to the message app so you could respond.

[OSCAR] Did you watch the race? Call me when you can.

[LANDO] Tell me I did amazing and that I’m your favorite driver ever. And don’t lie, because I know I am.

[OSCAR’S MOTHER] If you didn’t watch the race, the boys did incredible. Oscar won, Lando P2.

You answered Lando’s text first, a smirk tugging at your mouth. 

[YOU] You did very well, Lan. But you know that I can’t choose a single favorite driver – I love you and Oscar equally.

Next, you opened Oscar’s messages, thumb pressing the call button while you eased back onto the soft cushions. The sound vibrated through the air, and you waited for him to accept.

“Hi, baby,” he greeted you instantly, his accented words muted by exhaustion. “I’m in my driver’s room right now, but Lando’s here too. He won’t leave me alone.”

Lando’s bright voice floated over to you. “Because he just won and I got another podium! God forbid I want to celebrate with him a bit.”

“Won’t you be going to a club later?” you questioned him, eyebrows furrowing. “I thought Oscar promised he would this time, because last race he refused to.”

You heard a small grunt, but you couldn’t tell who it originated from. “We’re catching an early flight home,” Oscar stated suddenly, an obvious ploy to change the topic – which worked. When you realized what he said, your heart soared with the news.

“We were going to keep that a secret!” Lando exclaimed disbelievingly.

You giggled. “Well, I’m glad I know. I’ll be so glad to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” Oscar agreed. “Shit, I think I hear Andrea calling for us. We have to go. I love you, baby.”

“OK. I love you too. Both of you,” you added before Lando could interject.

And without another word, the line disconnected.

yourusername posted an Instagram Story

oscarpiastri replied to yourusername’s Instagram Story

Perfect photo 🔥🔥🔥

landonorris replied to yourusername’s Instagram Story

Are you still proud of me 🙁

You were in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of chicken fajitas, when you heard the key turn in the lock. When you tapped your phone to check the time, you saw numerous missed messages from your boyfriends. You muttered a string of expletives under your breath.

Quickly, you wiped your hands on a dish towel and ran over to the foyer to open the door. 

They were already standing there, Oscar’s long fingers wrapped around the golden key, Lando’s hands tucked in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Oscar’s golden hair was getting a bit shaggy at the edges, his pale cheeks flushed with the humidity outside. Lando looked the same as he always did, his mischievous aura never vanishing no matter how long you hadn’t seen him. He was a bit like an imp, but in a sexier way.

“Hi,” Lando said first, wrapping you in a tight hug. He smelled like cinnamon and hand sanitizer, probably the cheap stuff the airport used to keep its visitors from getting sick. “I missed you.” 

You felt another set of arms embrace you and the tickle of a breath as Oscar murmured, “I’ve never been so happy to be back in Monaco.”

Once they let go, you led them inside the apartment, which smelled strongly of meat and various spices. “I’m making chicken fajitas,” you informed them, laughing as Lando sniffed the air hungrily. “They should be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

“Can we help?” Oscar offered, stepping towards the counter to see what you were doing. A cutting board was assembled on the counter, with scallions already half chopped up on top of it.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to steer him away. “Last time, a bag of flour exploded everywhere… and we almost set the house on fire. I think I can handle this on my own.”

Lando rolled his eyes, obviously knowing that the comment was about him… Which it was. “It was one time. Let me redeem myself.”

“It’s OK,” you reassured them. “Go relax. You deserve a break.” Oscar opened his mouth to argue, but you raised a palm in the air, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The rhythm of how things used to be before the triple-header came back during the meal: Lando’s ridiculous jokes and your easy laughter. The way Oscar couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lando, even to take a bite.  The flat was no longer a soulless prison, but the home you cherished.

When you laid down in bed, the boys spread-eagled around you and their limbs slung carelessly over your body, you stared at the ceiling. It was late; nearly midnight. You knew the lack of sleep would come back to haunt you in the morning. The deadline to submit your thesis was nearing, and despite your hard work, you were absolutely terrified.

“You OK, babe?” Oscar’s voice sliced through the dark. “What are you thinking about?”

You snuggled closer to him, seeking his warmth. “Nothing. Just my thesis.”

“Mm, yeah. It’s coming up soon, isn’t it?” 

You bit your lip. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” Lando piped up, his head lifting from his pillow as he affixed you with a serious gaze. “You’re, like, the smartest person I know. And I know a lot of people.”

“Still,” you objected. “What if they hate my essay? What if they think the topic is boring, or too outdated? All my hard work will be thrown away.”

Oscar touched your chin, the sensation feather-light. “Then we’ll sue them. I don’t know, baby, but it’s not worth stressing over. I promise you, regardless of what happens, we will love you.”

“And we’re going to introduce you to the paddock,” Lando said, “As our sexy little brainiac.”

You sucked in a breath, taken by surprise. “No, Lan. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Lando cocked his head to the side. “I hate keeping you a secret. The world deserves to know that you’re mine – and that I’m yours.”

“We’ve been dating for almost two years now,” Oscar pointed out.

You shook your head. “It’s too risky.”

“Why? Everyone will love you. You’re funny, smart, beautiful. The whole package,” Lando needled. He pecked you on the forehead, and added, “They’re going to be so jealous.”

“Are you sure you want to?” you faltered.

Both of the boys nodded their heads enthusiastically, and you relented instantly.

Three weeks later

The paddock was frenzied, a cluttered throng of polychrome people shouting with anticipation and delight. It was as if you had teleported into a whole new world once you had arrived at the circuit. You inhaled deeply, attempting to stay calm and keep your wits about you. No one knew who you were, not yet.

Oscar and Lando were somewhere to the right of you. They had argued for over an hour, wanting to immediately claim you as theirs in the public eye, though you told them there would be repercussions that you weren’t ready for. However, you compromised by wearing a hat with Oscar’s number, and Lando’s special edition Quadrant hoodie. That way, they could mark you, but without being obvious.

You walked towards the McLaren tent, where the boys were already waiting for you. “Ready, baby?” Lando questioned softly.

Oscar tapped your cap, eyes bright. “Nice hat.”

“She’s wearing my jersey, you muppet. I’m obviously her favorite,” Lando shot back. “And I was the one to ask her out first.”

You waved a hand in the air. “This isn’t a contest. I’m here to support both of you.”

“Good,” Oscar said. “I’m happy you came.”

Lando nodded, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Same. Really.”

“Let’s go inside, shall we? It’s too hot out here.” Oscar wrapped your hand in his, a comforting tether as he brought you into the lion’s den.

You had been blissfully unaware of the post while you stayed in the McLaren motorhome, watching your boyfriends prepare for their upcoming practice sessions. Only when you entered the hotel, heading up to the room to relax after the long and stressful day, did Lando mention it.

“Um…have you seen this?” he asked, raising his phone slightly. A Twitter post with an image of Oscar, his arms wrapped around you, was gleaming on the screen. “People think Oscar is cheating. On me. With you – his other girlfriend.”

Fear dropped in your stomach like a stone. “Except nobody knows that. I knew this was a bad idea, I told you, but you made me think I was crazy,” you spluttered out. Oscar looked at you, worry creasing his forehead. “I shouldn’t have done any of this.”

“We want you here, though,” Oscar pointed out. “Don’t you think we expected that something similar would happen? Lando and I are both public figures. Scandal follows us wherever we go. But we don’t care, because all we want is to be with you.”

f1gossip REVEALED! Y/N L/N (or the secret girlfriend of both McLaren drivers Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri), as well as some posts on her private Instagram! Looks like there is some truth to these rumors... Thoughts?

comments 2.9k

user22 THIS IS WILD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😲

user23 NOOOOOO I JUST FELL TO MY KNEES

user24 Landoscar having a secret girlfriend was NOT what I was expecting for silly season 2025.

user25 UMMM, wait...She’s actually so, so gorgeous?! 🤤

user26 She’s SOOOO lucky OMG

Though you were expecting it, the sudden shockwave that circulated through the Formula 1 world surpassed anything you could have imagined. There were TikTok blind reaction videos, Twitter threads that spanned back half a decade, and thousands upon thousands of memes. 

Lando and Oscar both released statements on their social media, confirming that you were, in fact, their secret girlfriend, and that Oscar was not cheating on his long-time boyfriend, but rather was in a polyamorous relationship. And, naturally, their remarks stirred up a frenzy on the Internet.

You were pacing back and forth across the carpeted floor, hands massaging your temples, while the two boys read people’s various (but all deranged) reactions aloud. Everything felt surreal. This couldn’t possibly be your life; just a few days ago, you were still a relatively normal twenty-one-year-old woman who was trudging through a miserable process involving your thesis for university. And now, you were officially marked as Lando and Oscar’s; nothing you could do would remove that label. 

“Someone from France is really, really jealous,” Lando said, crooking his head to the side as he tried to make sense of a lengthy Instagram comment. Based off of his expression, you were glad you weren’t the one reading through it. “At least, that’s what the translation is telling me. But it also included the word ‘shrimp’, so I don’t know how accurate this is.”

Oscar coughed out a laugh. “This person wants to join in. Says that they’d make a perfect fourth because they, too, are hot. They submitted a full resume. Look.”

“Is there anything mean?” you hazarded an ask, finally tearing yourself out of your circling death march and flopping onto the ground. “I feel like you’re hiding stuff from me. News of this magnitude could not have only positive reactions.”

Lando shook his head, lifting his head from his phone and meeting you right in the eyes. “Nah, I’d tell you. Oscar would be upset, but I wouldn’t hide anything from you. Even if it were bad.”

Oscar knelt down and kissed you on the forehead. “For now, everything looks positive. People are mostly envious that the rumors are true, but overall, I’d say we’re all good.” He grinned wolfishly. “See, Y/N? They love you.”

A resentful noise left Lando’s mouth. “Um, excuse me? We love you. Not they. It’s we.”

You giggled. “I love you too.”

Lando dropped his phone on the couch and laid down beside you, spreading his arms out like a dramatic snow angel. “If we’re going to be serious about this, we have to make sure to mention Y/N in everything. I hated having to pretend like she didn’t exist. Now that the news is out, I’m going to be the most insufferable person in the world.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you sure you’re not already?

You doubled over laughing, the feeling of dread and worry finally lifting from your shoulders. This new world you had entered might be terrifying, but it was yours. You knew wholeheartedly that Oscar and Lando would never hurt you, nonetheless let anyone do so. 

They were your ridiculously handsome idiots, and you loved them with a kind of forever that even the tabloids couldn’t touch.

Read part 1 here

In the wake of that catastrophic lapse in judgment at the Three Broomsticks, you had spent the remainder of the weekend engaged in a heroic attempt at total social erasure. Under the flimsy pretext of Prefect patrols, you’d spent twenty four hours haunting the castle’s most desolate corners and developing an encyclopedic, almost intimate knowledge of the drafty corridors behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the specific, rhythmic drip of the second-floor lavatory.

You lived in mortal fear of a confrontation, your brain a frantic pinball machine of panicked justifications. How does one even begin to explain away the fact that you’d essentially tackled Jaemin with your mouth in front of half the student body? You couldn't even blame the butterbeer; no one was that much of a lightweight. 

All that strategic hiding, however, proved to be a spectacular waste of time.

Because Monday morning arrived and with it, the unavoidable horror of Double Potions. Jaemin, of course, decided to plop down next to you, looking both freshly pressed and utterly unbothered by recent events. All the while had to physically force yourself not to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Morning, Y/N,” he said pleasantly. “Fancy another go?”

You nearly slid off the stool. “I—beg your pardon?”

His mouth quirked as he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was a secret shared only between your skin and his lips.

“Just a thought,” he drawled, “since the entire school has already watched us snog, we might as well get our money’s worth, don’t you think?”

You gaped at him, your indignation warring with a sudden spike of heat. Jaemin just watched you, a picture of insouciant grace, clearly having decided that his new favorite hobby was seeing exactly how many shades of scarlet he could make you turn before Slughorn even called the roll.

“I—well—” You faltered, the sentence dying pathetically in your throat. There was no good exit strategy here, no witty retort that could dismantle the sheer smugness radiating off him. “Wasn’t that a bit… much? In the Three Broomsticks?”

His gaze turned positively feral with glee. “I believe the many witnesses there that night will say that you started it. I was merely an innocent bystander, swept along by the current of your passionate improvisation.”

You pressed your lips together, an exercise in sheer willpower to deny him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“Swept along, my arse. You’re the one who—” You clamped down on the thought before it could manifest, but the phantom sensation of his fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck flashed through your mind.

Jaemin tilted his head, a lock of blonde hair falling over his brow, as if to punctuate how useless your walls were against him now.

“Look, if we’re going to commit to this performance, we might as well aim for the stalls,” he said. “The school already has us pencilled in as the frontrunners for ‘Best Couple’. It would be a tragedy to disappoint the fans now, wouldn't it?”

He slipped his hand into yours, as if nothing at all had changed. But now you were horribly aware how your skin prickled with nerves and the pulse in your wrist kept skipping whenever he brushed his thumb along the side of your hand.

Slughorn, bless his velvet-clad heart, seemed absolutely determined to overwhelm the gloom of the dungeons with his boisterous goodwill. He was in rare form today, circling the room like a parade master, “Today, my dears, we will be brewing Amortentia! The mother of all love potions! Now, who can tell me its greatest danger?”

You raised your hand with perhaps more enthusiasm than Slughorn's question warranted, if only to reclaim it from Jaemin's grip.

“It can’t create real love, sir” you said, voice admirably steady. “Only a very strong infatuation. A kind of obsession, really. And it’s different for everyone who smells it, the scent changes to reflect whatever attracts you most.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Slughorn beamed. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now then, pair up, everyone, pair up! Today we brew!”

 Naturally, this was when things went from bad to infinitely worse.

Brewing Amortentia while in the throes of whatever this mortifying situation with Jaemin was? Spectacularly poor timing. Working close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to have his fingers brush yours with every ingredient passed between you? Absolute torture of the most exquisite variety.

“Pass me the pearl dust, would you, love?” Jaemin murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the scant space between you.

You passed it quickly and focused back on the cauldron, determined to at least finish before him. You added the frozen ashwinder eggs, stirring counter-clockwise until the liquid began to shimmer.

“You’re quite good at this,” Jaemin noted. “Almost as good as you are at improvisation”.

“Focus on the potion, Jaemin,” you bit out, though you could feel your face go scarlet.

After almost two hours of gruelling labor, the potion was perfect. The steam rose in characteristic spirals, and the surface gleamed with a lustrous, opalescent sheen. You smiled at your technical triumph.

But the smile died on your lips the moment the scent hit your nose.

You'd hoped—prayed, really—for something ordinary. Like the comforting smell of old books, perhaps. Or the woody scent from the fire in the Gryffindor common room. But what you got instead was far more specific, and infinitely more damning.

Expensive cologne that smelled of bergamot and beneath that was the distinct, slightly oily musk of broomstick polish. The exact olfactory combination that seemed to have permanently infused itself into the fibers of Jaemin’s robes, the scent that enveloped you whenever he pulled you close in the corridors.

Godric save me, you thought, your stomach performing a sort of sickening swoop.

Your mind scrambled for a rational explanation. It’s just a common scent, it argued desperately. Half the Quidditch players use that polish. And any posh tosser could wear that cologne. 

But the Amortentia didn’t lie. Your Herculean attempt at self-delusion was failing utterly in the face of the irrefutable truth spiralling out of your cauldron.

Fear metastasized across your body, becoming a cold weight anchored in the hollow of your sternum, pulsing in time with the frantic thrum of your heart. If you acknowledged the bergamot and the broomstick polish, you were surrendering the only fortress you had left. To speak it would be to dismantle the safety of the 'fake' and leave you standing raw and defenseless in the debris of your own design. 

You were terrified that the moment the truth escaped your lips, the delicate, agonizing balance of your world would tilt, sliding you both into a reality from which there was no clever improvisation to save you.

“So?” Jaemin’s voice was suddenly right at your ear, making you flinch. “What are you getting, Y/N? Freshly bound books and new parchment, I’d wager.”

The proximity forced your lungs to pull in the real version of the bergamot you had just been mourning.

“Yeah, uhm…I smell old books,” you said, the lie ashen on your tongue. 

Jaemin turned to look at you, and it was as though he were reading the very thoughts you were trying to bury. Beneath the table, out of sight of the professor and the prowling eyes of the room, his hand found yours again

“Is that so?” he murmured, his eyes visibly darkening as they swept over your face. “Well. I’m getting a very distinctive note of vanilla. And that floral soap you use in the Prefects’ bathroom.”

His words were so utterly devoid of the frantic panic currently hijacking your nervous system, that for a moment, you simply stared. Your brain suddenly tripped over his transparency. He’s joking, you realized, a hysterical sort of relief blooming in the wake of the shock. Of course he is. If he actually smelled that from the potion, he would be guarding that secret with his life, burying it under ten layers of Slytherin steel.

“Aha!” Slughorn crowed, making you both start. He peered into your cauldron, his face shining with delight. “A perfect brew! The spirals are unmistakable. Tell me, Mr. Na, is the aroma potent?”

Jaemin didn’t take his eyes off you. “Distractingly so, Professor,” he said, his lips curving into a smile that made your entire body go on high alert. “It’s enough to drive a man to madness.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, mercifully oblivious to the silent conversation happening right under his nose. “Splendid! Simply splendid. Ten points to Slytherin and Gryffindor. Now, for your homework, I want a foot of parchment on the dangers of Amortentia and why its use is so strictly regulated. To be handed in next lesson!”

As the class descended into the frantic clatter of copper stirring rods and the rhythmic scrubbing of stone, you moved through the motions in a total sensory daze. What were you supposed to do with this knowledge? How were you meant to deal with the fact that the scent of your Amortentia, the very distillation of your most primal desires, was inextricably tied to Jaemin?

Right before you exited the room Jaemin’s fingers brushed against your own so briefly it should have been negligible, yet it sent a jolt of fire anchoring itself in the marrow of your bones. He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing you for a fleeting second.

“Think about what I said earlier, yeah?” He murmured, the words ghosting against your skin before he deposited a soft kiss on your temple.

You stood frozen as he merged into the tide of students. A sinking, leaden certainty settled in the pit of your stomach, making your breath hitch in your throat. You were well and truly doomed, there was no more room for clever denials. The Amortentia had stripped away the artifice, laying the raw, pulsing truth bare against the cold dungeon floor.

You liked Na Jaemin, and Merlin help you, there wasn't a potion in the world that could fix it.

Part of you was almost giddy about the novelty of actually fancying someone, of feeling your stomach swoop when they walked into a room. But mostly you were terrified. When had Jaemin stopped being an inconvenience and started being this? 

Maybe, you reasoned, you could indulge it. Just a little. Lean into the dating act a bit more and let yourself feel it without examining it too closely.

That’s how the boundaries started dissolving.

Slowly at first, then all at once, every rule you’d established became negotiable. Jaemin would pull you into empty alcoves where no one could possibly see you, press you against cold stone and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. “We’re not in public,” you’d manage between kisses. He’d just smirk against your mouth. “Practice makes perfect.”

No one batted an eyelid at the sight of him pulling you into empty rooms. Even Giselle had stopped questioning you, and became rather repulsed by your sudden displays of affection. 

Meanwhile, you walked around feeling as if you’d lost the original plot of this whole thing. Your brain became a pinball machine: every glance from Jaemin sent the ball ricocheting wildly, every brush of his fingers over your knuckles set your whole body on high alert. He, on the other hand, seemed to delight in turning up at the least convenient moments—snagging you between classes, kissing you in the shadow of the greenhouses, catching your hand when you tried to slip past him on your way out of the library and kissing you against the stacks.

You coped by remembering it was all for show, the same way you might recite lines in a play. Only actors didn’t typically wake up thinking about the curve of their co-star’s mouth or lie awake at night replaying every touch of their calloused fingers.

You ran into him outside your common room one evening, just as curfew loomed. Jaemin looked up from a parchment he was pretending to read, tucking it away as you approached.

His eyes seemed to visibly darken at the sight of you. It would have been easy to walk past, make some excuse about homework or an early morning. Instead, you hovered, dithering between the impulse to run and the urge to close the gap.

Jaemin broke the stalemate, stepping forward and catching your wrist. “I was hoping I’d see you,” he said and then pointed at the portraits on the walls that watched you silently. “Thought we might keep the neighbors entertained.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He tugged on your wrist to guide you forward, and then his hand was sliding upward, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the base of your neck. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned down to claim them.

His lips moved against yours with devastating confidence. As the kiss deepened, his other hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, a private noise of satisfaction that seemed to echo against your own heartbeat.

High above, the painted figures in the frames whispered and tittered. The Fat Lady let out a bright, trilling giggle that rang through the hallway, but Jaemin didn't stop. He only pressed closer, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he turned the kiss slower, more rhythmic, and infinitely more distracting than any textbook could ever be.

When he finally broke away, he didn't pull back more than an inch. His breath hitched against your lips, and the dark intensity in his eyes seemed to catch fire.

He had just begun to trail his lips from your mouth to the sensitive line of your jaw when a shrill, cackling whistle echoed off the stone walls.

"Ooh, lookie here! Little lions in a knot! Or is it a tangle? A right royal muddle!"

Peeves the Poltergeist swooped down, hovering upside down just inches from your faces. His wide, malicious eyes darted between you and Jaemin, his tongue poking out through a jagged grin.

Jaemin didn't let go of you, but he let out a long, frustrated exhale against your skin. He slowly turned his head to glare at the spirit. "Not now, Peeves. Go find a first-year to pelt with ink pellets."

"Ink pellets? Boring! Stale!" Peeves blew a loud raspberry and started spinning in a dizzying circle. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of stale, rock-hard Cauldron Cakes. "I’d much rather watch the lovebirds try to coo while I practice my aim!"

With a wicked flick of his wrist, he tossed a cake. It whistled past Jaemin’s ear, narrowly missing him and thudding loudly against the frame of a disgruntled landscape painting.

"Jammy and the Pouter, sitting in a hall! Kissing 'til the portraits scream and the ceiling falls!" Peeves sang at the top of his lungs, his voice shrill enough to wake every sleeping student in the nearby tower.

Jaemin finally pulled back fully, though he kept a protective arm slung low around your waist. He looked up at the cackling poltergeist, a dangerous, tired sort of smirk playing on his lips. "You’re going to get Filch up here, you menace."

"Filchy-poo? Even better!" Peeves shrieked, preparing another handful of projectiles. "Double the trouble, double the fun! Run, little students, run-run-run!"

Jaemin’s jaw tightened, and the last traces of the kiss's softness vanished into a look of sharp irritation. He reached into his robes and flicked his wand upward with a lethal grace.

"I warned you," Jaemin muttered dangerously. “Waddiwasi!"

The Cauldron Cake Peeves had been preparing to throw suddenly zoomed upward, propelled by an invisible force. It jammed itself straight into the poltergeist’s left nostril.

The poltergeist let out a high-pitched scream of outrage, spinning wildly in the air as he tried to claw the stale pastry out. Realizing he had lost this round, he zoomed through the nearest wall, leaving nothing behind but the faint sound of his frantic thumping as he retreated toward the floor below.

Jaemin let out a huff of a laugh, finally tucking his wand back into his sleeve. The intense look returned to his eyes as he turned his full attention back to you, his hands sliding back to their previous spots on your waist.

"Now," he whispered, pulling you back against the wall. "Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

You pressed a hand to his chest before he could close the distance. “Wait—did you hear that?”

“No.” The word was muffled against your neck, which he’d apparently decided required immediate attention.

“Jaemin, I’m serious. I think that’s Filch—”

He went still, listening. Sure enough, the shuffle of uneven footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“Your common room,” Jaemin said immediately, tugging you toward the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Come on—”

“Wait! She won’t let you in!”

He stopped short. “What? Why not?”

“Because you’re a Slytherin? We’ve been over this.”

“I thought you were drunk when you said that.” Jaemin stared at you incredulously. “So you’re telling me she won’t let any Slytherins in? And we’re the prejudiced house?”

“I mean she could, technically. But then she’d absolutely tell Filch about it.”

Jaemin made a sound of disbelief as Filch’s footsteps grew louder.

“Fine. Come on.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” you hissed, jogging to keep up as he led you through several corridors and down the stairs.

“The dungeons.”

“What?! I am not going to your common room—”

“Oh, come on.” He threw you an exasperated look over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Slytherins actually mind their business when it comes to sneaking people in. Unlike you lions, apparently.”

The further you descended, the more aware you became of where this was heading. You’d never set foot in the Slytherin common room, and now you were sneaking in at night to… Well. The thought alone was enough to make your heart ricochet against your chest.

“Right, here we are.” Jaemin stopped before a blank wall.

 “That’s it?” You stared at it with a raised brow. “Kind of underwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, did you expect a giant fanged mouth?”

“Alright, ease up on the attitude.” You glared at him.

He smiled, and spoke to the wall: “Serpensortem.” Then, catching your eye: “Feel free to use that. You know, if you ever need to find me.”

The hidden door (which did, in fact, have serpents carved into it) swung open to reveal a narrow corridor of stairs descending even deeper. How Slytherins didn’t lose their minds being this far underground, you had no idea.

Inside, the common room was both exactly what you’d pictured and nothing like it. Dark stone, high ceilings, and a green-filtered light casting everything in a sort of underwater glow. Because…Oh. The ceiling was glass. There were actual panels looking straight up into the Black Lake’s murky water and the shadows of the occasional creatures drifting by.

Stunning. Also deeply unsettling if you thought too hard about it.

“Nice view of the Giant Squid you’ve got.”

Jaemin was right, his housemates truly didn’t care. The handful of students still up barely registered your presence, offering cursory glances before returning to whatever they were working on. Apparently a Gryffindor in the Slytherin common room wasn’t that much of a strange sight.

“Want to go up to my dorm?”

You gave him a look. “Where all your dormmates are?”

“They’re at the Three Broomsticks getting properly pissed.” He shrugged. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“It’s way past curfew. How’d they even get out?”

“There are secret passages that lead straight to the village. They’re all over the castle.”

“How am I only just learning this?”

His smile turned wicked. “Well, you’re such a good girl.” He pulled you closer by the waist. “A very good girl who owes me a kiss.”

You were completely out of your depth. Although the flirting had become familiar, the fact that Jaemin seemed to want you with the same desperate intensity you felt for him was uncharted territory that left you dizzy and unmoored.

So you didn’t fight when he led you upstairs. You let him pull you into a kiss on the steps, let yourself kiss him back with abandon until you stumbled into the warm sanctuary of his dorm. Only then did you surface long enough to catch your breath and actually take stock of your surroundings.

There were four four-poster beds with dark emerald hangings, the standard Hogwarts setup, but each corner had been claimed and personalized by its occupant.

You recognized Jaemin’s immediately. The one nearest the window, if you could call the glass panel looking into the lake a window. His Quidditch gear was piled carelessly beside his trunk: broom propped against the bedpost, leather gloves draped over the footboard, a jersey with “NA” embroidered on the back slung over his desk chair. The nightstand held an impressive collection of cologne bottles and a few books stacked messily beneath them. 

But it was the wall above his bed that caught your attention. Photographs pinned in no particular order of what looked like his family, him and his Quidditch team, a few older shots of him with other friends you didn’t recognize.

“Snooping already?” Jaemin’s voice came from behind you.

You turned to find him leaning against the wall, watching you with a raised brow.

“Just… observing.”

“Mhm.” He pushed off the post and crossed to you in two strides. “And what have your observations concluded?”

“That you’re messier than I expected.” You gestured to the Quidditch gear. “But also weirdly sentimental.” You nodded toward the photographs.

You turned to the other sections of the room and caught on a collection of what appeared to be hand-drawn comics pinned above one bed, surprisingly good actually, depicting what looked like Quidditch matches gone horribly wrong.

“Are those—did someone draw these?”

“Renjun.” Jaemin followed your gaze. “He’s got a thing for documenting Donghyuck’s Quidditch failures. It's quite therapeutic for him, apparently.”

“Donghyuck and Renjun—wait, I thought you roomed with Changmin and Sungchan?”

“I used to. Merlin, don’t remind me.” Jaemin collapsed onto what was clearly his bed—the one nearest the lake-view panel. 

“That bad?

“They both snore like bloody dragons. Together it was—” He shook his head. “I got about three hours of sleep a night for two years. Finally cracked in third year and begged the head boy to switch me.”

You laughed. “So who’d you end up with?”

“Jeno, Donghyuck, and Renjun.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “They’re a nightmare in different ways, but at least they sleep quietly.”

“Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”

He got up and started slowly towards you. “I didn’t bring you up here to psychoanalyze our dorm though.”

“No?” Your hands settled against his chest when he pulled you to him. “What am I up here for, then?”

His smile turned wicked. “I believe we established you owe me a kiss. Several, actually, if we’re keeping count.”

“Are we keeping count now?”

“I am.” He leaned in, mouth barely brushing yours. “And you’re severely in debt.”

You could’ve pointed out the flawed logic, could’ve reminded him that you’d just spent the last several minutes kissing him senseless on the stairs. Instead, you closed the distance between you, letting him walk you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed.

“This okay?” he murmured against your lips, even as his hands slid up your sides.

Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. This was different from the corridors, from the alcoves and the performances. Just you and him and the choice to cross whatever line you’d been toeing for weeks.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “This is okay.”

His smile was soft before he kissed you again. You reciprocated with much enthusiasm making him sigh against your lips. His hands slid into your hair as the kiss deepened, and you let yourself get lost in it . 

Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly, and he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat racing through you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against your ribs, and—

Suddenly you heard voices. Loud and slurred, echoing up from the common room.

“—telling you, Hyuck, you can’t just Accio the entire bottle—”

“It almost worked though…  I’m just— hngh— a bit wet”

“Shit.” Jaemin pulled back. “They’re early. Fuck.”

“What—…” You scrambled into a sitting position, trying to finger-comb your hair into something less incriminating. “How do I look?”

He looked at you and tried to hide a grin behind his hand. “Like I’ve been kissing you for the past ten minutes.”

“Jaemin!”

“Right, sorry—” He reached out, gently attempting to smooth down your hair. It was possibly the sweetest thing he’d ever done and absolutely not helping your emotional state. “Okay, just act natural?”

The door banged open and three boys tumbled through in various states of inebriation— a muscular lad with short black hair barely keeping another upright, while a third brought up the rear looking significantly more sober than his friends.

The first one stopped short when he spotted you. “Oh, shit.”

“Jeno, move, you’re blocking the—” The one being held up peered around his friend and broke into a massive grin. “Na Jaemin, you absolute legend.”

“Shut up, Donghyuck.” Jaemin stood, positioning himself slightly in front of you. 

The sober one closed the door with considerably more care than it had been opened with. “We can go back down if—”

“No, it’s fine.” You stood as well, acutely aware of how warm your face felt. “I should probably get back to Gryffindor tower anyway.”

“Gryffindor!” Hyuck crowed, stumbling further into the room. “So you’re the Gryffindor. Jaemin’s been—ow! What the fuck, Jeno—”

Jeno had elbowed him, hard. “Subtle as a brick, mate.”

“I’m just saying, he’s been in a better mood lately and now I know why—”

“Hyuck, I will literally hex your bollocks off.” Jaemin’s tone was pleasant. His expression was not.

The sober one gave you an apologetic look. “Ignore them. They had approximately five Firewhiskeys each at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Five and a half,” Hyuck corrected proudly.

“Right. Well.” You smoothed down your skirt. “I should go.”

Jaemin caught your wrist. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I think your friends need more help than I do .”

“They’ll live.” His jaw was set and you could tell he was still annoyed about the interruption.

“Awww, he’s being chivalrous,” Hyuck stage-whispered to Jeno. “That’s so—ow, fuck, Renjun—”

Renjun had slapped the back of his head. “Please excuse Donghyuck. He becomes aggressively annoying when drunk.”

“Just when drunk?” Jeno muttered.

You bit back a smile despite yourself. “It’s fine. I can find my way out.”

“You sure?” Jaemin was still holding your wrist.

“I’m sure.” You gently extracted your hand, very aware of three pairs of eyes tracking the movement. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

You made it approximately two steps toward the door before Hyuck piped up again. “Hey, Gryffindor girl?”

You turned. “It’s—”

“Oh, we know who you are,” Jeno said, grinning. 

“He’s absolutely miserable when you’re not around, you know,” Hyuck announced cheerfully, ignoring Jaemin’s death glare. “Like, genuinely unbearable. So thanks for that. You’re doing Merlin’s work, truly—”

“HYUCK—”

You escaped into the corridor before you could hear the rest, but their laughter—and Jaemin’s protests—followed you all the way down the stairs.

By the time you reached the common room, your face was burning and your heart was still racing and you had absolutely no idea how you were going to look at Jaemin tomorrow without remembering the weight of him above you, the heat of his hands, the way he’d looked at you like—

No. Not thinking about it.

Except you absolutely were going to spend the entire night thinking about it. You shook your head sharply as you climbed back through the castle, taking a different route to avoid Filch. 

The interruption was probably for the best. It had stopped you from doing something you couldn’t take back, from crossing a line that would make the whole “fake dating” excuse completely untenable.

“Wow, he’s even convinced you to go to a Quidditch game?” Jo said as she observed you putting on the green scarf you’d borrowed from Jaemin. “And wearing his colors? Okay, who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just one game. Plus, he’s been asking me to go for the past few weeks and I’ve already rejected him too many times. What kind of girlfriend doesn’t go support her boyfriend at a game?”

“A fake one?” She offered with a knowing look.

“I’m already committed to the bit, Jo. Cant back out now.”

“I just want to remind you that there are only 2 more weeks of this arrangement. Personally, I haven't even seen Yuna bother Jaemin in a good while, so there’s really no need to keep extending this thing.”

She was right. Yuna had been conspicuously absent lately. No more pointed stares across the Great Hall, no more appearances in places you and Jaemin frequented, no more saccharine interruptions during your library study sessions. You’d been so caught up in the elaborate fiction of your relationship that you’d stopped monitoring the very threat it was meant to neutralize.

Had she given up? Moved on to easier prey, perhaps? Or had the performance been so convincing that she’d accepted defeat?

And if the threat had dissolved, what justified the charade’s continuation?

More pressingly: did you want it to end?

The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome, and stubbornly refused to leave. Two weeks. Fourteen days until you’d presumably sit down with Jaemin and declare mission accomplished, shake hands like business partners concluding a transaction, and return to being polite strangers who’d once played at intimacy for an audience.

“I’ll leave it to Jaemin to decide,” you said finally, the words emerging more brittle than intended. You avoided Jo’s reflection in the mirror, suddenly fascinated by the intricacies of your braid. “It’s his arrangement, technically. His problem we were solving.”

Liar, your reflection seemed to whisper. Coward.

Because the uncomfortable truth you’d been studiously ignoring was that you had no idea what Jaemin wanted anymore. 

When he kissed you in empty corridors with no witnesses, was that practice? When his thumb traced absent patterns on your hip during meals, was he performing for distant onlookers or had it simply become habit? When he looked at you like that, was he acting or had the fiction begun consuming the actor?

You didn’t know. And you were terrified to ask.

Jo made a small noise of sympathy. “Just… be careful, alright? I know you think you’ve got this handled, but—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted, perhaps too sharply. “Everything’s completely under control.”

The lie hung between you, obvious and ignored.

At the Quidditch pitch you headed to the Slytherin side of the stands. Thankfully, the finale was against Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor, otherwise you would feel like a horrible disloyal witch by not supporting your own house. 

The place was already packed by the time you arrived. You’d expected to sit with the general crowd, but before you could even start climbing the stairs, you felt a hand on your arm.

“You’re with us,” Giselle said, appearing out of nowhere. She was dressed head to toe in green and silver, her house pride on full display. “Come on. We’ve saved you seats.”

“Saved me—what?”

Giselle led you to a prime spot right at the front of the Slytherin stands, where Changmin and Sungchan were already waiting.

“There she is!” Changmin grinned, as if this had all been planned.

“Jaemin’s good luck charm,” Sungchan added with a wink.

You blinked at them, too stunned to speak. These were the same boys who had barely tolerated your presence a month ago. Now they were scooting over, offering you the best view on the pitch, as if you belonged there.

“Jaemin said if we didn’t make sure you had the best seat, he’d hex us into next week,” Sungchan continued breezily. “And I quite like having my kneecaps intact, so.”

You sat down, feeling extremely self-conscious about being front and center in the Slytherin section wearing Slytherin colors. People were definitely staring. You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the whispers starting up.

"Wait," you started, your voice slightly breathless as you looked between their relaxed postures and the players currently mounting their brooms on the pitch. "Why aren't you two down there? Don't you both play?"

Changmin let out a dry snort, adjusting his sleeves. "Suspended," he said, "the Ravenclaw Beaters didn't appreciate my 'aggressive' tactical maneuvers during last week's scrimmage."

"And I'm on the bench today with a 'mysterious' wrist cramp," Sungchan added, though he looked entirely too healthy for an injury. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Truthfully? Jaemin didn't want us on the pitch. He wanted us here. Guarding you."

What?

"He’s a bit possessive over you," Giselle noted, settling in on your other side and smoothing her skirt. "He didn't trust the general Slytherin population to behave themselves while his head was in the clouds. Consider them your personal gargoyles for the afternoon."

Before you could process the idea of Jaemin hand-picking his friends to act as your shield, the teams flew onto the pitch, and the crowd erupted in cheers. You spotted him immediately. He was easy to pick out, even among the other players in their green and silver robes. He was a Chaser, and even from a distance, you could see the easy confidence in the way he handled his broom.

He did a lap of the pitch, clearly scanning the stands, and when he saw you sitting front and center in the Slytherin section wearing green his entire face lit up. He changed direction, flying closer to where you were sitting, and the crowd around you started screaming louder.

“Watch this,” Changmin said, grinning. “He’s showing off.”

Jaemin pulled up right in front of the Slytherin section, hovering there on his broom, and blew you a kiss. An unsubtle, utterly ridiculous kiss blown in your direction in front of the entire school.

You felt your face go absolutely scarlet, but you couldn’t help smiling. He looked so happy. So genuinely, completely happy, and it was directed at you.

"Salazar's ghost," Giselle groaned, pointedly looking toward the sky. "The two of you are going to make me sick."

The whistle shrieked, a sharp, piercing herald that set the game in motion. You quickly discovered that Quidditch was an entirely different ordeal when your attention was tethered to a Chaser. It was no longer a sport but a grueling exercise in cardiovascular distress. Every time Jaemin’s fingers curled around the Quaffle, your breath hitched, trapped in the tight column of your throat. Every time a Ravenclaw Beater sent a Bludger whistling toward his skull, your stomach performed a sickening, leaden drop into your heels.

You were on your feet more often than not, screaming yourself hoarse, your dignity dissolving with every reckless maneuver he pulled. Your knuckles were white, clutching the edge of the railing as if you were the one hanging onto a broomstick three hundred feet in the air.

“Look at you,” Giselle observed during a brief lull in the carnage. “You truly have it bad, don’t you? You’re vibrating.”

“I’m simply—invested in the match,” you ground out, refusing to look away from the green-and-silver blur circling the hoops.

“You’re invested in him,” she corrected, a smirk playing on her lips that was equal parts amused and knowing. “It’s a bit pathetic, really. But I suppose he deserves someone who watches him with that level of frantic devotion.”

Whatever biting retort you were preparing to mount was violently incinerated by the roar of the crowd. A deafening, earth-shaking thunder erupted from the Slytherin stands as Jaemin executed a barrel roll that seemed aerodynamically impossible, slamming the Quaffle through the center hoop.

Slytherin dominated the match with embarrassing efficiency, their Chasers running rings around Ravenclaw’s defense, and Jaemin in particular seemed determined to make a personal statement. Then their Seeker caught the Snitch about an hour into the match, ending things decisively. The moment it was over, the Slytherin section erupted in celebration, and before you quite knew what was happening, people were pouring onto the pitch.

“Come on!” Giselle grabbed your hand, pulling you along with the crowd. “We’re going down!”

You let yourself be dragged down to the pitch, caught up in the excitement. The Slytherin team had barely landed when they were being mobbed by supporters, everyone screaming and hugging and celebrating.

You were just trying to stay upright and not get trampled, when suddenly hands grabbed your waist and you were being lifted, spun around, and then you were looking directly into Jaemin’s face.

He was sweaty, and disheveled, and grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt his cheeks.

“We won,” he said, as if you might not have noticed.

“I saw,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You were brilliant.”

“You wore green,” he said breathlessly. “You actually wore green for me.”

“Of course I did. I’m your—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence, because he kissed you.

He kissed you like you were the only two people there, like he’d been waiting all day to do this, like winning the match was secondary to getting to kiss you. His hands cupped your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, and you forgot about everything except the feeling of his mouth on yours.

People were cheering. You could hear them, distant and muffled, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You just kissed him back, your hands fisting in his Quidditch robes to pull him impossibly closer.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. “That—” Jaemin said, thumbing sweat and hair from your cheek, “was the best part of the whole day. Actually, my entire bloody year.” 

He kissed you again, quick and fierce, before setting you down. 

The chaos of the pitch threatened to sweep you up—Haechan was flying mockingly around the dazed Ravenclaw Keeper, who looked two seconds away from swearing off Quidditch forever. Jeno was being hoisted onto someone’s shoulders while holding the Cup, still in his gear, a lopsided grin plastered across his face as a small army of younger Slytherins began a chant.

You barely had time to process anything before a dozen Slytherin hands were clapping you on the back, dragging you into the noisy throng. Jeno slung an arm around your shoulder, while Haechan bowed with the sort of exaggerated flourish only he could get away with.

“Oi, Y/N! You’re practically the Slytherin mascot at this point,” Haechan crowed, earning a fresh round of chanting. Jeno nodded and said, “We’ll need you at every match. Jaemin plays like he’s got something to prove when you’re here.”

Jaemin slipped an arm over your shoulders, fitting himself between you and Jeno. It wasn’t the casual sort of touch affectionate boyfriend would do but rather the kind of grip that signaled territorial intent, both “look at me” and “hands off, Lee Jeno.” Jeno raised his brows, smirked, and stepped back with a dramatic sigh as if to say, “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered.”

Jaemin lead you out of the crush, across the pitch, past the green-robed ruck of his teammates still shrieking and high-fiving each other senseless.

You found yourselves in the lee of the stands, momentarily invisible to the hooting masses. Jaemin bent over, hands braced on his knees, still catching his breath. The flushed tips of his ears glowed through sweated hair, and when he looked up at you, his eyes were shining, open, utterly unguarded.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “We agreed—no more public spectacles.” He grinned, sheepish and shameless at once.

You laughed. “That was entirely your fault. You were the one who just put on a whole air show out there.”

“Had to impress you,” he said, then he straightened, hands on your hips. “Did it work?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, but Jaemin’s voice always lilted up at the end, as if the answer mattered even if he already knew it. Your heart did the embarrassing somersault you’d tried to train it out of, and you could only nod, which made him gloat without mercy.

“Good,” he said, and tugged you in for another kiss, backgrounded by the muffled roar of the stadium and the granular crunch of pebbles underfoot. 

Suddenly a broomstick whirred to a stop nearby and Jaemin loosened his grip on you, letting you sway back ever so slightly. You barely had time to school your features before Madam Hooch’s voice rang out.

“Na, what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing back here?” She hovered just above, her yellow hawk’s eyes narrowing as she took in the flush on your cheeks and the state of your hair. “This isn’t the broom shed, though you two seem determined to treat it as one. Save the snogging for after hours—if you must.”

A mortifying heat swept up your neck. Jaemin simply grinned at her. “Just appreciating my good luck charm, Professor.”

Madam Hooch sniffed, unimpressed. “If you’re quite finished, the rest of the team would like their Chaser back for the cup photo.”

She fixed you both with one last look that could have stripped paint from the stadium, then gestured briskly for Jaemin to join the others.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, and winked “I’ll meet you in a bit for the celebration”

As the door to the Slytherin common room opened, you were met with an emerald-hued wonderland teeming with giddy, flushed-faced revelers. It was like being inside a shaken bottle of champagne, the air practically fizzing with elation and an infectious sort of glee.

Despite wearing green, you felt distinctly out of place. Like a single rose petal that had somehow fluttered its way into a bouquet of silver-tipped ferns. But Jaemin’s hand was warm and sure in yours.

“Stick close,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this snake pit.”

“And here I thought you’d be eager to feed me to your housemates. Y’know, as a victory sacrifice.”

Jaemin’s laugh was a rich, dark thing, like molten chocolate. “Tempting. But I think I’ll keep you to myself a bit longer.”

The wicked glint of his gaze as he said those words made heat rush to your cheeks. But before you could think much of it, you were swept up in a whirlwind of backslaps and high fives, the team descending upon their star Chaser in a giddy mass of sweat-damp robes and Firewhisky-fueled cheer.

You found yourself passed from embrace to embrace, your hair mussed and your face peppered with exuberant kisses. It was overwhelming, dizzying, this sudden immersion into the tight-knit camaraderie of Jaemin’s world.

But through it all, his gaze never left you. Even as he was jostled and jolted by his teammates, his eyes remained locked on yours, a searing, steady connection that made your pulse stutter and your knees go curiously weak.

As the night wore on and the festivities showed no sign of waning, you found yourself gravitating closer and closer to Jaemin, drawn by some irresistible magnetism. The heat of so many bodies packed into the subterranean space, the buzz of one too many Butterbeers, the maddening drag of his fingers along the small of your back as he steered you through the crowd…it was all blurring together into a delicious haze.

And then you looked up at him in a sudden moment of perfect clarity amidst the chaos, and everything else simply…fell away. The noise, the crush of bodies, the very air seemed to shimmer and warp, narrowing down to the electric pulse of connection stretching taut between you.

In that suspended sliver of time, you knew with bone-deep certainty that there was no going back. No more pretending, no more lines in the sand. There was only this, only him, only the truth of what had been building between you from the moment this mad charade began.

You crashed together like colliding stars, mouths and hands and hearts falling into desperate alignment. Jaemin kissed like a man possessed, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and make a home there, and you matched him beat for beat, pouring months of pent-up longing and frustration and fierce, helpless wanting into the slant of your lips against his.

When you finally surfaced, gasping and glassy-eyed, Jaemin’s face swam into focus, his usually sharp features softened by a look of tenderness.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice a rasping, wrecked thing.

You could only nod, mute and dizzy with want, and let him lead you out of the common room and into the labyrinthine tangle of the dungeon corridors. You walked in silence, the only sound the ragged counterpoint of your breathing and the distant, muffled thump of music.

When he stopped at a stretch of unremarkable wall and began to pace, you knew with a jolt where he was taking you to The Room of Requirement.

Where else would one go to tumble headlong into inadvisable, paradigm-shifting passion?

Jaemin reached for the handle, but then he turned to you with a question in his eyes and an uncharacteristic hesitance in the set of his shoulders…you knew that stepping over this threshold would change everything.

“Y/N,” he said, and there was a whole universe of unspoken things layered into the shape of your name. “Are you sure…?”

“Jaemin,” you said. “Kiss me.”

In the next instant, his lips were on yours again, and you stumbled backward as the hidden door swung open. You didn’t spare a glance for the room that bloomed before you. Couldn’t focus on anything beyond the heat of Jaemin’s body against yours, the desperate, reverent drag of his hands over your curves.  The room could’ve been an empty Quidditch pitch, for all you cared.

Every romance you’d ever read and even scoffed at came to life in that moment—the world receding, time slowing to a molasses crawl. There was only sensation, only feeling, only the drugging slide of his lips along your jaw, your throat, the dip of your collarbone.

Your pulse was fucking riotous. You’d talked yourself into this, hadn’t you? Marched up here on legs so wobbly you could’ve blamed the many stairs, convinced yourself you could handle it because it was Jaemin.

His calloused hands roamed with urgent purpose, fingers digging into your hips as he backed you against the nearest wall. He broke the kiss only to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.  You immediately turned to flame when his gaze tracked all over you. From your swollen lips, to your flushed cheeks, down to the way your chest stuttered with every shaky breath. His hands found your jaw. Steady, so steady.

“We can stop whenever you want to.” he murmured against your ear.

You managed a nod because your speech simply wasn’t coming. Every nerve was pulled taut with both anticipation and terror at the realization of what you were about to do for the first time in your life.

His fingers unclasped your bra carefully, and when the straps slid down your arms, you tried to fold into yourself, awkward and too aware of skin and imperfections. Jaemin’s eyes caught yours; they were dark but promising patience even as he bent to take your nipple in his mouth. 

You arched into him, a gasp escaping as his teeth grazed your nipple. “Jaemin,” you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair to hold him there.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hand cupped your other breast, thumb rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting straight to your core. You’d never been touched like this before. There’d been secret snogs, awkward fumbles in broom closets that had never gone further than shirt buttons, never left you feeling more than flustered and underwhelmed. This was different.

Your body reacted in ways you hadn’t expected, hips twitching, thighs pressing together, the ache between your legs suddenly urgent and embarrassingly obvious. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing desperately. The sensation was almost alien, and you had to fight the impulse to cover yourself, to pull his hand away and to say wait, let me catch up.

Thoughts scattered in all directions. Was it supposed to feel this good? Did he know how much you were trembling? Could he tell this was your first time? Did he care? Did it matter? You worried you might be doing it wrong by making too much noise, arching too eagerly into his hands, looking foolish and overeager. But his gaze fixed on you, pupils blown, jaw tight with want.

He suddenly straightened, fingers smoothing back the hair from your face. “Hey,” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Still with me?”

You nodded, a little wild-eyed. “I—yeah. Sorry. I just—” You swallowed, eyes locking on the bland pattern of the carpet. “I haven’t…”

When you looked back up, his eyes flashed with a kind of darker satisfaction. “I know,” he murmured. “I thought so.” His hands slid down your waist. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You responded by tugging at his shirt, nails scraping against the hem until he chuckled low in his throat and let you have your way. He pulled back just long enough to strip it off, revealing the lean, muscled planes of his chest and abs. His sun-tanned skin bore the faint ghosts of bruises from Quidditch, a testament to the fact that he played rough today. 

You stared shamelessly, hands twitching at your sides, before you finally gave in and mapped every line with your fingertips. The kiss that came next was messier, his tongue thrusting into your mouth in a rhythm that promised what was to come.

Jaemin's fingers worked at the button of your trousers, and you remembered with mortification that your knickers did not match your bra. Cool air hit your bare skin, but his body heat chased it away as he pressed closer, his clothed erection grinding against your thigh. You could feel how hard he was, the thick length straining against his trousers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with desire. “I've wanted this for so long.” His hand slid between your legs, fingers parting your folds to find you already slick. He groaned at the discovery, circling your clit with his thumb while a finger pushed inside you, drawing out tiny sparks of pleasure. Hehen he slipped two fingers inside, your hips jerked in startled delight. He moved slow at first, letting you get used to the stretch, his other hand splayed over your hip, grounding you, steadying you. 

You moaned, hips bucking into his hand as he pumped his fingers in and out, stretching you, preparing you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths. He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his thumb pressing firmer on your clit until you were trembling, on the edge.

“Merlin, remind me to–… to read a book on this before next time,” you blurted breathlessly.

Jaemin stilled, and for a second, you wondered if you’d killed the mood entirely. But then his mouth curved into a wolfish grin, and he pressed a slow kiss to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw.

“Oh, I think you’re doing just fine,” he murmured, voice gone gravelly. “But if you want me to demonstrate…”

He kissed a path down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to worship each new inch of skin revealed. It seemed like there was no part of you he didn’t want to learn. When his lips brushed the top of your breast, you gasped, the joke you’d been about to make dying on your tongue.

“Jaemin—what are you—?”

“Trust me,” 

You whimpered in protest, but he silenced you with a kiss, guiding you toward the bed. He stripped off his own pants and boxers, his cock springing free, long and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Your eyes locked on it, pulse racing at the sight.

He pushed you down onto the soft sheets, following you immediately until his body was covering yours. His mouth trailed lower, kissing a path down your stomach to the apex of your thighs. He spread your legs wide, settling between them, and looked up at you with eyes dark with hunger. “I need to taste you.”

“Wait—” you started, nerves rearing again.

He glanced up. “I promise you’ll like this.”

Then his tongue flicked out, lapping at your core in one long stroke, and the sound you made barely qualified as human. He sucked your clit into his mouth, alternating with broad licks along your slit, his fingers returning to thrust inside you. The combination of his relentless tongue and his fingers fucking you deep and steady was overwhelming.

“Okay, wow, that’s—oh—bloody hell—”

Right. So. That was new.

In fairness, you thought you were reasonably experienced. You had been alone with yourself often enough. You knew what you liked, had your own routines abd methods. A careful system involving muffled pillows, and a great deal of optimistic trial and error.

This was definitely not that.

This was like discovering you’d been trying to play a symphony on a recorder and Jaemin had just sat down at a grand piano and casually dismantled your entire understanding of music.

Your hips rolled against his face instinctively, chasing the building pleasure. He held you down with one arm across your waist, not letting you escape the onslaught. You gasped, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably.

“Jaemin,” you gasped. “Please—”

You weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for.

For him to stop. For him to continue. For him to explain how this was happening. For him to never leave this exact position.

Suddenly he added another finger, and wow…. that was certainly not how it felt when you did it. It probably had to do with the fact that his fingers were way longer and he seemed to know what to do with them.

He hummed against you, the vibration along with his tongue and fingers enough to push you over. Your orgasm crashed through you and you clenched around his fingers as waves of pleasure ripped you apart. He didn't stop, licking you through it until you were shaking.

Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and a dumb smirk on his lips. “How was that?”

He looked far too smug for your liking, and you—who had spent years pretending to be unflappable—actually giggled. Like a third year after her first Butterbeer.

“It was—” Your cheeks burned. “Brilliant.” 

His smile widened. “Alright. Just one more thing before we…” He trailed his wand through a complicated motion. The tip shimmered blue, a faint ring of light settling across your pelvis.

He caught your eye. “Contraceptive charm. Unless you’d rather I hexed my own bollocks off instead, but I hear Madam Pomfrey’s got enough on her hands.”

Another nervous laugh broke from your lips, but Jaemin just pressed a reassuring hand to your thigh and leaned in. 

“Tell me to stop if you want to. I mean it.”

You shook your head, want eclipsing every doubt you had. “I want to,” you said, the words tumbling out so fast they nearly tripped over themselves. “I want you.”

Jaemin lined himself up and watched your face as he eased forward slowly. The stretch stung at first—your body fighting to accommodate the unfamiliar width. It hurt more than you’d expected. 

Your walls stretched, burning, fluttering around him, the ache gradually giving way to a dizzying pressure as he bottomed out. He stayed perfectly still, forehead resting against yours, both of you shuddering through the intensity of it.

“Alright?” Jaemin asked thickly, as if it cost him everything not to move. A low groan escaped him as your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around his cock, the sensation clearly testing his control.

“Yeah, it’s just… a lot,” you admitted, your breath hitching.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hips twitching slightly despite his efforts to stay still. “Yeah, I know. I’m quite big.” The joke pulled a surprised giggle from you, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction. His eyes crinkled with warmth at the sight.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, a whimper threading through his words, his fingers digging into the sheets beside your head. “It—it’s taking everything not to just pound into you right now.”

He was flushed, hair damp with sweat, the strands sticking adorably to his brow and temples. His cheeks were tinged rose-pink, his jaw clenched tight as if the effort of holding himself back was an actual battle. His lips, swollen from kissing you, parted as he panted, every exhale ghosting warm across your face. A single bead of sweat trickled from his hairline, skimming down to the curve of his cheekbone. You couldn’t help but reach up, tracing it with a shaky finger. He caught your hand, pressing his lips to your palm, and the gentleness of it nearly undid you.

You’d never seen him look more beautiful. All that cockiness and swagger stripped away. This was just Jaemin, undone, desperate, trying to be gentle for your sake and barely managing.

A sudden warmth loosened in your chest, chasing away the last of your tension. You wanted this.  The pain ebbed slowly, replaced by a deeper need. You shifted beneath him, hips rolling tentatively, and found the sting softened, yielding to a heady pleasure that made your toes curl.

“Merlin,” Jaemin groaned in response.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, focusing on the sensations: the fullness, the way your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around him, sending little sparks across your body. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the tense muscles under your fingertips, and you whispered, “Please Jaem, move.”

Jaemin pulled back slightly, just an inch or two, and pushed in again slowly. A deep groan rumbled from his chest at the drag, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Shit… so good,” he panted. 

The motion made you gasp, the initial burn fading into a deliciously pleasant heat. He repeated it, shallow at first, giving your body time to adapt. Each gentle thrust coaxed a soft whimper from your throat, your nerves firing in ways you’d never even imagined. It wasn’t seamless or effortless like in the stories you’d read; there were awkward pauses, a slight shift when he slipped a bit, both of you chuckling breathlessly to ease the tension.

Then he started moving faster, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. Each stroke hit a perfect angle, his hips grinding against your clit with every push. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you harder.

The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, skin slapping against skin. Jaemin's hand found yours, lacing your fingers together as he drove into you, his eyes never leaving yours. There was tenderness in the way he held you, even as his pace turned brutal, chasing release.

“You’re doing so well, princess,” he murmured, brushing your temple.

A jolt of pleasure shot through you as the head of his cock nudged a deeper spot. “There… right there,” you breathed, your voice shaky but sure.

Jaemin pinned your hand above your head gently. His eyes bored into yours. “I’ve dreamed about this so many times,” he confessed between thrusts, voice punctuated by a whimper as your walls gripped him.

“Me too,” you breathed.

He released your hand to slip between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it slowly at first, matching the tempo of his hips, then faster as your moans grew louder. “Come on, let go for me… you’re so close, I can feel it,” he urged, his own groans growing more frequent.

The added friction served its intended purpose. Your orgasm built fast, coiling tight before exploding, your walls fluttering around his cock, milking him.

He followed you over the edge with a broken cry muffled against your neck, burying himself deep as he came. He collapsed onto you afterward, both of you panting, hearts pounding in that particular post-coital unison that poets find romantic and medical professionals find concerning. He stayed inside you as he softened, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You lay tangled in Jaemin's arms, limbs pleasantly loose from exertion and spine somewhat less pleasantly compressed by the world's most questionable mattress. 

The Room of Requirement, in its infinite wisdom, had conjured a heap of velvet blankets to cover yourself with. You suspected Hogwarts's taste in romantic furnishings had been shaped by decades of adolescent fantasy and the castle's own flair for the dramatic. Regardless, your back ached, your hair was a catastrophe, and you found that you didn't mind at all.

Jaemin, for his part, seemed content to lounge beside you like a Renaissance painting of decadent youth, one hand idly tracing the curve of your hip beneath the sheet. It was all terribly calm—if you ignored the thunderous panic building in your own chest.

You propped yourself up on one elbow and regarded him in the low light. In repose, the sharp edges of him softened into the boy you now knew existed underneath all those sneers. You'd always been rather undone by his eyes, if you were being honest, but now, seeing them half-lidded and so unguarded, the usual sardonic glitter banked to embers, you felt something dangerous clawing its way up your throat.

Don't, warned the sensible part of your brain. Don't you dare.

"I love you," you said.

The words escaped before you had a chance to wrap them in plausible deniability or cushion them with caveats.

Jaemin went very still.

For one absurd, hopeful moment, you thought perhaps he simply needed a second to process. That was reasonable, wasn't it? People usually needed time to absorb emotional declarations. Any moment now, he'd turn to you with that devastating smile and say—

He rolled away. Sat up. And began an unhurried search for his shirt, which had vanished somewhere beneath the bed during earlier, more optimistic proceedings.

Ah.

Ah.

"Jaemin?" you ventured. Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.

He didn't turn around. His shoulders, you noticed, had gone rather tense. "It's getting late. We should probably head back to our dormitories."

Your heart, so stupidly full just moments ago, plummeted somewhere in the vicinity of your stomach. "What?"

"It's late," he repeated, to the floor, or perhaps to the shirt he'd finally located. "We have classes tomorrow. We should get some sleep."

You felt as though someone had upended a bucket of ice water directly over your head. You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself with hands that had begun, rather inconveniently, to tremble. You'd been pleasantly naked in front of him not five minutes ago, and now you couldn't bear the exposure.

"Jaemin." You hated how small your voice had become. "Did you hear what I said?"

He finally looked at you. His expression had shuttered completely, all the warmth and softness of moments ago locked away behind those dark eyes.

"I heard you."

"And?"

He exhaled. "This... what we just did... it doesn't change anything." A pause. "We had an arrangement. A deal. It was never supposed to be more than that."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

You stared at him, vision blurring treacherously, and thought: of course. Of course he didn't love you back. How could he? You were merely  a solution to a problem. The fact that you'd been foolish enough to fall for your own charade—well. That was your fault entirely, wasn't it? No one to blame but yourself and your own ridiculous heart.

"Right," you heard yourself say. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was too—I'm sorry."

"Y/N..." He reached for you, and you flinched away so sharply you nearly toppled off the bed.

"No, it's fine." Your voice had gone brittle, the way it did when you were trying very hard not to cry. "You're absolutely right. We should go."

You stood on shaky legs and began gathering your scattered clothes with trembling hands. Your jumper had ended up draped over a candelabra, and you couldn't find your left sock, but you decided that you didn't care. You needed to leave. You needed to be anywhere but this room that had witnessed your greatest vulnerability and your most thorough humiliation.

Jaemin dressed in silence. His movements were impersonal, as if the tender lover of minutes ago was replaced entirely by a distant stranger pulling on his trousers like this was simply another Sunday. Perhaps, for him, it was.

When you were both clothed, he cleared his throat.

"I'll walk you back to—"

"I know the way," you interrupted, shoving your single sock gracelessly into your back pocket.

His jaw worked, as though he were chewing over some final, unsatisfying thought. You found you didn't want to hear it.

"Goodnight," you said finally.

You turned on your heel, crossed to the door, and walked out of the Room of Requirement with your chin held high and your heart in approximately seventeen thousand pieces, wishing desperately for a Time-Turner and the sense to use it.

You walked back to Gryffindor Tower in a daze, barely registering your surroundings. Your mind was reeling, trying to process the abrupt shift from blissful intimacy to cold rejection. You stumbled through the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady's concerned look. Thankfully, the common room was empty at this hour. You stood there for a long moment, staring into the dying flames, feeling the weight of your own foolishness pressing down on you.

You'd let yourself imagine it, hadn't you? A future where this thing between you and Jaemin was something real. Something that would survive the end of your little arrangement, that would unfold into late-night conversations and stolen kisses in corridors and his hand finding yours under the table at breakfast. You'd let yourself believe it so thoroughly that you'd forgotten it was never real to begin with.

A beautiful lie. A fairy tale you'd spun for yourself, heedless of the inevitable unhappy ending that had been written into the story from the very first page.

And now you were alone in an empty common room at half past midnight, with nothing but the cold truth and the aching, echoing space in your chest where your heart used to be.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

You turned to see Jo descending from the dormitories. She was in her pajamas, hair piled in a messy bun, face still creased with sleep. But the moment she saw you properly, whatever drowsy inquiry she'd been planning died on her lips.

Her eyes went wide. Understanding flooded her features, followed swiftly by something fierce and protective.

"Oh, love," she breathed, and crossed the room in three quick strides to pull you into her arms. "Oh, no. What happened? What did he do?"

And that was all it took. The dam broke, and suddenly you were sobbing into her shoulder, great heaving gasps that shook your whole body. She held you tightly, stroking your hair, murmuring soothing nonsense as you cried.

"I t-told him I l-loved him," you managed between sobs. "And he... he just..."

"Shh, I've got you. Breathe."

"He said it didn’t change anything." You choked on the words. "That it was never supposed to be more than that. And I just—I stood there like an idiot—"

"You're not an idiot." Her arms tightened around you. "You're not. He's the idiot. He's a complete and utter prat, and I'm going to hex his bollocks off, see if I don't—"

A small, inquisitive mrrp interrupted the proceedings. 

You both looked down. Whiskers had appeared from somewhere behind the sofa. He blinked up at you with large, knowing eyes, then began weaving between your ankles with pointed determination.

"Oh, Whiskers," Jo murmured. "Good boy. You tell her."

The cat, apparently agreeing that emotional support was required, rose up on his hind legs to bump his head against your knee. When that failed to produce adequate acknowledgment, he meowed again and began climbing your leg in pursuit of a better vantage point.

You laughed, it came out watery and hiccupping and rather awful, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

"See? He thinks Jaemin's a prat, too." Jo said solemnly, scooping Whiskers up and depositing him into the narrow space between you both. The cat immediately began purring and butted his head against your chin. 

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, still trembling. "I feel so stupid, Jo. I knew this was how it would end. I knew from the beginning it wasn't real, and I just—I let myself—"

"Hey." Jo pulled back to look at you properly. "Falling in love isn't stupid. It's brave. Even when it's messy and terrifying and the other person is a monumental coward who doesn't deserve you."

"He's not…"

"He is." Her voice brooked no argument. "Anyone who looks at you the way he does and then pretends it's nothing? That's cowardice. That's someone too scared to admit what they feel, so they make you feel like you’re imagining it instead."

You opened your mouth to protest, because surely it wasn't like that, surely you'd simply misread everything, surely the fault was yours for wanting too much, but Jo cut you off.

"No. Don't do that. Don't even try to make excuses for him." She softened, just slightly. "I know you love him. And I know that doesn't just... switch off. But you deserve someone brave enough to love you back out loud, yeah?"

A fresh wave of tears came, because she was right. You did deserve that. And you’d thought, for a few perfect hours, that maybe you’d had it.

“I really thought he—” You couldn’t finish.

“I know.” Her voice was gentle. “I know you did. And maybe he does, somewhere under all that stupid hair. But maybe isn’t good enough.”

You pressed your face into Whiskers’s fur, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

"Right," she continued. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit here, and you're going to let Whiskers work his magic, and you're going to cry as much as you need to. And tomorrow, we're going to eat an absolutely obscene amount of chocolate at breakfast, and you're going to ignore Na Jaemin so thoroughly he'll wonder if he's gone invisible. And if he tries to talk to you, I'll hex him. I’ve gotten really good at Bat-Bogeys."

"Jo, you will get detention."

"I don't care," she wasn't smiling anymore. "No one gets to make you feel like this and walk away unscathed. Not while I'm around."

You leaned into her, letting your head drop against her shoulder. Whiskers purred on.

"I really love him," you whispered. "Even after tonight. How pathetic is that?"

"It's not pathetic at all." Jo's voice caressed your heard, all the protective fury banked into comfort. "Love just doesn't care about timing, or logic, or whether the other person deserves it. It just is." A pause. "And for what it's worth? I don't think he's as unaffected as he's pretending to be. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

​​You didn't answer. You weren't sure you believed her at all, to be honest. But you let her hold you, let Whiskers purr and let the fire burn down to ash while the ache in your chest slowly, slowly dulled to something almost bearable.

Jaemin had never felt more like a prat in his entire life.

No—that wasn't quite accurate. Prat implied mild social incompetence. A tendency to say the wrong thing at dinner parties, forgetting birthdays, laughing at funerals. The sort of harmless foolishness that people forgave with a fond eye-roll and a muttered oh, that's just Jaemin.

What he had done went rather spectacularly beyond that.

He had taken something fragile and rare, something most people spent their entire lives hoping to stumble across, and placed it directly under his own boot. Deliberately. With malice aforethought, or at least malice afore-panic, which hardly seemed better.

He had watched you gather every ounce of courage you possessed. Had felt you trembling against him, breath shallow, voice catching on the edges of words you clearly hadn't planned to say. You had offered him something honest and unguarded and terrifying in its vulnerability, and he had responded by retreating behind technicalities and arrangements like a child hiding behind a curtain and insisting, with full conviction, that he was invisible.

We had a deal.

Merlin. He wanted to reach back in time and throttle himself.

It was never supposed to be more than that.

What a thing to say. What an absolute masterwork of emotional cowardice, delivered with the sort of cool detachment that would've made his father proud. He could practically hear the old man now: Well done, son. Keep them at arm's length. Never let them see you bleed.

Coward.

That was the word. The only word that fit.

A coward with decent grades and a Quidditch record impressive enough to distract people from the fact that, emotionally, he possessed all the sophistication of a flobberworm. Less, actually. Flobberworms at least had the excuse of being invertebrates.

He replayed it in his head for the forty-seventh time that hour, the way your voice had softened when you said it. I love you. Three words, plain and graceles, tumbling out like they'd escaped against your will. Your fingers curling against the sheets and the tiny pause afterward—that breath of suspended time where you had waited for him to meet you there.

And he hadn't.

He had stood on the very edge of everything he'd wanted for six years—six years, which was roughly forty percent of his entire existence and one hundred percent of his adolescence—and he had convinced himself that stepping forward was more dangerous than falling back.

He had finally kissed the girl who'd haunted his thoughts since he was eleven years old and too stupid to understand why her insults made his chest feel strange. He had finally heard you say you loved him to his face, with your whole heart in your voice.

And instead of recognizing it for the bloody miracle it was, he had panicked.

As though being loved were a trap. As though affection were some elaborate con, and you were merely waiting for the right moment to spring it.

As though you, of all people—brilliant, stubborn, infuriatingly principled you—were something he needed protecting from rather than running toward.

He laughed under his breath. The sound came out thin and joyless, startling in the empty corridor.

Afraid of being loved.

Such a stupid thing to be afraid of. It ranked right up there with afraid of winning the Quidditch Cup or afraid of someone handing you precisely what you've desperately wanted and asking nothing in return.

He had spent years wanting your attention.

Years engineering excuses to speak to you, picking fights in the corridors because negative attention was still attention, stealing your quills, hexing your textbooks, memorizing your class schedule so he could accidentally-on-purpose cross your path between classes.

He had told himself this behavior came from an innocent rivalry or perhaps even house pride, just the natural antagonism between Slytherin ambition and Gryffindor recklessness.

He had watched you from across the Great Hall, the way you laughed with Jo, the way you chewed your quill when you were thinking, the way the light caught your hair in the morning, and convinced himself it was harmless curiosity. Academic interest. The detached observation of a worthy opponent.

What a spectacular amount of bollocks he had fed himself.

He had wanted you persistently. Recklessly, in a way that would've horrified his younger self, who had been very committed to the aesthetic of cool indifference.

And when he finally had you, when you were warm and real and trusting in his arms, when you'd given yourself to him completely and then offered your heart on top of it like some undeserved gift—

He had recoiled.

Because being loved meant being seen.

It meant showing up. Being present. Letting someone witness all the parts of himself he usually kept buried under six layers of charm and sarcasm and ambition. It meant responsibility. Knowing that someone else's happiness was now tangled up in his own choices, his own failures, his own capacity to be something more than the sum of his defense mechanisms.

He had spent years telling himself he was being sensible.

Protecting people, he'd called it. Keeping them safe. As though his emotional unavailability were some sort of public service, a kindness he performed by keeping parts of himself locked away where they couldn't do damage.

He lived by three rules: feelings were liabilities, distance was safety, and caring too much was the fastest way to hand someone a weapon and hope they didn't use it.

It had been easy to believe that, growing up in a house where affection came with conditions and approval came with expectations. Where love had always been something that could be revoked at any moment—a privilege, not a given. A reward for good behavior, withdrawn the instant you failed to meet the mark.

So he'd learned early how to ration himself. How to care quietly, in ways that couldn't be measured or weaponised. How to want without asking. How to feel without admitting it, even to himself.

And it had worked. For years, it had worked.

He had been fine. Perfectly content in his carefully constructed fortress of emotional self-sufficiency.

Until you.

You, who had looked at his defenses not as walls to be respected but to be climbed. Who had called him out on his nonsense and refused to be impressed by his posturing and seen through him with a clarity that terrified him.

You had dismantled his entire system without even trying.

And now you were crying in the Gryffindor common room, probably being comforted by Jo who rightfully thought he was the worst sort of person, while he stood alone in a dark corridor with nothing but the wreckage of his own making for company.

He pressed his palm flat to his chest, as if he might physically restrain the ache there.

It didn't work. The ache remained, steady and insistent, a bruise that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He had been given exactly what he wanted and he had thrown it away because he didn't believe he was allowed to keep it.

Because somewhere deep in the foundations of himself, in all the places his parents' voices still echoed, he had decided that love was not something people like him got to have. Not permanently. That wanting something too much was the surest way to lose it, and the safest course was to let go before it could be taken.

He had pre-empted his own heartbreak.

And in doing so, he had guaranteed it.

The realization settled over him slowly, and Na Jaemin—Slytherin Prefect, Quidditch star, heir to a name that opened doors across the wizarding world—had never felt more utterly, unforgivably small.

He thought of you, somewhere in Gryffindor Tower, believing you had been foolish to love him.

And he thought: No.

The only fool here is me.

Jaemin spent the next few days turning it over. You saying those three words and him saying it didn’t change anything. What a lie. It changed everything and he could feel every new fault line spider out beneath his feet, threatening to split him open.

At first, he tried to convince himself he needed this: to have the edge. He thought of the next two weeks as a sprint, a countdown to the end of the deal, a chance to reset before anyone saw how scrambled he’d become. But the more he tried to hold that line, the more he found himself drifting. A wordless longing in his veins, a kind of hunger not easily starved out.

He looked like hell at breakfast. Sungchan greeted him with a commence-the-mocking whistle and immediately began recounting every detail of the party—especially the part where Jaemin had “dragged his girlfriend off like the end of a Victorian bodice-ripper and nobody saw either of them again until morning.”

Jaemin grunted in response. He’d hoped that the Slytherin table’s perpetual ruckus would drown out his mood, but word had apparently traveled at broomstick speed that he and his Gryffindor paramour had disappeared into the night and returned separately.

“Did you see Y/N?” Giselle asked, low-voiced as she slid onto the bench next to him. “She didn’t come down yet. Jo said something about a headache, but you know what that usually means.”

Jaemin played dumb. It was one of his most reliable talents. “Hangover?”

Giselle’s lips thinned into an unimpressed line. “Try again.”

He almost managed a laugh. “What, mid-semester flu, then?”

Changmin leaned across the table to whack him on the forearm. “Knock it off. You know what she means.”

For a second, Jaemin's lip curled with the beginning of a sneer. Then he caught the genuine concern in Changmin's eyes, and something in his chest constricted painfully. He knew he was being intolerable, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Besides, when had his friends developed this sudden interest in your wellbeing? Just weeks ago, they'd barely concealed their disdain whenever your name came up.

He shrugged. “Didn’t realize you lot were so invested in her.”

Sungchan, mouth full of toast, said, “Are you thick? She’s basically our in-law now.”

Giselle, who had never in her life let a moment of vulnerability pass unremarked, pinned him with a look sharp enough to cut. “Stop pretending you don’t care,” she said quietly. “It’s pathetic.”

Jaemin tried to brush it off, but her words dug in. The table fell into a brief, uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the scrape of utensils and the dull roar of the rest of the Hall. His eyes betrayed him, sweeping across the Great Hall in search of your face. It was four minutes to the start of first period when you appeared, rumpled as a stray leaflet, hair yanked into a bun with a quill, the red in your eyes unsoftened by any attempt to conceal it. You didn’t look in his direction. Not even once.

Jo steered you to a seat as far from the Slytherin table as possible, and for the first time in living memory, you didn’t have a book open with breakfast. You just sat there, picking at a single triangle of toast, the very opposite of the person he’d chased across the halls for half a decade.

He watched you, hating himself for it but unable to stop. Any moment now, you’d look up with a tiny smile and mouth, “What are you looking at?” and the axis of his world would correct itself by one degree. Instead, you slipped out before the first bell.

At least he was reliably consistent. Second period hadn't even started and Jaemin had orchestrated a trinity of fleeting, meticulously planned collisions. He'd spent the first break loitering by the Charms corridor, just to see your profile as you debated something with Jo. You never saw him. Or if you did, you made a point of acting as if he were invisible—a feat that, for someone as volatile as you, must have taken immense restraint. Still, his pulse hammered at the mere proximity, the knowledge that you occupied the same ten-meter radius.

Then, after Defense, he'd shadowed your route to the library, walking the long way around just so he could pass you by the statue of Dymphna the Dazed. He’d spent so many hours studying your gait, the bounce in your step, the way you always fiddled with your wand as you walked that he could predict, to the second, when you'd arrive at the oak doors. The actual moment was almost an anticlimax, though: You breezed right past, not even a flicker of recognition in your gaze.

By the time he wandered into the stacks, he’d convinced himself that running into you was serendipity and not the carefully plotted vector of a moth to its own funeral pyre. He saw you perched at the edge of a reading table, surrounded by towers of books and an aura of such prickly concentration that even Madam Pince hovered before daring to approach. He pretended like he needed something from the Potions section, just adjacent to your fortress of solitude, but when you looked up and caught him standing there, he nearly dropped his armful of textbooks.

But you simply returned to your reading, jaw tight, quill moving in furious dashes. The rejection was as comprehensive as any hex, and it landed him two rows over, staring blankly at a shelf of moldy periodicals and trying to pretend his hands weren't shaking.

This was how the day went: Jaemin planning collisions, you dodging each one with exactness. He wondered if you knew you could destroy him just by looking his way.

You didn’t bite either way. You only spoke once to him, and it was to offer one brittle “Excuse me” as you slid past. He caught a whiff of your hair then and realized he’d missed that scent. It filled his head, left him dizzy. He didn’t turn around as you disappeared down the aisle. He only stood there, polysyllabic apologies crowding the back of his tongue—and not a single one fit to say aloud.

You knew the aftermath would be the hardest part, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the days that followed. They stretched out, elastic and punitive, filled with silences so loud you imagined they could split the castle at its seams.

In a fit of what you would later call “productive despair,” you doubled down on your schoolwork. Every study hour became a refuge, your textbooks a bulwark against thinking. Whiskers responded to your newly-acquired hermitage by laying siege to your lap at all hours, claws lightly sheathed, tail flicking in his sleep like he was chasing the very feelings you’d tried to outrun.

You became an expert at avoiding Jaemin. You timed your arrivals to classes, hung back until the corridors thinned, and made peace with the fact that every now and then, you’d have to let a Slytherin Prefect dock you house points for lateness. Sometimes it was even Jaemin himself; he’d hand you the slip with his eyes fixed somewhere behind your left ear.

Even the Slytherin first years who’d once delighted in blocking your path seemed to shrink away from the tableau, as if the story of your heartbreak had filtered down through the stone like cold water, softening even the nastiest traditions.

Jo, goddess among friends, never pressed. She introduced you to a new array of comfort snacks and developed a proprietary cocoa recipe that she claimed could “reanimate a troll.” She helped you with Charms and let you rant about nothing in particular. When you occasionally faltered—when your hand shook during practicals or you lost your place reading out loud in History of Magic—she’d bump your knee under the desk and say, “We’re almost there, kitten. Keep your chin up.”

You kept your chin up. It hurt but you did it, because Jo was watching, and because Whiskers was watching, and because you refused to let him have any more of your dignity than you’d already handed over.

Four days before the end of the arrangement, your N.E.W.Ts loomed like a darkening storm. You’d just finished revising for Arithmancy when Jo spoke, “We’re doing a girls’ night tonight. No arguments.” She produced two vials of Smuggler’s Pumpkin Spice Spirit (questionable provenance) and a deck of Exploding Snap. “And we’re inviting Yuna.”

You nearly choked. “Yuna?”

Jo nodded seriously. “I saw her crying in the North Tower last Tuesday. She needs it. We need it. Besides, she’s been relentlessly normal lately.”

The idea felt so surreal that you couldn’t bring yourself to object. At exactly ten, Yuna appeared outside your dormitory, balancing a tray of suspiciously glittery shot glasses. She wore pajamas patterned with tiny cats and a hesitant smile, both of which seemed calculated to defuse ancient hostilities.

The three of you sprawled on the floor of the dormitory. You, cross-legged and trying not to look like your entire emotional landscape was scorched earth; Jo, already red-cheeked and deploying her patented “I’m-not-drunk-you’re-drunk” strategy; and Yuna, who poured drinks for everyone.

The first round was vile. The second was marginally less vile, or perhaps your tongue had simply given up. After a few more, your nerves had been numbed enough that you no longer cared if anyone brought up the name “Jaemin”. Or maybe you wanted them to.

Eventually, Jo passed out. She did so with Whiskers pillowed on her belly and her arms flung overhead.Yuna watched her for a long, pensive moment. Then she poured each of you one last shot and raised hers in a slightly wobbly toast. “To stupid boys,” she said. “And to the girls surviving them.”

You clinked glasses. The spirit went down like molten pudding and settled somewhere near your spleen.

A companionable silence fell, the pleasant, boozy sort that felt safe enough to say things you would otherwise never let see daylight.

Yuna was the first to break it.

“He’s terrible at hiding it, you know,” she said. “Jaemin.”

You blinked. “What?”

“What he wants,” Yuna clarified. “It’s…not subtle.” She swirled her shot glass, watching the dregs coat the glassy bottom. “I think he makes things hard for himself, but harder for the people he cares about.” She flicked her gaze up. “And you must know. You’re the only one he’s ever actually cared about.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “I think you’re mixing up ‘care’ with ‘use as a convenient shield for his own problems.’”

Yuna’s expression shifted to puzzled. “Convenient shield?”

You blinked at her, a little dizzy, a little stunned that Yuna, one of Slytherin’s most preternaturally well-informed gossip, didn’t already know every miserable detail. “You—oh, come on. The arrangement.” You mimed air quotes with your fingers, nearly upending your glass in the process. “We only did this to get you off his bloody back.”

Yuna opened her mouth to say something,but then just burst out laughing. Not even a sly titter but a full-throated snort that startled Whiskers off Jo’s belly and into an escape beneath the bed.

“Oh—oh, Merlin’s balls—” Yuna gasped, clutching her ribs. “You—wait, you actually believed—oh, this is precious.”

You felt yourself flush with irritation. “What’s so funny? That you lost your shot at Jaemin?”

“No, you adorable idiot, not that.” Yuna shook her head, wiping away a tear of mirth. “Are you serious? I’ve only ever talked to Jaemin because he’s Changmin’s best friend, and Changmin—well…”

She trailed off, her cheeks going very pink, then, as if you weren’t present at all, she laid her head back against the bottom bunk and stared at the ceiling, a contented smile on her lips.

You waited for more context, a swirl of confusion tangling up your tongue. There was a thud as Whiskers landed on the foot of the bed, followed by the faintest prickle of claws as he padded up beside you.

Finally, the implication of her words hit your tipsy brain. “Wait. You’re not—I mean. You weren’t even—?”

“Into Jaemin?” Yuna finished for you. “Merlin, no. Not since third year at least—and even then, only in the way you want a new pair of boots.” She shrugged, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “He’s nice to look at, but a nightmare to date. Total self-saboteur.” She glanced at you, curious. “You really thought I was after him?”

You felt lightheaded. “I mean you were everywhere—”

“I was following Changmin, you dolt.” Yuna’s face went even pinker if possible. “I set this whole thing up to make him jealous. I mean, it worked, he finally asked me to Hogsmeade, but—” she broke off, suddenly shy. “Sorry for the collateral damage. Truly.”

You stared at her, the pieces of the last months threatening to explode through the air. All that plotting, the drama, every humiliating emotional contortion you’d endured, and all this time… Jaemin hadn’t been fighting off Yuna. He’d just, what?

Did he just want an excuse to be near you, because he was pathologically incapable of admitting how much he needed it, even to himself? Every ounce of dignity you'd sacrificed, every moment of your life spent embroiled in this nonsense, and the object of his supposed self-sacrifice had been pining for Changmin the entire time.

You took a long, bracing inhale, thumping your head once hard against the edge of the bed frame.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

Yuna, to her credit, had the decency not to gloat. She nudged Whiskers toward you. “He’s always liked you, you know,” she said. “Even before. He used to ask me how to get you to stop hating him, like I had some kind of… girl code manual.”

You eyed her. “Did you?”

Yuna nodded, propping her chin on her knees. “I told him to try being honest for once. Clearly, he didn’t listen.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“You know, out of everyone, I think you’re the only person who makes him utterly lose his composure. He’s usually… impossible to fluster. Kind of his thing. But around you it’s like—you light a match and throw it into his brain.”

“Well, I certainly managed to set something on fire,” you said, and surprised yourself with a half-laugh. “Just not in any useful way.”

Yuna scooted a little closer, lowering her voice. “I know you probably don’t want my advice, but… maybe give him a chance to fix it. He’s genuinely bad at this stuff.” She shrugged. “You don’t have to forgive him, but if you’re waiting for him to say the right thing, you might be waiting forever.”

Her words slotted into place in your exhausted brain, like the last piece of a hopelessly complicated puzzle. Horrible, giddy amusement bubbled up your chest: all this time, you’d been fighting the wrong war, arming yourself against an enemy who’d never even taken the field.

You left Jo and Yuna asleep in each other's arms, Whiskers curled into a protective gray-striped crescent at the foot of the bed. Every portrait squinted with suspicious half-lidded eyes, and every suit of armor clattered medieval disapproval as you ran past them.

You didn't think much about where you were going, but the probability was as precise as Divination could ever muster: the Slytherin common room. Because if there was a single neuron left swimming in your firewhisky-addled brain, it was firing like a desperate flare directly toward Na Jaemin.

You padded soundlessly through the dungeons, fingertips trailing along the cool stone walls for balance, only to round a corner and nearly collide with a tall silhouette legging it up from the other direction. Jaemin, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours, shirt untucked with three buttons misaligned, and eyes wild as a cornered hippogriff, skidded to a halt so abrupt you both nearly toppled over.

You just stood there, staring, every cell in your body screaming and also quite possibly vibrating. Through the haze of fatigue and shame and liquor, you registered every heartbreakingly specific detail of him: the spike in his breathing, the way he braced one hand against the wall as if he needed it to hold up the rest of him, the deep crease between his eyebrows that only appeared when he was actively terrified.

The words queued up, fighting to be first out. “I—” “Listen—” “Can we—” “Please—”

A jumble, then an accidental harmony: “I need to talk to you.”

For one second, you considered turning around and running. But the way Jaemin looked at you pinned you to the spot.

He spoke first. “Come to the broom closet? I think I saw Mrs Norris nearby, which means… ”

“Filch,” you finished for him. “Okay, let’s go.”

You followed him in silence, down the corridor to the oversized closet that Slytherins had used for centuries to hide everything from illicit liquor to first-year snoggers. He held the door open, then closed it behind you, which left you not even three feet apart.

Jaemin propped his back against the door and exhaled so slowly it sounded like the last breath of a dying man. You tried not to notice that his hands were shaking. Or that he looked, for all his composure, completely lost. “I, um.” He looked down at his own shoes. “Y/N, I fucked up.”

You blinked. You’d come here to yell, maybe. Or at least to interrogate some truths out of him, like why he had so thoroughly detonated your entire sense of self. But he’d opened with the guilt and you weren’t ready for it. Unpracticed, unbuffered by the ice of pride or wit. It landed inside you with an unexpected warmth that left you unable to launch the first missile of your prepared invective.

He tried again. “I said things I didn’t mean. Or… didn’t say things I was supposed to.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, and for the first time in your long and bitter acquaintance, he looked his age. Not the chiseled, archvillain Slytherin but a seventeen-year-old boy who’d just spent the last week eating his own heart.

You pressed your back to the shelving, feeling a bristle of ancient brooms poking into your shoulder. It was easier to focus on the physical discomfort than the absolute riot of feelings inside you. “Why did you do it, then?” you asked, voice trembling but louder than you felt. “Why pretend? Why go through all of it if you didn’t—”

He looked up then, and the world stopped. You'd always known Jaemin had pretty eyes, almost stupidly so, but you'd never seen them this stripped of showmanship. There was nothing left in them but the need to be understood.

He ran both hands through his hair, almost laughing at himself. “Growing up, love was like a… currency. My parents, they’d dole it out in rations, make you earn it, then yank it away when you needed it most. Every hug, every ‘I’m proud of you’—it was an investment, and nothing was free. I don’t want to do that.”

He broke off, looking at you as if every word took a year off his life. “But then you—fuck, Y/N, you just loved me. Out loud. Not because you had to, or because I earned it, but because you wanted to. And I didn’t know what to do with that, so I panicked and did what I always do, which is ruin things before they can ruin me.”

You might have laughed, if it hadn’t stung so much. “You could’ve just said it back, you know. Or at least not torched me on the way out.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I do. I just—” He exhaled again and met your gaze. “I actually love you so much, and it scares me so bad I’d rather light the whole thing on fire than tell you to your face.I thought if you ever knew, if you ever saw how fucking much it was, you’d run for the hills. I was scared.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m still scared.”

You stared at him, the old defenses rising out of habit—sarcasm, skepticism, the impulse to twist anything freely given—but something in his voice made them shrivel away. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t even posturing. He was sweating through his shirt in a freezing stone corridor, admitting in the most un-Slytherin way possible that he wanted something enough to break himself for it.

He took a faltering step toward you. “I love you. I love you so much it makes my head hurt, and every time you look at me, I feel like I’m being given something I’m not allowed to keep. You’re so smart, brilliant really, you make everything feel less small and stupid, and I like how you argue even when you know you’re wrong, and sometimes I go out of my way just to hear you laugh at me, because when you do it I feel like maybe I’m not a total waste of oxygen—”

He broke off, eyes wild and shining. “You make me better, from the inside out. And I was so terrified that if you ever saw the real me—if I let you in even a little—I’d ruin it. Or you’d hate me.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “But I ruined it anyway,didn’t I?”

You listened in shock, because this was the Jaemin you’d believed existed only at the very edges of his brittle, cocky mask. The one who’d made a study of you, who’d learned all your favorite spells and matched your every move. You weren’t sure you knew how to reply. The gravity of his confession pressed you to the wall.

"I'm not going to say it was fine," you whispered, voice cracking. "It felt like you'd reached inside my chest and—" You pressed a trembling hand to your sternum. "God, Jaemin. I couldn't breathe for days. But even then, I never—" Your voice broke completely. "I never really hated you. Not even when I probably should've."

He breathed out. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted you to hate me properly. Would’ve made everything simpler.”

“Why spend all that time and effort in this charade? You could've just been honest... You had no idea how I would take it.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if the pain of the question might physically rupture his skull. “Because I didn’t know how else to have you, and I thought the only way you’d let me close was if it was an act.”

You wanted to spit something cruel, but it collapsed against the lump in your throat. “You incredible, galloping idiot,” you said instead, mostly to yourself.

You were about to speak again when he slipped a hand inside the folds of his robes. A familiar spine emerged, its dark leather cover worn soft across the creased corners, the gold lettering faintly dulled by time.

Wuthering Heights. It was the very copy you’d pressed into his hand weeks ago, at Tomes and Scrolls, half in jest. You’d expected him to snort and set it aside unread, or skim a few florid passages, shrug, and call it melodramatic nonsense. But now its pages were dog-eared, edges curling; a thin gold ribbon marked a specific chapter. The paper around it was so softened that you could almost see the imprint of fingertips pressed into the margins—tiny scrawled notes in cramped handwriting, evidence of long, late-night wrestling matches with Emily Brontë’s tempestuous souls.

Jaemin’s fingers trembled as he thumbed to the ribboned page. He cleared his throat, that quiet catch sounding louder in the hush around you, and lifted his gaze. The brown of his eyes locked onto yours so fiercely your ribs felt oddly vulnerable, as if he were staring right through your chest. Then, he began:

“Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stared at the book, at the margin notes, at the little crease in the paper where he’d returned again and again.

“You read it,” you whispered shakily. “You actually read it.”

He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear and offered you a shy, sheepish smile. “I got about three pages in and thought, ‘This is the most overwrought melodramatic nonsense I have ever encountered and she’ll never let me live it down if I admit I liked it.’”

Your breath caught, and you laughed softly. “So the Slytherin prince secretly studies Muggle love tragedies for—what? Sport?”

“For you.” His words fell simple and straight, but you saw in the tense set of his shoulders how much it cost him. “I remembered what you once said. That words could be more powerful than any spell. That some stories could make you feel things magic never touches.” He swallowed, eyes flicking away for only an instant. “I wanted to understand. I wanted to see the world the way you do. Even if… even if you never spoke to me again, I needed something of how you think.”

Your throat tightened around all the things you wanted to say.

“I love you,” he said suddenly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I’ll resign as a Prefect, stop dining in the Great Hall… never speak to you again, if that’s how it has to be—”

“Jaemin—”

“And if you think I’m not worth the effort, if you find some sensible bloke that's smarter and more emotional available instead of—” He gestured at himself “—a stupid prick with a habitual avoidance of feelings, that’s fine too, I unders—”

“Jaemin.”

He stumbled to silence, eyes wide, braced for your anger or dismissal. Instead, you stepped forward. “I think,” you said softly, “I’d rather take my chances with a Slytherin who panics at his own heart.”

His whole face broke into a tentative, trembling smile that brightened by the second, like dawn’s first light spilling over the lake.

“You don’t hate me, then?”

“Oh, I do,” you teased, closing the distance between you. “Just not enough to stop wanting to kiss you.”

He laughed a breathless, disbelieving sound that left him momentarily speechless. “That’s… a very low bar.”

“It’s the bar you set,” you said, reaching up to smooth the crease by his temple. “I’m just acknowledging it.”

He was so close now you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the restless hours he’d spent reading. His breath hitched, and his fingers, still warm around your forearm, shook.

“One condition.”

“Anything.”

“No more schemes. No more elaborate lies to keep me close. If you want something from me, you ask. And if you ever feel like sabotaging yourself again, you write it in a journal like every other teenager, and you keep me out of it.”

His eyes shone with relief and determination. “Deal. I swear it. Honest to Merlin, I’ll be so transparent you’ll beg me to tell a little white lie.”

“Unlikely.” You tousled his hair affectionately.

“I’ll be boring and straightforward and—”

“Now you’re just making things up.”

“—and I’ll read every book you recommend, even the ones you hate, so at least we can hate them together. I’ll tell you if I’m scared instead of running away, and I’ll—”

“Jaemin.”

He stopped and blinked up at you, a hopeful question in his gaze.

“Shut up and come here.”

He closed the last few inches between you, cupping your face as if it were made of spun glass. His thumbs traced the damp paths of your tears, his eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the soft curve of your lips. “For all of it—for the lies, the running, the… spectacular emotional incompetence. I’m so sorry.”

You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. “I know.”

He drew a shaky breath. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

You pressed your forehead to his “I will.”

"Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Already there."

And then, finally, his mouth found yours.

The kiss was unhurried. A little clumsy. Both of you slightly out of practice with each other, slightly hesitant, slightly afraid this might still evaporate if you moved too fast.

But it was real.

You could taste the years of wanting and the weeks of pretending and the days of heartbreak. The sharp edge of pain, slowly dulling. The first green shoots of something that might, given enough time and care, grow into something lasting.

You smiled against his lips. Let your fingers curl into the collar of his robes. Kissed him back with every ounce of mortifying hope you'd sworn you'd bury.

There was nothing staged here. Only the press of his mouth saying yes and sorry and I love you and please, over and over, until the words became simpler.

Stay, his kiss said. Stay, and I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it.

When you eventually separated, both breathing heavily, your foreheads touched.

"Let's see how long it takes you to mess this up," you murmured.

He laughed, eyes bright with joy. "Reckon I've got until dinner at best."

"Don't push your luck."

You kissed him once more, simply because it was possible. Because you wanted to. Because for five endless days you'd believed this door closed forever, and now finding it open seemed too precious to ignore.

Gossip would explode anew, inevitably. By evening meal, whispers would spread about you two emerging from an empty classroom, looking thoroughly kissed. By morning, a dozen conflicting stories would circulate. Within a week, the castle's most creative rumormongers would have you practically married.

But in this moment—his hand entwined with yours, his smile against your temple, your future sketched in pencil rather than vanishing ink—the entire castle seemed beautifully uncomplicated.

For a pair of hopeless liars, it made for a surprisingly honest beginning.

taglist: @horanghaepaws @ww8hao @alwayswithjaemin @enhalovie @yhyhyhh26 @soominis @leehaechie @beachbabe4ever @markiesfatbooty @chaoticallytaken @notmastyle

Felix’s tail flicks sharply, ears pinned back as he glares across the room. “You ate my treats again.”

Minho doesn’t even look guilty. He’s sprawled lazily across the couch, tail curling around his thigh, eyes half-lidded with that familiar smugness. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave them out,” he says, voice smooth.

“You know how I get.” Felix’s tail puffs, a soft hiss escaping him before he catches your warning look.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“And you’re loud,” Minho replies easily, finally lifting his gaze. There’s a challenge there, sharp, glittering, the kind that always means trouble.

You sigh, closing your book and setting it aside. “Alright, both of you-”

“Ask him why he’s so smug,” Felix interrupts, stepping closer, the tips of his ears twitching.

“Go on, Minho. Tell them.” Minho stretches, slow and deliberate, like a predator just waking.

“Because I’m right,” he says simply.

The air between them tightens, tails flicking, pupils narrowing, shoulders tense. You can almost feel the energy shift, that dangerous spark that always lights right before they cross the line.

“Minho,” you warn.

He looks at you, head tilting, ears forward, and for a moment, the tension in the room changes shape. Not gone, just redirected. Focused. Felix notices it too; you can tell by the way his ears flatten and then perk back up, curiosity overtaking irritation. Minho’s gaze lingers on you, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You always take his side,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble.

“I take the side that keeps my apartment intact,” you say, trying for humor, though your pulse jumps when he stands.

Felix shifts his weight, tail curling uncertainly. “Don’t start,” he says softly, but there’s no real bite behind it.

Minho steps close, not threatening, but close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you. “Then maybe you should stop us.” The challenge in his voice lands somewhere between tease and promise. Felix’s tail swishes again, half-annoyed, half-intrigued.

You take a slow breath. “Boys,” you say carefully, “don’t make me-”

But it’s too late. They’ve already turned toward you, one with that familiar feline smirk, the other with wide, golden eyes that flash with something like anticipation. Their movements are slow, graceful, and deliberate, circling closer until the space between the three of you disappears. It’s not a fight anymore. It’s something else entirely.

Minho moves first, his predatory speed stunning you into stillness. His hands are on your hips, lifting you effortlessly and backing you up against the cool wall. His eyes, fixed on yours, are dark pools of demand.

“Our attention is on you now,” he growls, pinning your gaze.

Before you can formulate a reply, Felix is there, slipping between the two of you. His soft tail fur brushes against your thigh, and his hands work with surprising, possessive speed, unfastening your belt and pulling the fabric of your trousers down. The cool air hits your exposed core.

“Minho is right,” Felix murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr that vibrates through your chest. “You should focus on us.” He lifts his gaze to Minho, a sharp, competitive challenge in his golden eyes.

Minho accepts the challenge instantly. He leans down, his mouth claiming your neck. His teeth barely graze the sensitive skin near your collarbone, a warning growl vibrating deep in his chest. He bites, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a stinging, possessive mark, a red crescent blooming instantly under his muzzle.

You gasp, your hands flying up to grip Minho’s shoulders for purchase. The primal sensation snaps your protest.

Felix watches the mark bloom, his pupils narrowing. He runs his hand from your hip down your exposed thigh, his touch feather-light, but as he passes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his claws unsheathe. He doesn’t scratch, but the cold, sharp tips drag a fine, deliberate line, a sensual threat that makes you seize and whimper.

“Don’t mark our territory so quickly, hyung,” Felix purrs, pushing his head between your legs and nuzzling his face against your core through the damp fabric of your underwear, his breath hot and demanding.

“I claim what’s mine,” Minho returns, lifting his head to let you see the dark hunger in his eyes.

He pushes you harder against the wall, reaching to the side where he keeps his knives. He returns with a long, thin filleting knife, not for fighting, but for ritual. The steel catches the light, cold and shockingly sharp.

You watch his movements, your breath catching. You trust them both, implicitly, even with the blade. You lean your head back against the wall, presenting your body in an act of absolute, open-eyed surrender.

Minho holds the blade up, his eyes never leaving yours. He runs the cold, flat side of the knife down the length of your exposed throat, the shock of the temperature making your skin prickle and your pulse pound wildly against the steel. He traces the line of the bruising bite mark he left, his touch possessive.

“You’re so good for us,” Minho whispers, the words almost a threat. He uses the tip of the knife to hook the waistband of your underwear and snaps the fabric aside.

Minho shifts his grip on you, sliding his hands to your back and guiding you to the couch. You are positioned kneeling on the soft cushions, hips high, chest low, creating a perfect point of access. Felix immediately takes his cue, positioning himself between your legs, his head dropping instantly to your core.

Minho settles behind you, his legs bracketing yours, his chest pressing against your back. He is the anchor, the dominant presence, while Felix performs the primary act.

The contact of Felix’s mouth is wet and aggressive, his tongue skilled and demanding, silencing your protests instantly. His purring is a loud, insistent rumble against your sensitive flesh, and his tail swishes sharply against the couch cushions in pure focus.

Felix accepts the challenge, increasing his speed and aggression, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force to keep you centered over his mouth. His tongue flicks fast and hard, working the exact center of your heat with relentless, wet friction, creating a burning pressure that travels up your core.

Meanwhile, Minho's hands reach around to your chest, his cold fingers finding your hardened nipples. He uses the dull edge of the knife, cold steel against your hot skin, to play with the sensitive peaks. The pressure of the blade is just a razor-thin promise of pain, intensifying the oral pleasure until your nerves feel like they’re humming at two different frequencies.

You can’t fight, you can only shake and gasp, the knife and the hands holding you captive while Felix's aggressive rhythm shatters your concentration. The cold steel, the primal sound of the purring, the wet friction, it’s too much.

You feel the familiar, overwhelming wave building, your core tightening violently around Felix’s mouth. You let out a raw, helpless scream that Minho swallows instantly, not with a kiss, but by muffling your cries with his hand.

The two of them drive you over the edge simultaneously, Felix with a final, hard grind of his tongue, and Minho with a final, heavy press of the cold blade on your chest. You convulse violently, your body slamming forward, your pleasure sealing their shared, primal mark.

In the breathless, trembling aftermath, Minho pulls back, lowering the knife and sinking his fangs into the sensitive curve of your shoulder. The pain is sharp, shocking, immediately followed by Felix, who bites down on the opposite side of your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin near your pulse. The dual marks bloom immediately, two fresh, crimson crescents of absolute claim. Felix pulls his head away, slick and panting, and begins licking the tears from your cheeks, his purr deep and rough.

“Good pet,” Minho whispers, his voice thick with satisfied dominance. “We won the prize.”

Felix leans into your side, his tail wrapping around your waist, possessive and warm. “We always do.”

“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.

Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers. 

There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.

In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.

Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.

You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.

At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.

"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"

Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"

You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."

"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"

"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"

The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades. Whiskers was curled up in your lap, observing your best friend with as much judgement as you probably were.

"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"

"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"

"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"

"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"

"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."

"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.

This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.

Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.

With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"

Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."

You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"

"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"

Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."

Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"

"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."

"Well, I didn't know."

"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”

You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.

It was funny, really. Or rather more like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.

And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.

By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.

You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.

Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.

“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”

Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.

"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."

"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."

"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.

Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.

But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.

With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.

Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.

There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.

Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.

After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.

As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.

In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.

At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.

The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.

You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.

That was the theory, anyway.

The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.

Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.

You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot.  Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.

Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.

Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.

"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?

"Where's Crockett?"

"We swapped shifts."

His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."

Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?

"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."

Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."

And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.

The grounds.

Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.

The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.

Oh no. 

"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."

His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"

Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"

"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"

"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."

Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”

“Plans,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”

“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”

Oh god. Why had you started this?

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”

“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”

He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”

Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”

“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”

“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”

This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”

“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Go on.”

You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”

“Things?” Jaemin repeated, his grin positively wolfish now. “How delightfully vague.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”

He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”

“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”

“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.

“Then what?”

You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”

Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”

He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.

“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”

Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”

“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”

Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.

“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”

“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”

“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”

You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”

“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”

Wait. What?

“I’m not—there’s no one—”

But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.

“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”

He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”

“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”

Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”

“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”

The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.

And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.

“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”

“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”

“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”

"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.

This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.

Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.

Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.

In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.

"I'm coming!" you called after him.

Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.

"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."

“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.

Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.

Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.

You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous. 

They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.

And you needed to keep him distracted.

“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”

“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”

“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”

“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”

“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”

There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.

Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."

"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”

“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”

“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”

Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”

You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. As expected, Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.

“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”

“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.

But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.

Laughter.

More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.

Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."

"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"

"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"

But he wasn't listening. Because he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.

You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.

The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"

Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.

"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."

Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."

"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."

"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”

 “They can be vicious!”

“They’re ten inches tall.”

“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”

“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”

You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.

“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”

He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.

You grabbed his arm.

The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.

“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”

He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.

"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"

"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."

"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"

He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."

"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."

"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."

Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."

You blinked. "Fine?"

"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."

There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.

Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"

His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."

Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.

But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.

"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."

His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"

"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"

You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?

You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."

"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."

The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?

As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."

"Probably," you repeated faintly.

"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.

The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).

At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.

"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."

And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.

The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.

“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”

Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”

“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”

“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”

Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."

"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."

"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"

You took a deep breath. "A favor."

"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"

“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”

She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”

“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”

Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.

“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”

“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”

“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”

“Jo.”

“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”

But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.

Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.

A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.

You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.

To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.

Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.

He just watched you.

From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.

You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.

By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.

“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”

“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”

Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”

“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”

“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.

No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.

Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.

“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”

Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.

“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”

“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”

“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”

“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—” 

But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.

Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. 

There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.

He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.

"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"

You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.

Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”

The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.

“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”

“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

"Huh?" you said eloquently.

"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.

“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.

“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”

Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you. 

You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.

"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."

Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.

He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.

"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"

He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."

"The favor," you said flatly.

"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."

Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"

Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes. 

He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."

What the fuck. 

You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.

"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"

"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."

You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.

But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.

"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"

"I'm not having a mental episode."

You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—" 

"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."

"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"

"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.

"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."

"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"

"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"

"Yes."

"Why?!"

"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.

You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"

"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"

"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"

"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."

"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"

"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."

"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."

"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"

"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?

You blinked. "What?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."

"Okay...?"

"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."

Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."

"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."

"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."

"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."

"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."

"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."

You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."

"Is it though?"

"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"

"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."

"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"

"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."

That brought you up short. “You barely know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.

"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.

There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.

"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”

"That's the gist of it, yes."

"For how long?"

"A month? Maybe two at most."

"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"

“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"

"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again. 

“Again, no need to be madly in love—"

"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"

“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”

"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"

"Nobody's going to try to murder you."

"You don’t know that!"

“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."

You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."

"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.

You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"

“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.

"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."

"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.

“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."

“You want me to hold your hand?”

"Among other things."

"What does that even mean…?”

"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."

"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"

"I mean, not right now necessarily—"

“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”

"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.

You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"

"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.

You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"

"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."

"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."

"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."

You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.

"This is blackmail," you said weakly.

"It's really not."

You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse,  tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.

"Fuck," you groaned.

"Is that a yes then? he said. 

You truly hated everything about this.

Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."

Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."

"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."

"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"

You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.

But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.

"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.

"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."

"I make no promises," you muttered.

As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:

Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.

Jo was never going to believe this.

A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.

It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.

Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.

Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.

“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”

The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”

The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.

And as if the whole thing wasn’t a nightmare already, there was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.

He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.

“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.

“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”

“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.

“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”

A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.

Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.

“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.

A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?

Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.

Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.

The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.

But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.

Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.

Giselle led the first offensive.

She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.

“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”

“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.

“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”

“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.

“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”

The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.

“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.

“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”

Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.

“I suppose so,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.

“Cute.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”

Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his tea as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.

The pressure didn't let up as the days went on. A few days later, Changmin intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.

"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."

Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"

"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."

"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.

"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well, not that."

Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.

Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."

His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.

A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility.

They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.

Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.

"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."

The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.

"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.

"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."

Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.

"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."

"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.

"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"

"Magical Maintenance."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.

"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."

Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.

The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.

You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.

"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"

"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."

"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."

A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.

Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.

Yuna.

She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of his circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.

"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."

Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."

"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."

"I'm clearly busy, aren’t I?" Jaemin finally looked up, his voice hardening.

Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.

"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"

"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."

A snort of pure skepticism escaped Yuna. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"

"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."

"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”

Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.

“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Yuna asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”

The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”

“Don’t look so scandalized.” she waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”

She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.

"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."

"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

“So defensive.” Yuna chuckled cruelly.

“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.

“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”

“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”

The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.

“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."

They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.

"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."

Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.

“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”

“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”

“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.

You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”

Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”

“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”

“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.

“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”

Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”

“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”

“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.

“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”

“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”

"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.

“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”

“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.

Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”

“That’s not what I—”

But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.

Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.

Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.

Expectations of a smooth public performance next morning were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.

Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.

"Can we talk?"

The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.

You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"

"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"

Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. Why did she keep doing that?! You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.

"Fine. Where?"

"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"

"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.

"Just—trust me on this. Please?"

There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.

"Ten o'clock," you agreed.

He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.

Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.

Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.

Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.

"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."

The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."

"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."

"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"

"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."

"Practice?"

"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."

"Right. So your grand plan is..."

"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."

A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.

But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.

"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"

"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."

Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.

For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.

Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.

Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.

"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.

"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."

"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."

You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?

But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?

No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar. 

And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.

“I swear if this is some kind of prank…”

"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."

The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.

"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"

Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."

"I'm sorry, what?”

"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."

"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts. 

"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."

Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.

"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."

"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.

You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.

"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."

He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to have to get closer than that."

"This is close."

"You’re barely sitting on the couch."

"Baby steps," you muttered.

"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."

That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.

"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.

Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.

Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.

"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."

"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."

"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."

Breathe. Right. You could manage that.

You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.

"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."

"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."

"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."

He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.

The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.

"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."

"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.

"I'm trying not to spook you."

"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."

"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.

It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.

"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.

For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.

"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."

"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair. 

You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.

Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.

The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.

“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.

Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”

You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”

He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”

You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.

“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”

“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”

“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”

“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.

“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”

You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.

He’d mentioned kissing when he proposed this mad arrangement in the first place but you genuinely thought he’d been trying to ruffle you. The prospect of actually kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.

“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”

Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.

“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”

“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”

“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”

“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.

“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”

The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way. 

It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?

But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.

You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.

So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.

You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.

The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.

"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"

"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."

The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"

"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."

"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"

And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.

"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."

Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"

You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."

The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."

"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.

You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.

By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.

"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."

"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"

You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.

It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.

"Out for a midnight stroll?"

You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.

Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.

"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"

"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."

"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.

"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."

You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."

"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.

"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"

Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"

"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"

"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"

"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."

"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.

"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."

"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."

It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.

"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"

"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."

You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"

"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."

Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.

“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."

“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."

"How magnanimous of you."

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?

You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.

"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"

"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."

Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.

"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"

Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."

"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?

"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."

"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.

Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."

"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."

"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.

You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."

"It's also Valentine's Day."

"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."

"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."

Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.

But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.

Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."

"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."

He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"

"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."

His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."

You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."

Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."

"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."

"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."

You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.

Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.

Right?

But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.

The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have. 

You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.

 “This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below. 

Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.

Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”

“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”

He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.

The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.

Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”

Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”

“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”

Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.

“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”

He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.

“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”

You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.

“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.

“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.

“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?

Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"

You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was a Ravenclaw you recognized from your Charms class. Taehyun, you thought his name was.

Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."

The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.

“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”

Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.

“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”

Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”

You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.

“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”

“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”

Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”

“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”

Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”

You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.

"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”

As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.

The effect was instantaneous.

Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.

Thwack.

She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.

Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.

Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.

"Did you just…?"

"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."

"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."

"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."

"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."

Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.

You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.

“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.

You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”

You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”

You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”

You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”

“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”

You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.

“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.

“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”

You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.

It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.

You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."

“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”

Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.

You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.

“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”

Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”

“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”

When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.

“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.

“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”

Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”

“In a way, they are,” you whispered.

He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”

His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.

“I can do that,” you promised softly.

The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.

Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.

“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”

He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”

The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.

“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”

You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something? 

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”

Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.

“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”

You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”

Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.

Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?

You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.

If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.

The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.

The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.

Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.

This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?

They kissed.

The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.

“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”

You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.

You could do this.

Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.

For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.

It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.

Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”

“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”

Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”

He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.

That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.

Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.

As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…

“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”

You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.

You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.

Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…

Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?

Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.

You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.

“Y/N!”

You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.

“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”

Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."

"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."

“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”

“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.

“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.

You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.

“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”

Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.

“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”

He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.

“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”

“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”

“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.

By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.

“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.

You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.

“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.

But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.

“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.

He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”

You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.

“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.

He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”

You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”

And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.

As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.

No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.

It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

One of your favorite awkward moments is when he tries to initiate any kind of skinship with you. Since your boy is basically embarrassed of existing at this point, you were always the one to initiate physical contact. Like your first kiss, for example—when he was stuck debating whether to take the first step or just end the date, and you ended up simply pulling him in yourself.

Even now, after so much time together, he still seemed to have no idea how to behave sometimes. That’s why it was so funny to watch him having an inner battle about what to do, just like now.

The weather couldn’t have been better. The sun bathed you in its warmth, but not in an overwhelming way, just enough to feel cozy. Paired with the gentle breeze brushing against your skin, it was the kind of day that made you pause, breathe, and think about how wonderful it would be if global warming didn’t exist, so everyone could live days like this forever.

And, of course, it was the perfect day for a picnic with your lover, who had been quick to accept the idea. With you, he was ready to go to hell and back—a little dramatic, sure, but true all the same.

So, said and done, a perfect spot in a beautiful park was waiting for you and your little date. You both spread the towel on the grass, arranged the snacks you had prepared together, and sat side by side, ready to dig in. That’s when his adorable awkwardness began.

The moment you bit into a strawberry, you felt his gaze on you. He followed your every movement, watching you up and down with a kind of quiet admiration. At first, you thought he just wanted a taste, so you picked another sweet strawberry and held it out to him. He smiled, embarrassed, but still opened his mouth to eat it anyway.

But then, instead of stopping there, he kept sneaking glances at you. Looking, then looking away. Shifting a little closer, only to scoot back into place a second later. His head swayed as if caught between choices, his eyes narrowed in thought, his teeth worrying his bottom lip before he gave a tiny shake of his head, like whatever was running through his mind was the absolute worst-case scenario.

He was so caught up in whatever was going through his head that he didn’t even notice you staring at him with an amused smile. Now it was your turn to watch him. With how much he was hesitating, you already knew exactly what he was trying to do.

“Jisung,” you called softly.

He nearly jumped, snapping out of his thoughts, wide eyes locking on yours. For a second he looked terrified, like he’d accidentally spoken out loud and you had heard everything.

“W-what?”

“Stop overthinking and just do it.”

Instantly, his ears turned red. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, and though he felt like he could just bury himself underground, he couldn’t stop the small, embarrassed laugh that slipped out too. His hand went to scratch the back of his neck, eyes flicking away before coming back to you with that sheepish little smile you loved so much.

“…Sorry,” he whispered, finally turning his toward you. His hand rose to your cheek, gentle as he pulled you closer and met you halfway. Whatever shyness he had melted away the instant his lips touched yours.

His hand moved slightly, his fingers gently tangling in the strands of your hair as he leaned in closer, deepening the kiss, that was just as sweet as the strawberry you shared. You figured he had been thinking about doing it for far too long, because he didn’t seem in any hurry to stop. You could even hear a very soft hum escaping him, as he took his sweet time savoring you.

You smiled between the kiss and gently nipped his lower lip as you eased him back slightly, breaking the sweet intimacy. You looked at him, noticing his cheeks flushed from both shyness and holding his breath. Please, he was just so adorable! You had to press a quick peck to his lips again, just to tame the surge of cute aggression that was bubbling up inside you.

“Baby, you know you don’t have to ask every time you want to kiss me, right?” you said, trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh.

He simply leaned closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, as if that would shield him from your teasing. “I just… wanted to be sure…”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea, @bluedbliss.

PART I: Cold Front

The war didn’t wait for introductions.

Y/N barely had time to drop her duffel before she was pulled into the chaos of the forward camp. Blood, shouts, stretcher wheels grinding across concrete. She’d trained for trauma, for triage, for this kind of battlefield. But no amount of schooling prepared her for the way soldiers bled differently when they knew no one was coming to save them.

She pulled on gloves as a nurse ran a checklist beside her. “We lost two this morning. One’s still hanging on. Shrapnel to the chest.”

“And where’s the commanding officer?”

The nurse’s face faltered. “Captain Suh? You’ll know when you hear him.”

Y/N didn’t have to wait long.

“Out of the damn way!” came a clipped, steely bark from the far end of the tent. Heavy boots stormed across the floor like gunfire. “If he’s still breathing, he doesn’t need morphine yet.”

The voice matched the man. Tall, black fatigues soaked in blood and dust, expression carved in granite. Captain Johnny Suh didn’t speak so much as command the air around him. His eyes swept over her like a threat.

“You’re the new doctor.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I am.”

He didn’t offer a hand. “Stay out of my way, do your job, and don’t make promises to the dying. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a graveyard with lighting.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Y/N stood in place, jaw tight.

So that was Johnny Suh.

The first week was hell.

Johnny barely acknowledged her unless it was to bark an order or correct her decision—always in front of others. He criticized her timing, questioned her triage priorities, and once rewrote an entire patient chart in front of her without so much as a word of explanation.

She hated the way he made her feel small.

Worse, she hated the way she noticed him when he wasn’t talking.

The precision of his movements. The unshakable calm in chaos. The bruises that bloomed under his jaw and disappeared before she ever got a chance to ask about them.

She tried not to care. She failed.

It came to a head during a night op.

A soldier was brought in—young, barely conscious, chest blown open. Y/N was already stitching through muscle when Johnny stormed into the room.

“Why the hell are you wasting sutures?” he snapped.

“He still has a pulse,” she shot back.

“Which won’t last long. He’s circling the drain.”

“I don’t abandon people just because they’re inconvenient.”

His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about your morals. It’s about resources.”

She stood, hands bloody. “You don’t get to decide who dies.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “Out here, someone has to.”

They were inches apart. Breathing hard. His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second before he looked away like it stung.

“I’ll take responsibility for the call,” she said.

“You already have,” he muttered, and walked out.

The soldier lived.

Neither of them talked about it.

Weeks passed.

The insults softened. The silences stretched longer.

One night, she found him outside the med tent, sitting alone on an ammo crate, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

“You shouldn’t smoke that,” she said.

Johnny looked up. “You planning to write me up?”

“I’m not your enemy, Captain.”

He took a slow drag, eyes unreadable. “Then don’t try to be my friend.”

But she sat beside him anyway.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

___________________________________________

PART II: Flashpoint

Rain hammered the tent roof like gunfire. It was late. Everyone else was asleep or pretending to be.

Y/N was in the infirmary finishing paperwork when the flap opened—and Johnny stepped in, soaked and bleeding from the temple.

“I’m fine,” he said, already brushing past her.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“Sit down.”

He hesitated—then did.

She cleaned the cut in silence. Close enough to smell leather, smoke, and the rain still clinging to his collar. His breath hitched once when her fingers brushed his jaw. She pretended not to notice. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re always alone,” she said quietly. “Even when you’re not.”

His eyes flicked up to hers. “So are you.”

The room suddenly felt too small.

He reached for her wrist, stopping her hand mid-motion. His voice was a whisper now—something more dangerous than shouting.

“You keep touching me like you don’t know what it does to me.”

Y/N’s heart pounded.

“Then tell me to stop.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, breath warm against her mouth. His hand slipped to the back of her neck, tentative, then firm. She kissed him first—gentle at first, but it shattered quickly. Months of tension, denial, and quiet longing collided all at once.

He pushed her up against the infirmary wall, tongue slipping past her lips, hands greedy now. Hers tugged at the waistband of his fatigues, fingers trembling—not with fear, but with hunger.

It was desperate, messy, teeth and tongue and the kind of soft gasps you’d only make when you thought no one would ever hear them again.

His hands roamed beneath her shirt, slow but aching, reverent and needy at once.

“God, I hate how much I want this,” he whispered against her throat.

“Then don’t stop,” she breathed.

And he didn’t.

Not until they’d lost all reason and found something that, for once, didn’t feel like war...

___________________________________________

Everyone’s left, leaving just you and Yeonjun. You’re finishing up last minute stuff in the office, not sure where he is, but his bag is still inside, so he definitely hasn’t left. As you’re pinning up a sheet on the corkboard by the door of the schedule for the next week, you feel a presence behind you. It’s warm and you don’t even flinch when you feel hands on your hips. Yeonjun wraps his arms around you, holding his other wrist, so they rest right near your belly button. His cheek rests on your head, his mouth right by your ear.

"Looks like we're alone." His breath is hot on your ear, and you press back into him, your own hands coming to rest on his in front of you. You shift and he lets you go just enough that you can turn toward him, then his arms tighten again. He presses so close to you that you can feel the slight ridges of his stomach through both of your thin shirts. Your head has to tip back pretty far to look up at him at this distance. His hands unlink and surrounds your waist, his big hands easily covering a wide swath of your middle. Your own hands go to his upper chest near his shoulders, and slowly slide up to his jaw.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, lips so close to yours they brush over each other with his words.

"I’ll be mad if you don’t-" He’s on you. Yeonjun’s lips are as soft as they look and you groan, tilting your head to instantly deepen the kiss. One of your hands runs up the nape of his neck into his hair, the other gripping his shirt over the right side of his chest. His own hands leave your waist and descend lower till they rest over your ass, and he puts his hands into your pockets. Somehow, he pulls you closer and you moan softly at feeling him completely surround you. He steps forward and your back hits the wall, the corkboard preventing you from bumping your head on the painted brick. Reluctantly, you both pull away for a breath, lips still hovering close.

"This okay, (Y/N)?" When his voice, raspy with desire, speaks your name you shudder. How can someone this beautiful really want you? Just a normal human, not someone who looks like they belong in a museum as an art piece.

"I’d let you do whatever to me." You admit and he groans, his brow furrowing and his lips seal to yours again. The force of the kiss makes you groan, and he takes the chance to slip his tongue in your mouth. Your head swims and you’ve never been so turned on just from kissing a guy before. His hands are all over you and you sigh when his fingers creep under your shirt and up your back. When you have to pull away again for air, a ribbon of saliva hangs between your lips, and you lick to break the connection.

"Whatever, huh?"

"Within reason." You’re both slightly out of breath still, your exhales mixing between you.

"What do you want to do?" you ask, your lips still so close they brush as you speak. One hand leaves your back, and he cups your jaw gently, his thumb rubbing over your throat.

"I want you to swallow my cock." His voice is quiet, worried he’s being too forward. You groan a bit, and he at first thinks you’re unwilling. However, the fact that you instantly sink to your knees, he can see you’re more than willing.

"Fuck (Y/N)." He gasps when your much smaller hands go to the waist band of his swim trunks, and you pull the garment off and away. His cock springs free, and he sighs in relief. Big and pretty, just likes him. Before he can say anything else, your mouth seals around the head, your tongue swirling around before taking him deeper.

"Shit~" His moans are pretty too, everything about him is so pretty… When the tip of his dick hits the back of your mouth, your eyes flit up to meets his. Yeonjun swears once again, resting his arm on the wall and then his forehead on his arm. Seeing you like that makes his cock twitch and a bead of pre hits your tongue. What he isn’t expecting you to do next is start inching him even deeper into your throat. He whines and you moan back, swallowing around him over and over to keep from gagging too bad. He said he wanted you to swallow his cock, so you do, burying him in your throat, your nose hitting the skin of his groin. His eyes clench shuts, teeth chewing on his bottom lip, trying not to move. When you notice his hips twitch slightly, you smile as best you can with your mouth full of Yeonjun's dick, and pull back till you can circle your tongue over the head again.

"Wanna move?" You offer and his eyes fly open to gape at you. When he sees your determined face and not a hint of reluctance in your tone of voice, he moans. You even sound excited.

"You sure?" And when you nod, his other hand strokes over your hair, lightly gripping it to hold you where he wants. It seems you have some experience with this kind of thing, because you shift your kneeling position so you can brace against the floor better. The head of his cock brushing past your lips again and he lets out a long whine as you let him get as deep as possible. When he asked for you to swallow his cock, he didn’t realize you were going to let him fuck your face. Just the thought alone is getting him close, let alone the perfect wet, hot vacuum your mouth creates.

"Fuck-" He groans, careful to watch when you suck air in through your nose, making sure he doesn’t cut your air off too much and for too long. Your panties are sticking to your folds already and you grind against the thick seam of your jean shorts. Splats of saliva and precum drip onto the floor as Yeonjun struggles to not ruin your throat, but his hips are hard to control the longer he goes.

"Gonna…cum-" He gasps, and your hands fly to his butt, holding him in place and he cums down your throat. The whines he lets out as his head tilts back in relief are literally orgasmic. Breathing hard as you pull off, you clean his still slightly hard cock off and sit back, grinning up at him.

"I…I wasn’t really prepared…" He drifts off and you nod in acknowledgement.

"I’m on the pill, don’t worry about it."

"You sure?"

"Yeonjun if you don’t get inside me soon, I might start begging. I'm already on the floor." You blink at him.

"I would like to see that, but a different day. Come up, pretty girl." He helps you stand and turns you around, so you facing the wall again. He presses another kiss to your cheek as his front presses to your back, his lips meeting your neck as he places kisses there, his fingers ghosting over your ribs. You can feel his cock hardening again in the cleft of your ass and you know he’ll fill you in the best way. As his tongue ghosts over the ridge of your ear, he wraps his arms around you entirely again, his right hand cupping your covered breast, the other resting on your stomach above the waistband of your shorts.

"That door locked?"

"They all are." You exhale, his hand slipping under your bra and tweaking at your nipple. His other hand deftly undoes the button and slides his hand into your shorts. You gasp as he rubs over your cunt through your underwear, the fabric already soaked.

"How long have you been like this, hm?" His voice in your ear makes your thoughts fuzzy.

"Fuck, since I first saw you." You admit and he groans, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.

"(Y/N), don’t say things like that…" He whines and you chuckle a bit, but you nearly choke on your own air when his hand buries in under your panties, a long finger pressing against your entrance. You exhale at the sensation, and you groan when his finger fills you up, deeper than you can ever get yourself.

"Your so wet, noona. Tight." His hips jump a bit, grinding his cock into your covered back side. You whine when he adds another finger, his palm grinding over your clit. He needs to get you more prepared to takes his cock. As his fingers scissor inside of you, you reach your own hand back and palm his dick to full hardness and Yeonjun grunts at the feeling.

"Get inside me, now, please." He complies and you pout at the loss of his arms around you, his hot skin pressed to yours. He maneuvers behind you; you can hear him take his shirt off as you do yourself. Before you can, he unhooks your bra and he cups your breasts with his hands, his bare chest against your back. Pressing against you, he steps forward till the cold wall hits your front, his hands shoving your shorts off. Feeling him bare behind you is thrilling, and while you really want to turn and look at him, ogle him, you need him inside fast. The soft sound of your shorts falling to the floor hits your ears and you whine when the head of his cock rubs through your folds.

"Oh, god," you gasp as he starts to press in. He groans as your wet, raw heat surrounds him. Yeonjun’s dick stretches your walls with a delightful burn and your nails scratch against the wall futilely, rising onto your tip toes.

"Oh, so good." He groans once he’s inside you all the way. It feels like he’s in your throat, he fits inside so deep.

"Fuck, Yeonjun!" You exhale harshly trying not to clench around him too much, but he feels so good, and hasn’t even moved yet. Honestly, even if he just stayed like that, you’d probably eventually cum from him filling you alone. His arms loop around you again, but his hold is more possessive than before. One arm wedges between your breasts, his hand holding the base of your throat. Gently, though, just to secure you. You wouldn’t even mind if his grip tightened a bit…The other arm lays lower, his right hand resting on your left hip, and you brace yourself against the wall with your hands.

"Move, please." You mewl and he takes a slow first thrust, the office so quiet that you hear a drop of your wet hit the floor underneath you. Hopefully, you remember to clean that up later…

"C-can I? I don’t think I can go slow." His nose rests behind your ear, nuzzling it.

"Then don’t. Just fuck me, Yeonjun." You breathe the words out before his next thrust takes it away. Your eyes roll back as he snaps his hips hard, the thrust is shallow but hard. You throw your head back, resting back on his shoulder as he begins to rail you into the wall. Starting to lose strength in your legs, they begin to shake, your calves burning from holding yourself to be the right height in that position. He must notice because he lets you go so you can readjust. You end up bent at the waist, making a ninety-degree angle. Your hands still holding you up against the wall and his hands instead go to your hips. He has to thrust down some, changing the angle at which his cock batters the back walls of your cunt. The head of his dick rubs over your sweet spot over and over and his thrusts get harder, faster. You want to scream from the feeling of him nearly leaving you empty before filling you entirely with a quick snap of his hips. Your head is bowed, your arms above your head, nails digging into the painted brick, chipping it off in some places. Sweat drips from your forehead, hitting the floor along with the drops from your slick cunt. Yeonjun’s thrusts get sloppier, hard but shallow, his own hands resting on the wall about yours.

"I’m going to cum noona." He grunts and you’re close yourself.

"S-s-same-" You manage to get out.

"Ah, fuck!" He’s letting out little whines along with you. With one more hard thrust, he sets off your orgasm, your walls clenching his cock so hard he falls over as well. You mewl as he pumps you full, your stomach hot, but you want more. If he doesn’t keep going, you’ll have to go home and dig your vibrator out to charge it.

"Shit, sorry!" He apologizes, pulling out. You nearly collapse, your legs like jelly, and he wraps an arm around you to catch you, then helps you stand straighter. More drops hit the concrete floor, most likely your combined release falling from your still pulsing cunt. Glancing over to him at your side you finally see him fully. God, he’s absolutely divine…and still half hard.

"I can keep going, but I can’t keep standing." You pant, resting your forearm on the wall, then your forehead on your arm.

"Are you sure?" He leans in and nibbles over your ear as he whispers into it.

"Fuck, yes, please." You nearly whine and he huffs, before wrapping his other arm under your legs and picking you up. You squeak as he turns around to lay you on the table. The cold plastic is not the most comfortable perch, but you know that it’ll be easier to clean than the couch in the break room. Finally, you can fully see him, your eyes drawn to his cock that’s quickly getting fully hard. Honestly, you’re glad he keeps his shirt on lifeguarding because you’d have jumped him otherwise. He’s so gorgeous, his body proportions absolutely perfect along with his face.

"You need a break or are you ready?" His hands cup your thighs, pulling them up so you can wrap your legs around his waist.

"I’m ready, hurry up!" You insist and he laughs, his cock meeting your pussy again. Unlike before where he eased into you, he fucks into you hard immediately and your shoulders twitch, back arching.

"Yeonjun~" You feel your mind going numb, the pleasure tingling through your body. He smirks at your decreasing sanity, proud that he’s the one doing it to you. You yelp when he pulls you closer to him, farther down the table. He leans over you, his hands meeting yours over your head, holding them in his. Yeonjun’s lips finds yours again and he swallows every little moan you make. Whining again as his lips leave yours, you want to complain, but he lays kisses from your cheek to your jaw, then your neck. He wants to leave a mark or three but with the heat and working outside, you wouldn’t be able to hide them. Another time. He slows his thrusts suddenly and you’re about to protest, but his hands loop over your thighs again and he forces a squeal out of you when he folds your legs up, your ankles by his ears. He smirks and you’re glad for your flexibility. His hips begin to pummel yours, the table shaking under you. When his eyes leave your cunt, swallowing his fat cock, and go to your face he chuckles. You’re gone, cock drunk and drooling. He had no idea you’d get that far gone, not with your confident and bold personality. You’re going to drive him crazy.

"Feel good, pretty girl?" Yeonjun stands back up straight, your legs coming off his shoulders so he can notch your knees over his elbows. Each roll of his hips allows his pelvis to hit your clit, and he grinds hard into you as deep as he can each time. Your moans get louder, your walls pulsing and clenching again; he can tell you’re nearly there.

"Yesss~"

"My cock really that good?"

"Oh, fuck, yes!"

"Couldn’t wait for me to fuck you, huh noona?" His words go straight to your head and cunt, but you aren’t able to say much back but ‘yes’ and nonsense babbling.

"I should always take second shift, wait till everyone else leaves, then fuck you on every surface in here~" He sighs with a slight moan as your pussy flutters around his cock.

"You’d like that, huh noona?"

"Fuck, yes!" You mewl and his thumb meets your clit and with one stroke you fall apart again.

"Ah, ‘Jun~!" You clench him tight, and he feels your cunt overflow and drip from your release. He wants to hold back, but you feel so good, he’s a goner when your legs wrap tighter around him, not letting go.

"Fuck, I’m gonna cum again." Yeonjun groans, pumping his hips hard two more times and spilling inside of you again. He falls forward, catching himself on his hands by your head. As your highs come down you ponder how you’re going to get home with your shaky and numb legs.

"I’ll-" he chuckles, "I’ll help you clean up." He pulls out of you, and you cry out at the loss.

"Stay there a sec." He goes and gets some paper towels and cleans himself before putting his shorts back on. You close your eyes, breathing hard and you flinch when he brings a damp towel to your core.

"I make a mess?" You laugh, nearly sounding drunk.

"Pfft, no I did." Yeonjun chuckles and when he decides you’re properly cleaned up, he helps you sit up on the table. You wobble a bit sleepily and he brings you your discarded clothing.

"You’re so sweet." You coo which makes him smile, then he places a soft kiss on your forehead.

"We also made a mess on the floor over there…" He grimaces jokingly and you laugh yourself. Despite your shaky muscles, you’re able to get dressed and help him clean. You disinfect just in case since it’s a public area. It’s nearly eleven by the time you’re ready to lock up and leave and he stands beside you as you lock the gate.

"(Y/N)?" His voice is soft, and you turn to look at him.

"I just…I understand if you don’t want like…" He licks his lips, nervous, "I won’t just stop talking to you now that you let me- I mean-" He’s stammering, his face red and you think it’s incredibly endearing. He literally just rearranged your insides and is now bashfully rambling. Stepping closer, you grab his hand where it’s fiddling with his bag strap.

"Yeonjun, you are so sweet. Do you want to just stay friends?"

"No! I mean…I want more but if you don't… don't push yourself." He clears his throat, looking intensely at your linked hands.

"I'm not pushing myself." You smile up at him and his nerves fly away, his lips pulling into a smile himself.

"Thank God."

He cleans the carriage quickly. He’s well practiced now, in getting it exactly as it should be for your return. You don’t deserve to come back just to see him in his usual sorry state. You deserve Jeonghan’s best. So he sweeps, and washes the pile of dishes, and changes the sheets. Lights a scented candle to make sure you can’t smell the cigarettes. He laughs, a little melancholy, because even in death you don’t let him wallow. In the sink he washes up, makes sure his hair is brushed and his teeth are clean, and hopes the bags under his eyes won’t look so bad in the morning light. In a few short hours you’ll be here, and God– God, he hopes sleep will come quickly tonight, to bring you close to him once again. 

1. Bargaining

Tonight it could be different. Jeonghan always does something different. And maybe it’s some desperate, pathetic attempt to change the course of this godforsaken groundhog day, but that doesn’t stop him trying. There’s that saying, isn’t there, something about butterfly wings causing a hurricane on the other side of the world. He’s wondered if it’s like that, some tiny, insignificant detail he needs to get right, so at the end of the day you can be freed from this nightmare. Him, too. He’s wondered if there’s some specific order to it all, a puzzle to be solved. Tonight could be it. He could have performed exactly as he was meant to, in exactly the right order, said all the right things, and perhaps he could wake with you next to him again, tomorrow morning. 

You’ve been so alive this time. Hears it in the lightness of your laugh, feels it in the way your warm hand cups his cheek, sees it in the sparkle in your eyes when you look at your ring and then to him. To you, it’s brand new. To him, it’s something he’s carried for what feels like forever, even though in truth it’s only been a few months. 

After lunch you’d marveled over your ring. How he’d got it just perfect. You talk about the future– ask Jeonghan what he wants your wedding to be like (anything you want, baby) and if he wants to get married in summer or autumn (autumn. Me too!) and if he’s happy (of course baby). How could he not be happy with you here?

It’s almost time. Jeonghan has refused to look at the clock all day. Instead he has watched you– tallied the steady beats of your heart as he held you, tracked your measured breaths while you flicked through magazines curled into the armchair tucked in the corner of the carriage, kissed the tips of your fingers, one by one, as he made love to you in the amber light of the afternoon. Now, you loosen your body in the same way you always have, and he watches, counting your stretches. Jeonghan loves the way you move. All elegance and grace and measured precision. He’s not clock watching, but he’s been counting anyway. 

“Shouldn’t you be working?” you murmur, moving over to climb into his lap. 

He hums against your shoulder. “Worship’s a kind of work.”

His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you angle your head away, laughing that he’ll mess up your make up, so he opts for your waist instead, holding you tight as if to anchor you there. Presses kisses to your sternum instead. There isn’t much he can say anymore– only knows if it’ll be different in a few minutes time, but he’s hoping. God, he’s hoping. 

You’re pulling yourself up from his lap but Jeonghan tugs you back, peppers his lips up your chest and over your neck and you’re giggling and he’s holding on to hope so fucking hard that he fears he’s breaking it. Trails frantic lips over your jaw, behind your ear, down your neck, but you’re tearing away and he’s saying please, baby. Please stay with me so desperately. Of course you don’t understand. 

You chastise him gently for his neediness. Almost time for the show, my love. Press loving lips against his hairline and he can’t stop the tears that prick at the corners of his eyes. Blinks them away before you can see. It’s a recurring torture, the way you leave him. 

“Angel,” he pleads into your shoulder. “Five more minutes.”

You sigh, smiling soft. “Five minutes.”

You settle back into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The shift draws a soft sound from him, half sigh, half something more fragile– the contact itself almost too much to bear. His hands slide up your stockinged legs until he finds the top of your  thighs, bare beneath your skirt, warms the flesh with his hands. 

Neither of you speak. The warm lamplight flickers behind him, painting gold across your face. Your breath skitters across his ear as he works his mouth over your collarbone, drags his thumb across the hem of your underwear.

“Be quick, Hannie.”

He presses his forehead to your chest, and breathes in your scent, slow and desperate. He whimpers as you roll your hips against him, and you suck air through your teeth at the drag of your core against his clothed, hard length. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs. 

Your fingers slide through his hair, down to the nape of his neck. “You’re shaking,” you whisper. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes meet yours– wet, and wrecked with feeling.

“Stay,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word. It’s not command, it’s a plea. 

You cradle his face in both hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. A promise you don’t know you’ll break. You gasp when he tugs your underwear to the side, slips his fingers over your clit. Moves in slow, agonising circles. Loves the way you keen for him, loves looking for the adoration in your eyes, giving way to hunger. Loves the sounds you make when you’re needy, strung out gasps, all high and breathy, panted in his ear. Loves the way you clutch at his shoulders, digging crescent moons into his skin, when he slips his fingers inside your tight, wet heat. You feel so alive, tonight.

Jeonghan crooks his fingers just so, pulls a noise so obscene from you it makes him impossibly hard, needs to bury himself inside you before it’s too late but he wants you like this, first. God, he misses when you felt permanent, when you had all the time in the world. Drags his wet fingers out just to toy with your clit again, over and over and over until you’re gasping, stringing out his name in a whine. “Close, Jeonghan. So close.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. Feels his neglected, aching cock leaking into his underwear at the sight of your thighs trembling over his, but he swallows his desire down. “Gonna come for me, angel?”

You pull at his trousers. “Want you in me,” you sob. “Please, please– I–”

He coos in your ear. “So needy, baby.” Slips his fingers back inside just to pull gasps from you, lets loose one of his own as you palm at his crotch.

“Who’s needy now?” 

You have your way, as you always do. Jeonghan would never begrudge you what you want, and tonight that’s tugging his cock free, guiding him into your body, wrapping your arms around each other, and rocking him into this fervoured state. It drives him half-mad, your walls around him, the way you won’t let him kiss you lest he ruin your make-up, the way you moan as he grabs at your ass to drag you harder against him, to fuck you deeper. Makes him insane, the way he trails his wet mouth down your chest, and you pull your breasts free for him to drag his teeth over them, leave little nips over the skin, leave one nipple spit-slick and puckered while you play with the other. 

Jeonghan used to think of hauntings and ghosts as unwanted visitors. As faceless things that bring nothing but trauma. This is something else. This is you, feeling completely whole and not at the same time. This is you, the love of his life, saying you love him too. At the end of it all he’s thrown to the wayside, only thinking of you and the unexpected way you haunt him.

Your cunt clenches him impossibly tight when he fucks up into you. Feels his end hurtling close as your grinds turn hurried and clumsy. Feels his cock get insanely wet, slick with you, as you pant his name something desperate. Coming, baby– fuck fuck fuck, feels sooo– fuck. Heat coils in his belly, brows pinching as he tries to hold on long enough to drag out your orgasm, but he’s spilling into you regardless, whimpering your name on a curse. Your smile is saccharine sweet, even when you drag your fingers over where you join, through his sticky release and the mess he’s made of you– sweeter still when you bring your fingers to his mouth for him to taste. “Taste us, baby,” you command. Jeonghan drags his tongue over them, he won’t ever refuse you. 

When he kisses you, it’s slow. Not the kind of kiss that demands, but the kind that begs– a prayer wrapped in tenderness, all the things he can’t say without breaking.

“Please,” he begs against your skin, his voice shaking. “Don’t go.”

You rest your forehead to his. “I’m never leaving you, Hannie,” you say.

“I love you, angel,” he whispers, lips featherlight on your collarbone.

“Love you too, Hannie,” you whisper back, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You pull back, letting him slip from your body with a disgruntled sound, and you admonish him the second you catch sight of your face in the mirror– your smeared make up. 

He sighs, swallows the ache in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes slide over to him in the mirror, and you soften. “It’s okay, my love. Don’t pout.”

He’s not sorry in the way you take it. Making a mess of you, maybe. Holding you up, not at all. He’d keep you late forever, if he could. To kiss you anytime, anywhere, anyplace. He’s sorry for pretending to be happy when he’s breaking. He’s sorry for missing you in all the mornings that follow.

Beyond the curtain, there’s the sound of the crowd, humming like a living thing. Jeonghan can feel it, even from here– the entire tent vibrating with energy. You rush over to peak through the gap, eager as always to be adored. Jeonghan wishes his adoration was enough. You adjust your stockings one last time, fluff up the lace of your underskirt, fix your hair. And then, with a kiss to his cheek, you’re gone. 

Jeonghan slips out to watch you climb. He was never bothered before, but lately heights have been making him sick. Can feel the burn of the bile rising in his throat but he can’t look away, because he knows you’ll search for him when you reach the top. 

You climb the ladder, the sequins of your corset catching the spotlight, a thousand tiny glimmers dance over the draping darkness of the tent. You glance over to him once you reach the platform, the same way you always do, a little tilt of your chin and that beautiful smile of yours that feels like salvation and ruin all at once.

He forces himself to smile back. Forces his lungs to work through what’s to come, forces his fingers to unclench where they’ve knotted themselves in the thick fabric of the curtain.

You blow him a kiss.

He catches it, the same ritual for every night he’s ever known you, presses it to his lips. It’s a soft superstition, feels a little something like a prayer now.

The music starts. Something grand, something you’d picked on that fateful night offhand, because you said it made you feel like flying. Jeonghan never cared to know the name of this funeral march. Much less now.

You step out, and Jeonghan lights his cigarette, the way he always does, thumb trembling against the flint. The first drag burns, as always. He wonders if it’s the tightness in his body that makes it feel so much worse than all the other cigarettes he’s smoked since you’ve been gone. 

God, you’re beautiful. The way you almost skate across the wire is something to behold. It’s like a dance, in its exquisite precision, the way your leg arches backwards over your head, and the way you turn yourself over in slow motion with your hands. The tent is filled with the sound of applause, and you shine in it. Halfway across the wire, the crowd goes silent with bated breath. At least, to Jeonghaon, that’s how it feels. Like he’s sinking underwater, his body both weightless and immobile from the pressure. He closes his eyes. He begs. 

Please. Please please please–

Jeonghan knows nothing has changed with the way the air goes still. 

The first gasp is yours. The first scream was his, but now belongs to a woman, a stranger, somewhere far removed in the crowd. He always thinks it’s strange, the way these unfamiliar, faceless people cry out for you, like they know you, like they’re someone your death affects. Like they know what it’s like to have been loved by you, and haunted by your last hours. 

And then the audience panics, like a wave breaking– the tent fills with shouts, the clamour of people running, the crying of small children and the attempted hush from their mothers– there’s chaos filling the hollow where your presence used to be.

Jeonghan moves back behind the curtain. He knows what it looks like by now– the wire is empty, the gold speckled dust floating beneath the stage lights. The floor below is clean, untouched. He sits at your vanity, cigarette dangling from his lips as he tidies away your make up, and he just listens until the noise dies down, until the dust settles and there’s more gasps as they realise there’s no body splayed on the ground as there was that first time you left him, assuming it’s simply part of the act. And then comes the applause, the cheering– wild and relieved and so fucking cruel.

He smokes the rest of the cigarette down to the butt, the paper burning his fingers, before dowsing it in your half-empty glass of water. Jeonghan knows better than to go looking for you now. You’re gone until next time. He doesn’t know if it’ll be tomorrow, or the next city, or the one after that, or weeks from now. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way you visit him, but he hopes it won’t be long. He hopes you keep coming until he can figure out how to make you stay. 

Jeonghan waits long after the crowd has filed out, long after the laughter fades, until only the sound of the wind whipping the tent remains– until it feels like the whole world has folded in on itself and left him behind. He stands in the centre of the tent, finds your ring among the dust and rubs it clean with the hem of his shirt and, once satisfied, tucks it back in his pocket. At least the ring is a promise you were really there, that this isn’t a figment of his imagination.

By the time he returns to the carriage, the candle has burned low, the sheets are still smooth from when you made it earlier. He doesn’t bother with all that when you’re not here. Doesn’t really see the point. He kneels at the edge of the bed, reminiscent of the way he had you earlier, this time pulling the chest under it where he keeps the whiskey. Jeonghan likes the kind that burns. 

Outside, the lights are being put out, leaving the sky an inky black. There’s the low hum of chatter from the few staff that stay up later than the rest. Jeonghan can’t sleep, but he can’t talk either, so he sits in front of the dying fire, nursing his fast-emptying bottle and rolling out the crick in his neck.  

And Jeonghan doesn’t know it, but you’re still here somewhere in the space between the living and the dead, watching him as you wait to wake again. You’ve tried crying out for him before, touching him, writing messages in the fogged glass. Nothing works. 

All you can do is watch as he sinks, tears fogging your vision as he loses the light in his eyes. He doesn’t know how you hold him as he sleeps, how you watch the hair fall from his beautiful face when he turns restless, and you tsk over the dark circles you find under his eyes. He can’t see you, can’t hear you, can’t feel you. The only times he can are when you make it back to him, but what good is that when you can’t remember what you’re going back for?

2. Anger

Mood swings are a natural part of grief, especially outbursts of anger. They’re an indication of how deeply you loved, how much you’ve lost. You may ask yourself: why is this happening? You may place blame on other people, on circumstances, on yourself, or the very person you lost. This is normal. Allow the anger to surface, but then direct it to something healthy. Move your body. Breathe deeply. Seek safe release in order to–

Jeonghan clicks the tape off, and the carriage falls silent save for the pounding of blood in his ears. He doesn’t want ‘safe release’. He doesn’t need fucking answers. He wants you. He wants your life together, exactly as you imagined it would be. He wants to know what perfume you’d have worn on your wedding day. That honeymoon you’d have taken, on a boat down a lazy river in warmer places. He wants to know what your children would’ve looked like, and if you’d have ever gotten around to finishing that jumper you started knitting months before, the one with the moons and stars. 

Everything seems to be in his way tonight. He stumbles across the room, knocks into the corner of the bed, stubs his toe on the ottoman, knocks over a bottle of oil he’d used to fix the squeak in your chair earlier. And in his haste to mop up the spill, he knocks your favourite mug off the counter, the one you’d painted with constellations (yours and his), and it cracks on the floor before he can register what’s happening. He watches the fragments scatter. There is his anger. It bursts out of him in a yell, all jagged and sharp edged. Simmering in his gut in your presence, but erupts out of him when you’re gone.

He’ll never have it. What he has is the hollow in his chest, the wretched twist in the pit of his stomach, the heat of his blood in his veins. Where’s yours? Where are you but turned to ash, kept in the confines of a jar, in your favourite shade of blue? You don’t deserve that. You deserve to be in your favourite places, all those ones you’d told him about but he never got to see. He can’t even go without you, because what if you’re tied to this place? What if he leaves and you come back just to find him gone? What if he can’t ever get you back? 

His sob is choked back as he’s reminded once again that he’s not only been robbed of a future with you, but of one without you too. He is stuck in this awful, static, existence. Of living and not. Jeonghan is dying slow, hardly breathing in this haunted place.

Loving you is a constant, but sometimes he hates you. Today he hates you. Been weeks since he last held your body against his and the sun is already on her way up, a cool blue washing over the dark sky– another day confirmed he’ll spend alone. He checks his pocket again, just in case, but it’s still there, taunting him. 

He sweeps the floor mechanically. Changes the sheets and stuffs the bottles in the chest under the bed. You’re not coming, he knows that, but maybe tomorrow? He can’t sleep like this anyway because the worst of it all is the waiting. So he picks up the mirror and brushes out the knots in his hair until it falls into place, washes his face, but the dark circles under his eyes still betray the mess within. Sometimes you comment on it, his sallow skin, his cracked lips, ask if he’s feeling alright (no) and if he might be coming down with something. He feigns a headache, a cold– whatever. It’s not so far off the truth. 

When the morning light comes, relentless in its mockery, he will wake and you won’t be there– smiling, alive, and radiant. He’ll drink the morning away until it’s time to set up. And once the crowds of people he so resents disappears, he’ll come back here and wait for you again until the early hours. When you’re here he can pretend it’s all okay. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to pretend he’s happy because you’re there. Right now, he’s alone. And alone, his anger coils. But he’d rather have this half-formed life than nothing at all.

It’s days later when you finally show. 

He wakes to the sound of rain on the tin roof, the kind that blurs the edges of the world. For once he fell asleep early– all those nights spent waiting finally caught up, that tightness in his body wound so taut it’ll surely snap. He’s resigned to another day, until he feels some weight against him. Until he rolls over and finds you there, curled onto your side, breathing evenly.

Your face turned into your pillow, your hand rests palm-up in front of him, like you’re waiting for him to take it. Jeonghan doesn’t move. He stares, memorises the contours of your face. God, he wishes he could capture the way you look when you sleep so he’d at least have something to hold on to when you’re not here. Feels something claw up from the pit of his stomach– relief maybe? But it twists so fast it barely registers– burns into anger so raw it punches the air right out his lungs. 

His traitorous hands tremble as they reach for you, fingers ghosting over your arm, your shoulder, your neck. You’re warm. Soft. You’re finally here and it’s almost too much for him to bear.

His lips finds your temple before he can think. Peppers frantic, chaste kisses down your face, into your hair and you stir with a quiet sound, half-awake, murmuring his name in a soft, questioning tone. He rolls you onto your back, trying to swallow the ache whole, and leans in to capture your lips in a kiss so desperate it hurts. Your lips part for him without hesitation, something like instinct by now, and he kisses you harder. Kisses you angry and needy, the kind of kiss that tastes like metal and all the things he wouldn’t know how to put into words, even if he could.

You gasp when he shifts over you, drawing your legs up and over his hips. He’s shaking when his hands find the curves of your waist, grips your hips and hold them in place. It’s not desire, not exactly, but you can’t tell the difference yet.

“Jeonghan,” you whisper, breathless, eyes fluttering open. “What’s gotten into you?”

He doesn’t answer. He mouths at your throat, your jaw, desperate, clumsy, and you laugh a little, soft and sleepy, thinking it’s love. Thinking he missed you. Which he did but it’s more than that. How can he tell you he’s livid when, to you, it’s the night after he asked you to marry him? How can he tell you he can’t bear the way you leave him for weeks, when in your mind, you’ve never been gone? How can he tell you that you’re torturing him, the way your presence brings him the slightest glimmer of hope only to dash it away every time you fall? It’s sick. He’s sick. 

It’s only when he drags his mouth back to yours, rough and uncoordinated, that you taste the tears. 

You touch his cheek. “Hannie,” you murmur. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, too quickly, like the question itself burns. “Nothing,” he snaps. He kisses you again. It’s messy now, all hot breath and trembling hands sliding up your middle. You push at his chest gently, confused.

“Why are you sad?” you whisper. 

He laughs then, a broken sound that cracks at the edges. He can’t tell you that he’s so far past sadness. Can’t say he’s angry because you left him again, because you keep leaving, because he’s the only one who remembers the way you die. He can’t tell you he’s angry at the world, at himself, at this loop he can’t escape. So he shakes his head again, presses his face to your stomach instead, tears streaking your nightdress.

The sobs start with one, choked and tiny. Another, that rasps his throat and stings his eyes. Another that wracks through him, and then he can’t stop. He’s gasping against your skin, shaking with the pain of it.

You freeze. You’re confused, he knows that, and it just makes it all so much worse. You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper his name, soft and soothing. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”

He nods into your stomach, but his grip on your waist tightens, desperate, like he’s trying to keep you from fading right out of his arms.

“Are you–” you start, hesitating. “Are you having second thoughts–”

He shakes his head immediately, chokes out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he insists, voice hoarse, scrambling for an explanation. “No, never. Just– just a dream. A nightmare. I couldn’t wake up.”

You smooth your hand over his hair again, thumb tracing the shell of his ear, the curve of his cheek. You hush him quietly. “It’s okay, darling. I’m with you.”

And he cries harder, because that’s the cruelest part– that you believe it. That you think this is real, that you think you’re real. 

Eventually the sobs fade to little tremors, his breath evening out against your body. You stroke the hair from his eyes, and he glances up to see you already watching him, frowning faintly, confused by the heaviness in his body, the exhaustion in his expression. You’ve never seen him like this before, and it’s all his fault. He shouldn’t have let this get the better of him, because you don’t know what haunts him, or why he looks at you sometimes like he’s counting the seconds. 

But you hold him until he stills, whispering his name into the half-light, and when you finally drift off again, Jeonghan closes his eyes too, thankful you don’t see the tears still clinging to his lashes. Tonight you’ll leave him again, for an untold time. 

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

3. Denial

His coworkers, once friends, don’t want to be around him, lately. He overheard a few of them talking to the ringmaster a week before, after your last visit. We hear him talking, they’d said. Always about her, or to her. He sounds half mad. At first he thought they’d been concerned for his wellbeing, but given they won’t acknowledge him as they pitch tents and set up the stages, but he watches the way they avoid his eye, the way they shiver as he enters a tent, and he realises they’re so cautious around him, and guarded. 

Jeonghan figured if he must have been talking to himself, he had been drinking a little too much lately, but now wonders if they can’t see you when you’re here. It fucks with him a little. A lot. If they don’t know you’re here, do the crowd see you when you perform? What are they seeing that he can’t?

He knows you’re here, of course, because the sheets are still warm from where your ghost laid. You’re out there now, foraging blackberries to have with breakfast. You’ll come back with juice stained lips and he’ll kiss it away. He loves the way you could never wait. There’s your cup of coffee cooling beside the sink, abandoned in your haste to rush out the door. Can’t they see you? When you greet your old friends, do they reply? Do you even notice?

He laughs, quiet, and frustrated, like he’s kept out of a secret. The kind of laugh people let out for jokes they don’t understand. 

“Maybe I’m crazy,” he says to no one. “Maybe you’re not even here. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t–” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. In truth he doesn’t know a thing. “Stop it,” he mutters under his breath. Then louder. “Stop it!” The sound ricochets through the carriage, echoes back at him in your voice, soft and surprised.

He freezes.

“Jeonghan?” you whisper, turns to find you there, black fruit piled in the sag of your apron, that you hold up in a makeshift basket, berry stained lips pursed in worry. “Stop what?”

He sinks to the bed, presses his palms to his eyes until the colours bloom behind them. “Is it you?” he says, voice high and thin.

You laugh, confused. “Who else would it be?”

It’s you. You you you you. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

In the morning light, the circus is a strange, sleeping thing. The fabric of the tents flutters in the wind. Train carriages whisper with the low breaths of their slumbering occupants. The Ferris wheel creaks the same as it does while in motion. Jeonghan drifts through the gaps in canvas and guideropes until he find Jun– the medium– sitting cross-legged by the fire on a blanket outside his tent, cards spread out before him, a map of someone’s fate. The wind whips at his hair, and his eyes flick up, like he feels Jeonghan’s presence. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

Jun sighs. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jeonghan frowns. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers. “I think I’m losing it–”

Jun’s gaze drops back to his cards. “This is just part of the process.”

“The process of what? Grieving? Don’t you think it’s been too long?”

“There’s no timeline for this, Jeonghan,” Jun murmurs. The fire pops. Jun gathers the cards one by one, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’re ready when you’re ready. It can’t be rushed.”

“You said that before,” Jeonghan presses, desperation seeping out of his skin. “You said that the last time. I can’t– Jun, I can’t keep doing this. I see her everywhere, even when she’s not here. I hear her when I sleep. This is killing me.”

“You have to let it,” Jun says firmly. “It’s part of it.”

“Can I talk to her?” His heart sinks as Jun shakes his head.

“Doesn’t work like that, my friend,” he says sadly. “She has to come to you.”

“Then can you get a message to her?”

Jun looks up at him again, eyes full of pity and something else Jeonghan can’t put his finger on. “And tell her what, Jeonghan? That she’s making you miserable? That you can’t move on? Do you think she’d understand that you’re stuck?” 

Jeonghan’s protests die on his lips. He watches as Jun stands, tosses a handful of powder into the flames, and the fire flares a strange grey before settling into it’s comforting crackle of orange again. “What does that mean?”

There’s a beat of silences before Jun says, “You need to stop clinging on.” 

“To what? To her?” His mind whirrs. 

“To this narrative,” Jun says. “You’ll never move on if you can’t look past it.” 

Jeonghan doesn’t understand. He never does. Jun’s cryptic fucking bullshit time and time again doesn’t help like he’d hoped. When he looks down, his hands are shaking. He doesn’t feel the cold deep like he used to, not truly, but he still feels the bite of it, an endless ache. He turns back toward the path to his carriage, feels Jun’s eyes on his back as he goes. 

Later, he sits curled into your chair, the tape crackles.

The mind will often protect itself from unbearable pain by refusing to accept the loss. This is denial. You may find yourself believing your loved one is still alive, hearing their voice in the next room, or sensing their presence in familiar places. This stage is not delusion– it is the heart’s attempt to shield itself while the mind adjusts to a new reality. Remember: it takes time to let go of what we cannot bear to lose.

Jeonghan doesn’t click it off this time. He leans forward, elbows pressed into his knees, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice on the tape drones on– purposefully too soft, almost clinical, like it’s trying to hypnotise him into sanity– but it only makes the world feel thinner.

4. Depression

Depression may feel like emptiness, like exhaustion that no amount of rest can fix. You may feel isolated, detached, or unable to find meaning in the things that once brought you joy. It’s important to know that these feelings are natural– though they may seem endless, they are part of the process of healing. Take each day one step at a time. Try to eat regular meals, sleep when you can, and let others care for you until you can care for yourself again.

The tape sputters, then clicks off on its own. Jeonghan doesn’t bother rewinding it anymore. The tape player has started doing things like that– stopping, rewinding, whirring quietly when he’s nowhere near it. Faulty wiring. A loose connection. If he could bring himself to care, he’d fix it, but everything seems to be coming loose these days.

It’s been an age since he last saw you. The trees are falling bare, and there’s an almost permanent layer of frost on the ground. Jeonghan used to wonder why you’d never seem to notice the change in seasons, now he’s figured your reality must differ from his. 

The bed has taken the shape of him. The dent in the mattress dips deep enough that sometimes he wakes and feels like he’s sinking. He used to pull the sheets tight each morning, smoothing the creases, a game of pretend that orderliness might save him. Now he just lies there, tracing patterns into your pillow, where he would’ve traced them into your skin.

He hasn’t properly eaten in days, or maybe weeks. It’s hard to tell time now he’s stopped bothering to open the curtains. Sometimes he thinks the circus has stopped travelling altogether. He never hears the engines anymore. Never feels the rumble under the floorboards when the carriages move from town to town. When he steps outside, the air always smells the same– a stale sweetness, old popcorn, and cigarettes and cheap whiskey. Maybe the last two are just him.

The bottles under the bed have multiplied. Their faint clinking keeps him company in the quiet hours. He started finding comfort in the sound. Jeonghan drags himself up once or twice a day to run water over his face. The tap always runs cold. He can’t remember if he ever fixed the heater. His reflection has started to look strange– edges too sharp, colour drained from his sallow skin, bedraggled hair, and deep hollows under his red-rimmed eyes. Looks something macarbe.

He lays in bed, hasn’t touched your favourite mug, half-full of coffee, left weeks ago on your nightstand. He blinks. Could it have been more recently? Wonders if the drink has muddled time for him. Maybe it was just yesterday? Maybe that’s why your scent still clings to the curtains, faint and so distinctly you.

There’s a sharp rap at the door that startles him out of his contemplation. When he opens it, there’s no one there. Just a thin mist rolling low over the grass. Jeonghan calls out, but his voice feels too quiet, like it doesn’t quite carry. No answer.

Back inside, he tries to listen for the others, the usual morning commotion– the rumble of footsteps, the laughter, the distant music from the rehearsal tents. Nothing. Only the faint creak of the floorboards when he moves, like the wood itself is sighing.

They’ve been giving him ‘space’– more like a wide berth. Jeonghan tell himself that’s just what people do when they don’t know what to say to the grieving. And still, when he does venture out, no one looks at him. He walks straight through clusters of stagehands tightening ropes, performers adjusting costumes, and not one of them turns. He stands close enough to smell the chalk on their hands, to hear their idle chatter, and they seem to shift away from him almost automatically. But they’re busy. Focused. No time to be distracted by someone else’s sadness.

Jun doesn’t meet his eye anymore either. The medium sits by the fire as always, cards fanned out like wings, but when Jeonghan stops by, Jun’s hand hovers above the deck, frozen. 

“Do you want me to draw for you?” he asks quietly.

Jeonghan opens his mouth to speak, but Jun is already plucking cards. He sinks beside him on the floor. The Moon. The Tower, reversed. The Hanged Man. Ten of Swords.

There’s a long silence. Jun doesn’t explain what lays in front of them, but then he never does with Jeonghan. He just sits, hands clasped in his lap, working his bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re almost ready. When it’s time, stand in her place.”

Jeonghan blinks. “What does that mean? Stand in her place?”

Jun rolls his shoulders, stretching the ache of sitting out of them. “You’ll know when it’s time.” 

Months ago, anger would have sparked in his gut at Jun’s deliberate obscurity, now he just feels nothing but flat, a dull resignation in his bones. 

Back in the carriage, the air feels heavy with dust and stale smoke. He lies back down, the ceiling pressing close above him. The world feels so much dimmer without you, the edges blurring like an old photograph. He remembers the sound of your voice still, but it’s distorted. Only the rhythm of it rings true, the shape your laughter, and the crinkles around your eyes when you smile.

He closes his eyes, thinks of the way you’d climb the ladder before every show, all shimmer and grace, suspended above him. Thinks about how the lights caught on the sequins, turning you into something celestial. Thinks about how he could never watch you fall since the first time. Not the moment itself. Always the before, always the after, always looking away during the thick of it.

He wonders, distantly, when he started hating heights. The thought drifts away before he can follow it because he’s pressing his palm over his chest pocket again. It’s still there.

The room grows quieter, until even the ticking of the clock stops. He listens for his heartbeat and realises he can’t hear it. Maybe he’s just tired. He turns onto his side, facing the empty space where you should be, and pleads, “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.”

5. Acceptance

Another perfect day with you– waking wrapped in arms and sheets, and eventually hot coffee pressed into your hands to stave off the crisp of the morning. Didn’t bother telling you that it’s spring now, that two years have passed since you fell, because that won’t make sense to you, and he’s long since learned not to try. The last time he told you the truth, you’d gone ashen and practically catatonic, and the next morning you were gone for weeks. Went so badly that now he just keeps up the pretense. Keeps wearing his mask. Keeps his heartbreak next to your ring in a locked chest under the bed.

Things aren’t better, but they’re bearable. He’s drinking less– some days not at all. The past few weeks, he’s taken to twirling a pencil between his fingers instead of a cigarette. The smell of smoke still lingers in the carriage, but it’s faint now, diluted by the scented oil you once loved, that he keeps burning over a candle. The mirror stays clean. The sheets get washed more often. You still disappear, but you always come back. He’s learned to make peace with his curse. He’s learned that grief can be lived with, even if it never really leaves.

You hum softly while washing your face in the mirror, backlit by the pale morning light, and Jeonghan watches you with quiet fondness. You glance at him through the reflection, smiling gentle. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You’re beautiful.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, the sound like warm rain. “You always say that.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Jeonghan is softer now. The bitterness has faded into something else– a kind of resignation, maybe, or something close to gratitude. He can’t replace the light he’s lost in you, but you’re here. That’s enough. He’ll love your shadow still.

The day drifts by easily, like silk slipping between fingers. You practice, barefoot in the grass outside the tent, your body stretching and folding with the same grace that first stole his breath. Jeonghan lays on his stomach, sketching lazily in a half-filled notebook, pencil tapping rhythmically against the page. He draws the curve of your spine, the line of your jaw, the shimmer of sunlight on your sweat-sheened skin. You tease him for staring, but he only smiles. “Can’t help it,” he says. “You’re the love of my life.”

By nightfall, the air hums with the usual pre-show energy– music tuning, canvas rustling, laughter echoing through the narrow walkways. You take his hand and pull him inside the carriage before your time comes.

“Five minutes,” you whisper, tugging him close.

“Ten,” he counters.

You laugh, and it lights him up. “Fifteen?”

“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, and you walk him backwards to the bed. “Twenty.”

It’s slow, this time. Unhurried and reverent. His fingers trace your spine, gentle as your breath on his skin. When he slides into you, his vision clouds. You whisper loving against his skin– half-formed words, promises that can’t be kept. Before, it’d break him, but now it’s okay. He’ll live like this, with his waiting a thankless gift. 

His blood is pounding in his ears when you whisper, “You’re so close.”

He’s at the end of this tender rhythm, and he nods, breathless. “Yeah, angel,” he murmurs. “Yeah, almost.”

But your eyes are soft, fixed on something beyond as you press your lips to his neck. “So close,” you murmur against the shell of his ear. “We’re almost there, baby.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Jeonghan stands by the opening in the curtain, hands in his pockets, practicing the same ritual. You’re already nearing the platform, sequins flashing like stars against the dark. You glance over your shoulder when you reach the top, blow him a kiss. He catches it, presses it to his lips. The same as always.

Except this time, he finds Jun standing beside him. Jeonghan looks at him, a hundred questions whirring through his mind. 

“Are you ready to see it yet?” Jun asks quietly.

Jeonghan frowns, confused, but before he can answer, the music swells.

You step out onto the wire.

And everything snaps. The air thickens around him. He’s not now but two, ten, twenty years prior, more, maybe. All of these years happening at the same time, the timeline pulled taut together by the force of his awakening. Jun isn’t the young man he once was, but decades older. The spotlight burns white instead of orange. He sees it all. He sees it for what it is. The frayed end of the line, the knot that slipped. His knot. His hands. His fault. Distracted by you and your kisses and the night of your engagement and promise of what could be. The moment that rewound itself over and over until it rewrote him.

You fall.

This time, Jeonghan watches.

The gasp that tears from his throat never audible for anyone but him, and maybe Jun. The audience blurs into light and movement, the tent dissolving around him until there’s nothing left but the echo of the rope whipping through air. And in that sound, he remembers the rest.

He remembers the listlessness he slipped into after your body turned to ash. Remembers how he drank himself stupid to cope with his mess of a life without you, and the night he climbed the ladder, and how the dizzying height made him swallow back down the bile in his throat. He remembers the brief silence that followed his body hitting the floor, no crowd to watch him fall.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Now, he climbs again. The rungs are cold beneath his palms. The platform creaks gently, steady enough but it still sends nerves right through him. Below, the tent is silent. He looks over to find Jun, who nods, offers a half smile, and leaves without saying goodbye. 

Jeonghan doesn’t need this, anymore. Knows whatever life this has been wasn’t meant to be, that he’s been stuck in this endless cycle, and now he understands that all this time you’ve been trying to help him see. 

Stepping out is easier, the second time. And for a moment, it feels like flying. Dying, or rather dying twice doesn’t hurt, but the tears fall anyway, a sort of relief maybe, as he realises you haven’t been in pain the way he has. 

All at once it goes quiet, and a fog settles over his eyes. 

Acceptance is a misunderstood thing. It does not mean you stop missing the one you’ve lost, or that the pain has vanished. It means you begin to make room for the loss– to live alongside it, instead of within it. In time, you may find that your days hold moments of calm again. You may find yourself smiling at moments that once only made you ache. You may catch yourself laughing, or thinking of them without the familiar sting. This is not a betrayal of the person you lost. It is the mind’s way of learning to breathe again. It allows you to carry what was lost in a way that no longer crushes you.

Acceptance isn’t a finish line. It drifts in and out, the way light moves through a room when clouds pass. Do not be concerned if it seems fragile. Acceptance can come and go like the tide. This is normal. Remember that love does not end when life does. It simply changes form. And if you listen closely, you may find that it still speaks, quietly, in the spaces your person once filled.

The ground doesn’t feel cold like he thought it might. Doesn’t feel like anything but constant, steady. He doesn’t know where he’s going from here. But it’s okay. He’ll be okay.

“Jeonghan?” 

He turns toward the sound. After all this time, is it you or your ghost?

“Angel?” · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you for reading! if you like it, please consider reblogging and letting me know your thoughts!

your jaw dropped and he just laughed again, pulling you in, telling you how cute you are when you panic.

then lately, he wasn't even wearing shirts to bed anymore.

some nights he was too lazy he just wear boxers that in the mornings you feel him pressed against your ass or thighs, hard and twitching through thin fabric.

you don't say anything but… it stuck in your head, your heart always race and your body becoming more curious.

what does it really looks like when he's turned on?

how big is it, really?

will he feel good just from being touched?

and ni-ki's all over you again, his bare chest against your back, face in your neck, breathing soft and sleepy. his hand were already resting on your waist under your shirt... you'd gotten so used to the way his crotch pressed against you at night—but tonight, you feel him getting harder again.

you turned slightly to face him, "you're hard again…"

your boyfriend let out a sleepy chuckle. "well, sorry. i love being this close to my girlfriend so much that it turns me on…"

you pouted into the pillow. "so you're just gonna sleep it away?"

he laughed softly and groaned into your neck. "babe, why are you so concerned about my dick?"

"i'm not! i mean—" you turned to look at him, flustered. "i'm concerned about you."

ni-ki opened one eye, "well, i'm not gonna die because of it, you know?"

you sighed heavily and kept thinking about it. he's right there. too close… and part of you just really wants to— "…can i touch it?"

his eyes opened and his sleepy expression vanished in an instant, "what?"

you met his gaze, more nervous now. "uhh, can i… touch it?"

"o– of course…"

you reached down carefully, hand sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers, you felt ni-ki's whole body shuddered.

he let out a low, breathy moan and leaned in to start kissing you slow and needy. your touch had completely jolted him wide awake. "oh, fuck… baby…"

your fingers wrapped around him, eyes widening slightly. "it's big."

ni-ki smirked against your lips, his voice got deeper now. "hmm, really? it's not even that hard yet."

you didn't have time to reply, he took your hand, and before you could process it, he actually spit into your palm.

"riki—?!"

"shh, trust me." he laced his fingers with yours and wrapped your slicked-up hand around his length, groaning as he helped you stroke him.

his cock hardened so quickly it startled you. it got even bigger, practically pulsing in your grip that your one hand wasn't enough anymore.

you looked down. "it's… not fitting."

ni-ki laughed breathlessly. "it's okay, you're doing so good. ahm, fuck, that feels good."

"do you want to suck it too?"

your lips parted. "i– i don't know how…"

he bit his lip before he kissed your jaw, his breath felt hot on your skin, practically warming you too. "i'll teach you."

he shifted both of you on the bed, ni-ki leaned back against the headboard as you positioned yourself between his legs. his boxers were halfway down already, his cock flushed and glistened in the low light...

ni-ki trailed his thumb across your cheek down to your lips.

"you sure, baby?"

you hesitated, heart pounding as your eyes flicked between his face and what was between his thighs.

"you don't have to," he added softly, other hand brushing your hair back. "we can stop here—seriously."

"no, i really want to." you replied, making ni-ki smile proudly.

you stared at his cock slightly twitching in the air, its tip flushed red, already glistening with his pre-cum. you'd felt it under his boxers before but seeing it like this, in front of you...

it made your mouth dry.

you swallowed, moving your fingers before your brain could catch up. your wrapped one hand around the base then adding your second hand just above it.

not enough.

there was too much of him to hold. his cock is too thick, long, and the pre-cum spills from the tip was making your palms even more slippery.

you gave him a slow stroke, then another. your hands moved tentatively, sliding up and down in clumsy rhythm. the wet slick sounds between your palms made your face heat up and your pussy clench. so erotic.

n-ki groaned low, his hips twitching slightly just from your touches. "oh, baby…"

you looked up at him, face burning even more. "i really don't know what i'm doing."

he reached for you instantly, stroking your cheek with the backs of his fingers. his touch was tender, ni-ki murmured. "you don't have to be good... just want you, you're already making me crazy here."

you stroked him again, faster this time, watching the way his face twisted in your grip. his tip leaked steadily, slick smearing across your knuckles.

"you can keep using both of your hands," ni-ki whispered shakily. "but… i think i'm gonna lose it the second you put your mouth on me."

"i wanna try."

your lips parted slowly as you leaned forward, tongue flicking out, licking to taste him first.

"shit—" he hissed, jaw clenched, head tipping back against the headboard. "y/n..."

you took him in a little deeper but your throat tightened immediately—you gagged, pulling back with a choked breath.

"it's okay. just go slow," he chuckled, panting as his hand gently rested at the back of your head. "don't push yourself too deep." though the deeper you went, the better it felt for ni-ki.

you nodded, trying again. your lips stretched wider, jaw already aching. spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you bobbed your head fast. you wrapped one hand around what couldn't fit. he was burning hot in your mouth, heavy against your tongue, twitching with every movement.

god, i'm probably so bad at this…

his fingers curled in your hair now. voice breaking as he whispered through his gritted teeth.

"you're doing so good," he groaned. "your mouth feels so good..."

you tried to breathe through your nose. your eyes stung with tears.

his cock throbbed against your throat. salty, warm, very new to taste but his moans were so fucking addictive too that you just couldn't stop even if you wanted too.

you adjusted your angle, trying to breathe—but your throat flexed without meaning to, swallowing around him.

ni-ki's eyes widened, choking on a moan.

"f–fuck—baby, that—what you just did—"

you blinked up at him confused, still messy and teary, holding him steady in your mouth.

you did it again. let your throat flex around him, tighten your lips, letting him feel just how snug you were inside.

his thighs tensed instantly, hand clenching on your hair tightly, "…shit, i'm close."

you swallowed again, a whimper caught in your throat as your lips slid down further, his cock twitched violently in response, suddenly getting even bigger. he gasped, "wait—baby, almost there—don't stop."

you started to pull back, overwhelmed—but his hand stayed at the back of your head desperately.

"don't pull away—please," he gasped. "let me—let me finish in your mouth—i can't hold it— y/n"

you nodded and started sucking harder, bobbing your head faster.

ni-ki came with a loud, broken moan, hips jerking uncontrollably as thick spurts of cum spilled into your mouth. you gagged again from the volume, the heat, the unfamiliar taste—it's so much—but you swallowed all of it, trying to keep up.

you were shaking too now. your jaw hurts, your hands were messy and slippery, and your eyes were wet and full with tears—but you didn't stop until he was done and empty.

ni-ki couldn't stop groaning, whispering your name as he brushed your hair out of your face with the most wrecked look you'd ever seen.

it's second period. your teacher kept talking about something — but you're not hearing none of it.

your mouth had been on him less than twelve hours ago and all ni-ki can think about is the way you'd looked at him then — all soft, nervous, and curious, like he was something you wanted to figure out.

you're sitting a few rows ahead of him. head is bowed low, playing with pen in hand, pretending to take notes,

he knows you're not listening either.

your shoulders are a little tense, lips kept parting every time your mind wander. he saw you smiling to yourself — shy, spaced-out, those little smiles makes his stomach tighten.

you must be thinking about it too.

you have to be.

ni-ki adjusts in his seat, subtly shifting his legs under the desk, feeling his pants feel tighter than they should. and it's not like he's that hard-hard... almost. it's hard enough to feel it. enough to make him want to sneak away, press his forehead to a locker, and groan while palming himself.

he's been like this for a week. every class. every time he looks at you.

you've been giving him blowjobs for a week now and the flashbacks hits like static electricity.

the sound of you choking just a little, the sight of your eyes, glassy and wet, you're hurting but still looking up at him.

the heat of your mouth, the press of your throat, the way your hands trembles slightly as you touch him.

you made him fall apart.

and now he can't stop thinking about you, how would you fall apart for him too.

ni-ki's fingers tighten around his pen. his jaw flexes slightly.

he shouldn't think about it here. oh he shouldn't picture the way you'd sound if he had his mouth between your thighs, kissing, making out with your pussy, licking, sucking on your clit until you couldn't even speak—

"riki," the teacher calls.

he jolts slightly.

"y– yes?"

"do you know what group you're assigned to?"

his mind went absolutely blank.

"…uh, no."

the whole class shook their heads. ni-ki swallowed, tries to find a safe answer but fails.

"listen carefully next time," the teacher warned. "you're on group two."

you glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. your face goes red immediately.

you're both so, so bad at hiding it.

later, during break, you catch each other by the lockers. ni-ki leans close, arms crossed as he towers over you, trying to be casual — and failing completely.

"baby... you were zoning out the whole time," you murmured. "what's got you so distracted, huh?"

his eyes flick down to your lips just for a second.

"you," he said, honest as ever.

you blushed and smacked his arm. "shut up."

"…i keep thinking about last night," ni-ki whispered, making your heart dangerously stutters.

"yeah?" you breathed.

he nodded slowly, eyes dropping back to your mouth, your neck, your body. he swallowed thickly, quiet but you can now practically hear the words he's holding back.

"i wanna make you feel good too."

"w-what…?"

"i just… i think about it. a lot." he pouted, eyes soft but looked stormy at the same time. "i can't be the only one who cums every night."

"not here, riki—!"

he grinned and bit his lip to stop himself. he held your wrist gently, seeking more connection, more of you.

the bell finally rang.

you step back reluctantly, adjusting your skirt and trying to breathe like you weren't just fantasizing about your boyfriend in a school hallway.

ni-ki stays leaning against the lockers, watching you walk away, hand slipping into his pocket. he pulls out your phone that you'd left at your desk this morning.

[cycle tracker] you're ovulating today!

"oh?"

a/n: random fic. just want to get some drafts out. this was supposed to be for a bad boy!ni-ki but it was too long so i had to shorten and throw away the plot TT i have so much in my drafts, i just might delete all of it. part two soon :p

Jaehyun: Heey…

Not a minute later another message came.

Jaehyun: What r u doin this weekend?

You opened the message absentmindedly and replied.

‘I’m busy’ 

Jaehyun: oh ok

Jaehyun: no big deal

You should have finished the conversation there instead of asking…

‘why what’s up?

Jaehyun: nah its okay if youre busy

And now you felt like shit. Jaehyun had been an amazing friend to you for years and you had  just lied to him because you were too embarrassed to face him and the rest of his pack after what had happened with Jisung. 

‘No, Jae´

‘What do you need?’

´Tell me´

You bit your lip and waited but his answer never came, and being a huge overthinker, you found yourself dialing his number. He picked up after a few seconds.

“Hello?” You hadn’t heard his voice in a while. It caught you by surprise.

“H-hey!” you croaked, your own voice hoarse due to the lack of use. When was the last time you had actually talked out loud?

“Hey, you!” you could hear his smile even if you couldn’t see it, and it was contagious. “How have you been? It’s been a while…”

“I’m good,” you lied. “Just busy…and you?”

“I’m alright…” he said but he didn’t sound too great. There was a hint of tiredness in his voice, and maybe worry? You knew each other so well you just knew he wasn’t okay. 

“Jae… what’s going on?” you asked.

“I don’t know. You tell me,”  he breathed out. “What’s going on?”

“...What do you mean?” you murmured, but you had an idea of where this was going.

“Well, you stopped showing up for movie nights like a month ago,” he started what felt like would be a long list of complaints. “Then Jisung disappeared for a couple of days, which he apparently spent with you, and when he came back he was a fully presented alpha-”

“Fuck…,” you sighed, because this was going exactly where you thought it would.

“And he looked so happy,” Jaehyun continued. You heard a can being opened and him gulping down a couple of sips of whatever liquid was inside that can. “Calm and collected, like he had suddenly figured out his entire life. He even smirked at me like he was mocking me, so I assumed… I thought that you two- you know…”

“I’m sorry, Jae…,” you finally said.

“Why?” he asked after a few seconds waiting for you to continue. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t-fuck,” you sighed, frustrated. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You heard Jaehyun take a few more sips of his drink on the other side of the line.

“...So, you two-?” 

“Yeah,” you admitted. “We spent his first rut together. I’m sorry.”

“Again, why are you sorry?!” he raised his voice only slightly, and then as if he could see you flinching, he lowered his tone again in a calming manner. “What’s there to be sorry for?”

When you didn’t reply for what could have been an entire minute, he spoke again. “Let me see you. We can talk properly then.”

“Jae-” 

“Y/N, please?” he pleaded. “I haven’t seen you in so long- I miss my best friend…”

“I miss you too…” you said.

“Then let’s hang out. Just the two of us, if you don’t feel comfortable meeting the others yet.” he offered. 

You smiled. That seemed reasonable. 

“We can do that,” you accepted. “You wanna come over?”

“Mmm… I’ll tell you what,” he countered cheekily. “Since you always complain about me making a mess and not helping you clean up when I show up, let’s get an airbnb for the weekend.”

“Jae.”

“Y/N.”

“That’s such a waste of money,” you deadpanned. “Just come over and help me clean. It won’t kill you to pick up a broom once in a while.”

“Can’t hear you, I’m booking an apartment,” he declared.

“Jaehyun!”

“Booked!”

You gasped and then groaned. “What the fuck, Jaehyun?”

“Stop whining and have a movie weekend with me. You owe me for leaving me abandoned in this cruel house full of men,” he reproached. “I’m bored, and I miss you, so I’ll see you at 8PM.”

 And he hung up just like that. Leaving you wide eyed and with less than an hour to get ready and go to the address he sent you. Quickly, you took a shower, without even bothering to dry your hair and wore the most comfortable pair of shorts and hoodie you found, grabbing some extra clothes and putting them in your backpack before getting going. The airbnb wasn’t too far from your place, and you mentally thanked Jaehyun for being considerate, but all gratitude was gone when he opened the place and greeted you impolitely. 

“You look like shit,” typical Jaehyun. 

“Fuck off,” you said, walking past him to get in the cozy apartment he had unnecessarily rented. You probably did look like shit, to be fair; dark circles under your eyes, your skin looking dull and your wet hair sticking to your forehead and neck, you probably weren’t looking your best. But he didn’t have to say it like that.

You had barely stepped into the living room when you felt Jaehyun’s arms wrapping around you from behind, catching you off guard. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said before you had the chance to ask why the sudden hug.

“It’s fine, I’m not mad. I know I look like shi-”

“No, not because of that,” he interrupted you and you heard him sigh behind you. “I was the one who told you Jisung had imprinted on you.” 

“Jae, what-” you tried to turn around but he hugged you tighter, so you stayed still. You knew how awkward he was when it came to apologizing, so he probably wanted to avoid eye contact until he was done speaking.

“Because of what I said you felt pressured into spending his rut with him,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s my fault that things got awkward-”

“Jaehyun, no,” you stopped before he could spill any more nonsense and grabbed his hands firmly but gently, motioning for him to let go of you before you turned around. “This is not your fault.”

“You’re my best friend,” he said, lowering his eyes in guilt. “And I misread the signs. I thought you had feelings for him-”

“You were right,” you admitted, gently lifting his face. “I feel something for Jisung.”

 Jaehyun blinked a few times, then his brows furrowed as he tried to process what you had just said.“Then why are you avoiding him?!”

“It’s…,” you sighed and turned away, walking towards the kitchen. “It’s a lot to take in…”

“...Go on,” he encouraged you as he helped you reach some plates from the upper cabinet and placed them on the counter. 

You sighed. “Why don’t we eat first?”

“I’m not hungry,” he argued, but he didn’t sound convincing. He was always hungry, so you just raised a brow and stared at him until he gave in. “Fine, I’m a little bit hungry, but we still have to talk after we eat.Should we order something?”

“What are you in the mood for?” you giggled.

“Uh… pizza? Chicken?” he asked, seemingly deep in thought. “Both?”

You laughed out loud and nodded. “Both it is,” you agreed. “No need to order, though.”

“Wha-?” he looked away from his phone where he was already opening the delivery app and his attention was directed towards a dim light surrounding your hands. In a matter of seconds, the plates in front of you were filled with a variety of delicious-looking food that had Jaehyun stuttering incredulously. “No way! When d-did you…? Wow! I thought you could only materialize liquids!”

“I’ve been practicing,” you said coyly. 

 Jaehyun immediately grabbed a slice of pizza and shoved it into his mouth,closing his eyes and  moaning dramatically. “Marry me, Y/N, I swear-” his offering got interrupted when he choked on the food he was so excited to eat, coughing while you patted his back,

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jaehyun!” you nagged him playfully as he finally calmed down. “You still have to meet your mate, so stop asking random people to marry you.”

“I don’t just ask random people!” he defended himself, before eating another piece of pizza like he wasn’t choking seconds ago. He just didn’t learn. Zero survival instinct. “I asked you! I trust you! You literally made food appear like Jesus-”

“Jesus multiplied food, he didn’t just materialize it,” you were laughing hysterically now. 

“You’re even better than Jesus then!” he continued, glad he was making you laugh after so long without seeing each other. 

“I’m not gonna marry you, Jaehyun,” you finally said when you were able to control your laugh. “I’m Jisung’s-,” you gasped and quickly covered your mouth when you processed what you had just said. 

Jaehyun smiled knowingly. “I can see that,” he said pointing at the mark that your hoodie failed to hide. “Seems like it’s official.”

You blushed and let out a frustrated sigh. “I really fucked up.”

“I still don’t get it, Y/N. You two like each other-more than just like, actually- so why are you acting like this?” he asked you softly. 

“I feel-...I feel like I t-took advantage of him, Jaehyun,” you said, staring at the food that was getting cold. “It was his first rut. He couldn’t control himself.”

Jaehyun snorted and you glared at him, wanting to know what was so funny.

“Look, Y/N… with or without rut, I’m sure he loved fucking you- Hold on! Put that down! Hear me out!” he yelped when you grabbed an empty plate and aimed at him threateningly, your expression unamused at his crude choice of words. “Y/N, he’s wanted you since I first introduced you to the others years ago. I know it. All of us know it.”

“How can you be so sure?” you asked slowly, putting the plate down.

“Well, I-... I have seen things.” he said.

“What type of things?

“Remember that shirt you left behind the first time you stayed at my place for the night? The pink one with a small heart on it? I was gonna wash it and give it back to you.”

“I liked that shirt…” you mumbled, slowly picturing the mental image of the forgotten shirt. “But you said you couldn’t find it, that it wasn’t at your place.”

“I lied,” he admitted. Normally he would avoid eye contact in situations like these, but now he was staring right into your eyes, like he wanted- needed- you to listen to him carefully, to understand, to take his words seriously. “Jisung has it.”

 You opened your mouth, but no words came out. 

“After you left, I asked the pack if they had seen the shirt and I described it in detail, but everyone said they hadn’t seen it. Jisung’s face was red as a tomato, staring at the floor and squirming in his seat..I didn’t think much of it at first, but when I found  the shirt under his pillow weeks later…” Jaehyun let out a soft chuckle and shook his head at what he thought was a funny memory. “I knew if he didn’t find it where he left it, he would panic at the thought of someone discovering his secret. I didn’t want to embarrass him so I left the shirt right there and didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe Chenle put my shirt there as a joke,” you argued, but deep down you knew Jisung himself had willingly kept your shirt.

“That’s not all I’ve seen. I see how he looks at you; his pupils dilate while following your every fucking move like he’s on drugs. I’ve seen him smelling your hair when you aren’t paying attention, licking his lips while looking at yours-”

“Jaehyun-”

“I’ve heard things too,” he bit his lips and raised his eyebrows suggestively, hoping you would get it, but you just stared back at him blankly. “I’ve heard him moaning your name late at night more times than I can count.”

“Oh my god, Jaehyun! Shut up!” you hissed, scandalized.

“It’s not like I want to hear, Y/N,” he hissed back, imitating your tone. “Werewolves just happen to have incredibly good hearing. If I heard it, then trust me, the entire pack heard it. He wants you like crazy, Y/N. The rut just gave him the courage to act on it.”

 You felt yourself blushing and your heart beating faster at the newfound information. Part of you was happy to know that it hadn’t just been his rut, but that didn’t solve everything.

 “He’s too young. It’s just wrong,” you argued exhaustedly.

“...Seriously? That’s what made you run away from the poor guy?” Jaehyun asked incredulously. “His age?”

“He’s not ready to make a lifetime decision like that-”

“No, Y/N. Stop babying him,” Jaehyun wasn’t going to accept that as an argument. “Yeah, he’s a bit younger than you, but so what?! He is an adult! And he presented as an alpha-”

“He just presented-”

“What difference does it make? Whether he presented yesterday, last month, or last year doesn’t change who he is. He is a man, Y/N and he knows what he wants.”

 You gulped and cleared your throat awkwardly. Jaehyun normally wasn’t this stubborn; he always let you have it your way and win every argument, but he wasn’t backing down now. You didn’t want to continue this conversation anymore.

“Jaehyun, I came here to see you. I don’t want to fight,” your voice shook slightly as you spoke. “Can we just watch a movie together?”

Jaehyun didn’t want to fight either. And he especially didn’t want to make you cry, he just wanted the best for you and Jisung, but he could tell the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. He would have to find another way to help you.

“Let’s watch Barbie,” he proposed, hoping to make you laugh again. You rolled your eyes and suppressed a smile, which was enough for him. You spent the evening joking, laughing and watching movies, complaining about the characters and the plot holes while cuddling like in the old times. You felt comfortable in your friend’s arms and soon started falling asleep while he caressed your hair. Jaehyun was whispering something, but you were too tired to pay attention.

“Forgive me,” you thought you heard him say before you surrendered to sleep. 

When you woke up a couple of hours later, Jaehyun wasn’t next to you; his side of the bed was cold and the TV screen displayed that Netflix message asking if you wanted to continue watching. Everything was in silence.

“Jaehyun?” you called out sleepily. 

“He is not here,” that voice did not belong to Jaehyun. You jumped slightly and looked around trying to find the source of that voice, your eyes slowly adapting to the darkness around you. 

“J-jisung?!” you breathed out when you finally spotted him sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, his features barely distinguishable under the little rays of moonlight that managed to enter the room.

 He just stared back at you tiredly. Like you, he looked like he hadn’t slept well in a while. 

“W-where is Jaehyun?How did y-you get in?” you asked nervously. 

Jisung’s gaze darkened, his fingertips digged harshly into his knees and he clenched his jaw before reaching for his phone in his pocket and unlocking it. After scrolling down a couple of times, he stood up and walked around the bed, making you squirm cautiously at his behavior. He stopped next to you and showed you the screen of his phone, the light hurting your eyes slightly. 

 There it was: a message from Jaehyun with the exact address you were in and the code he needed to open the door, followed by the words ‘she is here.’

 “W-what…?” you mumbled dumbly, reaching for your own phone and finding a message for you too.

Jaehyun: sorry Y/N but u 2 need to talk

You scoffed incredulously. “Fucking traitor.”

You slammed your phone on the nightstand and sighed, your eyes meeting Jisung’s once again. His unreadable expression made you incredibly nervous.

“W-when did you get here?” You were the first to break the silence.

“An hour ago… or maybe two,” Jisung replied, dark eyes still boring into yours.

“Oh,” you shifted awkwardly on the bed. That meant he had been watching you sleep the entire time. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, his fingertips playing with the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not dumb. I know you’re avoiding me. I just wanted to look at you a bit longer and then leave before you woke up,” his voice got smaller as he reached the end of that sentence. 

 The way he was showing himself in such a vulnerable and hesitant state made all the negative feelings you had been feeling the last couple of weeks come back stronger than ever; guilt, shame, anxiety and fear. Jaehyun was right; you had to at least have the decency to talk to Jisung and solve this issue once and for all.

“Jisung,” you called out, making him flinch slightly. “There’s something I have to tell you-”

“Could you take a shower first?” he suddenly blurted out, like he had been holding it in for a while. “You reek of him,” he quickly explained when you gave him a perplexed look. 

 Your first instinct was to argue back; to tell him that he had to get over it and that this conversation was more important than his wolf being possessive. But after a moment of thinking, you decided to fulfill  his request. You had already done enough damage, and you were about to hurt him even more, so the least you could do was make it a bit more comfortable for him. 

“Sure,” you said as you got up from the bed and made your way to the bathroom, grabbing some clothes from your backpack as you walked past him. “See you in a bit.”

 He let out a soft ‘ok’ before you closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, your legs shaking slightly. You had forgotten how alluring his voice was, how pretty his eyes were and how soft his lips looked. As you felt hot water run down your skin for the second time that day, part of you wanted to just beg for his forgiveness and kiss him until your lips were swollen, but then again, that little voice in your head told you you shouldn’t and that you had to end things with him. Or at least that was what you intended when you exited the bathroom and joined him in the living room. 

“Put this on,” he offered you the hoodie he was wearing earlier as soon as he saw you. Suddenly a cold shiver ran down your spine and you finally noticed that Jisung had opened all the windows- probably in an attempt to get rid of Jaehyun’s scent. 

“I’ll just go get my own hoodie,” you replied, but he quickly shook his head.

“No. This one,” he insisted, practically shoving the hoodie into your arms. “Please,” he added when he sensed your hesitation. You sighed, and put it on, again telling yourself it was the least you could do for him. 

“Listen, Ji-” you started saying, but as soon as you finished putting the large hoodie on Jisung’s arms were around your waist, bringing you incredibly close to him as he rested his head on your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of your neck affectionately. An unintentional  pang of pleasure clouded your mind when he rubbed the mark on your neck slightly and you couldn’t help the way your body relaxed, baring your neck for him.  Jisung hummed appreciatively and gave your neck a long lick that made you whimper before you remembered what you were going to say. “J-jisung-”

“Hmm?” he acknowledged with a kiss on your neck before he got back to scenting you.. 

“I’m-” you bit your lip and gathered the courage you needed before speaking again. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.”

He tightened the hold his arms had around you, fingers digging into your flesh. “It’s okay,” he assured you quickly through shaky breaths. “We’re okay.”

“It’s not okay,” you sighed and tried to put some distance between the two of you, but he didn’t budge. “I- I should have done this sooner-”

“I said we’re fine,” he repeated, this time his voice was firm. “We’re together now.”

“But we´re not- we shouldn’t b-be…fuck,” you groaned and took a deep breath. “What happened between us- it was a mistake.”

 There. You said it.

 The hug you were captive in loosened up and Jisung lifted his head, taking a hesitant step away from you. His brows furrowed in a puzzled expression that soon turned into one of anguish, his glossy eyes telling you that was the last thing he wanted to hear right now. You felt like absolute trash.

“...Why do you say that?” he asked, his voice cracking. 

You did your best to ignore the way your chest throbbed at the sight. “It w-was your first rut and I-”

“Fuck,” Jisung turned around and threw his head back, walking a few steps away before he hunkered down on the floor like he was in physicall pain. “FUUUCK!”

 You didn’t dare to move nor say anything else. It was the first time you had heard him raise his voice and it reminded you of the severity of the situation you were in. You  had fucked up badly. 

“Of course!” he said as he slowly stood up, facing you again, his face pure of torment. Heartbroken. “Of course you would never want to do all that with me,” he laughed bitterly. 

You clenched your eyes, his words hurting more than you anticipated. “Jisung, I-”

“You just felt sorry for the late presenter who was humping your pillow like a loser,” he spat angrily. 

“That’s not true-”

“And here I was thinking I had a chance with you,” he continued rambling,panting heavily. “That you may actually like me back-”

“I do!” you bursted out, finally catching his attention. “I do like you,” you admitted as tears rolled down your face. “I like you s-so much,” you ended your confession with a sob and covered your face with your hands. “I’m so sorry.”

For a whole minute the only noise that could be heard in the living room were your mournful sobs and Jisung’s heavy breathing. 

“...You lost me there,” Jisung finally broke the silence. “I don’t get it,” he walked towards you cautiously as you wiped your tears desperately. “If you and I feel the same, then why-... why are you saying it was a mistake?”

“B-because you-,” you tried to compose yourself and speak properly, but your body and heart simply weren’t in the mood to listen to your brain. “You’re too young and-”

“What?!” Jisung asked like you had just said he was a vampire. You tried to hide your face again but he grabbed both your wrists and pulled them to your sides, his eyes looking for yours. “I’m too what?!” he repeated.

“Too young…” you barely whispered, looking away.

“Too young for what?” he spoke through gritted teeth. “To date? To make my fucking choices? To fuck?!” he continued, slowly cornering you against the wall. “Too young for you, noona?”

 You inhaled sharply when your back bumped into the wall and he pinned your hands on each side of your head. “J-jisung, we s-shouldn’t-”

“Why?” 

“I just don’t w-wanna take a-advantage of yo-” before you could finish that sentence Jisung was kissing you firmly, soft lips moving against yours. Your heartbeat accelerated when he nibbled on your bottom lip softly, as if asking for permission and letting out a frustrated groan when you didn’t let him in. You turned your head to the side and spoke again. “Jisung I can’t-”

“Shut up,” Jisung growled, letting go of your hands to grab your jaw and forcefully make you face him, his other hand sneaking around your waist. “Just shut up. I don’t wanna hear any more nonsense,” he warned you and crashed his lips into yours again, nibbling and licking insistently for you to part your lips. When you refused to give in again, his hand went from your jaw to the back of your head, grabbing your hair and tugging enough to catch you by surprise, using the soft gasp he elicited from you as an opportunity to finally deepen the kiss. He moaned into the kiss and massaged your scalp gently as an apology,  and you felt your eyes roll to the back of your skull, finally daring to kiss him back, all will to fight slowly evaporating from your body. When he broke away from the kiss, you caught yourself feeling utterly disappointed. 

“Are you done being impossible?” he asked, pecking your lips softly. “Done making things unnecessarily difficult?” the next kiss lasted a bit longer, his hands finding their way to your hips. “Where did you even get that ridiculous idea, hm?” he pressed his hips into yours, immediately reminding you of his size. “You think I’m some innocent kid, is that it?” he challenged, rutting against you firmly. The effect was immediate: you felt yourself melt into a puddle at the touch you had been craving for weeks, letting out a soft moan, much to Jisung’s delight. “Yeah? You missed me?” he chuckled against your lips, pressing himself against you harder and making you whine desperately. “Then you should have picked up your phone, no? Texted me back? Opened the door when I showed up?” He kissed his way from your jaw to your neck, sucking harshly. “All because you felt guilty? Guilty for what? For making my biggest fantasy come true?” he growled against your neck, making you tremble.

“Jisung-,” you gulped when he grabbed your shorts and panties and pulled them down unceremoniously. “S-slow down. Let’s think-”

“Don’t wanna,” he simply said as he finished undressing your lower parts. “I’ve had plenty of time to think. I’ve been thinking about this for years, noona,” he pulled his sweatpants down along with his boxers only enough for his hardened cock to be released, bobbing and hitting his covered lower abdomen. “The more I think of it, the harder I get.”

 You could feel yourself drooling at the sight of Jisung slowly jacking off in front of you as he observed you with hooded eyes.

“You want it?”  he teased you, his hand circling the tip of his cock and squeezing slightly, hissing. You could only nod dumbly. “But you think it’s wrong, huh?” he quirked his eyebrows and you nodded again. He rolled his eyes and pressed his body close to yours again. “Because I’m too young?” he cooed. Again, you nodded, like it was the only thing you knew how to do. He hummed, not stopping the constant movement of his hand on his dick, while his other hand made its way between your legs, sliding two fingers along your pussy and spreading your wetness to your clit. “Then why are you this wet? Aren’t I too young to make you this wet, noona?”

 You closed your eyes, embarrassed. “J-jisung, please…” you begged, without being sure of what you were begging for. He slowly inserted both fingers into your entrance, both your jaw and his falling open; yours due to the stretch and his for the anticipation of being surrounded by you. He moved his fingers carefully inside of you, searching for that one spot he had found last time-

“AH! J-jisung oh g-god!”

Found it. He smirked and stole another kiss from you before quickly massaging that spot in a ´come here´ motion, along with stroking his cock lazily. 

“Jisung f-fuck, fuck oh-!” you didn’t know what to hold onto, and ended up pulling at his shirt with trembling hands. Sensing how close you were, he put his own pleasure aside, releasing his own member and using that hand to draw smooth circles on your clit. “JISUNG-” you gasped and threw your head back, surrendering to the intense orgasm Jisung had built up for you. You didn’t know if it was because of the mating mark, but only Jisung could make you feel like this. You worked on controlling your breathing as Jisung retracted his fingers from you gently, and opened your eyes right in time to see him bring his soaked fingers to his mouth, licking them wantonly and moaning in delight. For a second his eyes gleamed a reddish tone that made your blood run cold. 

“Don’t worry,” he said as if he knew what you were thinking. “It’s too soon for me to have another rut. Especially when my last one left me so…,” he licked his lips. “...Satisfied.”

“O-oh,” you replied, trying your best to form a coherent sound, but your legs chose that moment to give up on you and your body started sliding down the wall. Luckily, Jisung was fast enough to reach for you and hold you firmly against him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice showing a hint of nervousness as he tried to look for an answer in your unfocussed eyes. 

“Feel weird-” you managed to answer, letting him lift your weak body and guide your legs around his waist, pressing you against the wall once again. When his hot cock rubbed against your sensitive pussy your entire body trembled and you moaned into his chest. 

“Noona,” he cupped your face with his palm, holding your weight with one arm like it was nothing. “Weird how? What do you feel?”

 You shook your head weakly. You didn’t know how to explain the way your body responded to Jisung, making your limbs weak, your chest warm, and every nerve tingling with pleasure, something in the back of your head telling you to submit to him. Jisung bit his lip before he decided to look for your neck, giving it experimental nuzzles and licks like a puppy trying to comfort its owner. You moaned out loud and bared your neck for him, giving him as much access as he wanted.

“A-alpha,” you moaned, shaking in his arms. Jisung’s eyes lit up with a hint of red again, and stared at you expectantly. “Make it b-better, alpha-,” you sobbed desperately.

 Something in Jisung snapped right in that moment, inhaling sharply and kissing you fiercely, his hips rutting against you roughly and creating a friction that had you gasping into the kiss. 

“It’s okay, noona,” he assured you while his hand slid between your bodies to line himself up against your entrance, pressing only slightly in an attempt to make you open up for him without forcing it, although it felt like torture for you. “Alpha will take care of you,” he declared before the head slid in, making both of you moan loudly. “Feels good, yeah? Feel how good alpha fills you up?” he panted when he managed to bury himself completely inside of you.

“S-so good,” you stuttered brainlessly, letting him bounce you on his cock and against the wall. 

“Still think this is wrong?” he asked in between kisses. “Still think I’m too young?”

 He slowed down his thrust to a stop when you didn’t reply, distancing his upper body from you enough to see your embarrassed face. “You do?!” he asked incredulously. You looked away and he scoffed. “Am I not enough of a man for you? Even after I marked your pretty neck as mine? Even when you can barely take my cock?” he thrusted into you sharply as to emphasize his question. “Get rid of that stupid thought, now,” he ordered you, his eyes showing a red hue again.

“I-I’m trying-,” you hiccupped with difficulty as he fucked you intently. “It’s n-not that e-easy-”

“Let me help you,” he hissed and just like that you suddenly didn’t feel the wall against your back anymore. You shrieked and hugged Jisung more tightly out of fear of falling on the floor now that you didn’t have the wall as support. Jisung walked a few steps back, with you clinging onto him like a koala,  before he grabbed your waist with both hands. “Let me show you how much of a man I can be.”

Before you could complain about the possibility of you being too heavy for this, or him losing balance, or all the ways this could end up badly, he silenced you by lifting you up and slamming you down back into his cock with ease, reaching deep enough to make you choke on your saliva. 

 “Could someone who is too young do this?” He snickered and kissed your neck before he started moving you up and down his cock with ease, as the muscles in his forearms tightened and his veins popped up attractively. You didn’t even know strength could turn you on like this, but when Jisung used you like you were nothing but a fleshlight you felt another orgasm approaching you fast. “Tell me, noona,” he hissed. “Am I n-not a man to you?” he fought the need to roll his eyes back in pleasure to see your wrecked face.

“Al- alpha,” you tried to reply as you felt your orgasm so close you could barely speak. “Y-you a-...you’re a m-man fuck, alpha, alph-AH!” you sobbed as your vision went blank and your walls clamped around him, making him moan and tremble, hugging you tightly against his chest, where you could feel his heart beating through the material of his shirt. 

“Say it again,” he demanded, his hard cock still inside of you contrasting the romantic nature of the way he was hugging you. 

“Y-you’re a man,” you admitted, feeling weak after the mindblowing orgasm.

“Say you’re mine,” he spoke again.

“I’m…,” you sighed as he kissed your mark softly. “I’m yours, alpha.”

“Now tell everyone,” he ordered, catching you off guard. Who was he talking about? Did he mean telling the other members of his pack? Telling your friends? Introducing him to your parents? As you were trying to understand what he meant, he started walking towards the balcony, walking past the window and standing there in the cold night, where all the neighbors could see you. “Now.”

“J-jisung, what are you doing?” you slapped his chest weakly until he put you down. You were glad his hoodie covered you past your thighs and he was fully dressed- except for his cock on full display- and tried to hurry him back inside before someone saw you both, but Jisung quickly grabbed your hips and turned you around against the balcony railing, pressing his body against you. “Jisung, n-not here!”

“I want the world to see,” he murmured like he was in a trance. “I want them to hear how good you are for alpha,” he purred, lifting the back of your hoodie just enough for his cock to rub against your ass. 

 He was crazy. There was no way you were going to do that. Or so you thought, but the moment he slid himself back into you with a shameless moan, all caution was forgotten, and you could only think about how good he was stretching you and how sweet he sounded moaning against your ear. 

“Noona,” he moaned into your neck, his hips speeding up to a constant rhythm. “Say it again,” he pleaded, his hands feeling you up like a madman, wanting to memorize every curve. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m y-yours,” you whimpered, your fist tightening around the railing and enjoying the way his cock twitched inside of you at the words. “I’m yours, Jisung, p-please I’m- oh! Oh god, Ji I’m yours, I’m yours I-” you moaned when he cursed and his hips stuttered. 

“I love you, n-noona,” he sobbed, digging his fingers into your hips to keep you in place to take his unruly thrusts. “I love you, I love y-you so much so, so much ah! Ah, fuck, ah!” he panted heavily as the base of his cock started inflating into what soon would be a huge knot. “D-don’t try to run away from me a-again, noona,” he pleaded? Warned? “I won’t let you. You’re n-not going anywhere-fuck! This pretty pussy’s all mine,” definitely a warning. “I’ll fuck you so good, noona, hhm? Breed you every day, keep you so f-full you w-won’t have any more stupid ideas in that pretty head of yours, y-yeah?”

 You moaned so loud you knew someone out there had surely heard. But you couldn’t care anymore; the only thing in your mind were Jisung’s filthy promises and the stretch of the knot he insistently tried to push into you were making you delirious. “Y…yeah- oh fuh- ugh fuck yes, a-alpha!” your slurred words were barely understandable, too cock drunk to express yourself properly. “Fuck me s-soh aaah! so g-good- wanna… want you inside of me all d-day.”

That’s what did it for Jisung. He rammed into you harshly, his knot finally inside of you as his cock jerked, continuous gushing of cum making you feel full enough for a small bump to form in your belly. 

“You’re squeezing me s-so good, noona.” Jisung panted deliriously while licking your neck. “Taking all my cum, yeah? Milk me up some more, hmm?” he asked, one of his hands finding your clit and rubbing it quickly as you moaned and squirmed against him. “Yeess, noona, just like t-that, come on, cum for me, cum for alpha-” he demanded, relishing in the way your walls contracted round him.

“A-alpha!” you whimpered when your third orgasm of the night hit you, shaking uncontrollably as Jisung released another spurt of cum inside of you. “love y-you, alpha…” you croaked out weakly. Jisung purred a chant of ‘love you too, love you so much, noona,’ as he gave the mating mark one last kiss and slid out of you when his knot shrunk enough to allow it, cum immediately sliding out and down your thighs as Jisung carried you back inside the apartment. 

 Jisung laid you down on the sofa and disappeared into the bathroom, coming back right after with a wet towel that he used to carefully clean you up, gently apologizing whenever you would flinch in oversensitivity. 

“You came a lot…,” you commented absentmindedly.

“Oh that’s probably because- uh, I haven’t come since the last time I saw you,” he confessed, shrugging. 

“What?” you yelped. “That was like three weeks ago! Why didn’t you uh–... you know,” you ended vaguely by making a crude gesture with your hand that had him laughing out loud.

“I tried,” he explained when his laugh calmed down. “I would start jerking off, but my hand didn’t feel as good as yours, and it wasn’t as soft and warm as…,” he eyed you up hungrily. “...As all of you. So I would get frustrated and give up.”

“That sounds like torture,” you say.

“It was,” he admitted. “But I feel much better now.”

You hummed and then you both fell into a comfortable silence.

“Are we-” Jisung bit his lip nervously, going back to his reserved persona like he hadn’t just fucked you out in the open. “Are we okay now?”

“Yeah,” you replied tiredly. “More than okay.”

“...Will you give us a chance, then?” he asked hopefully. 

"Will I get my shirt back if I do?" you asked cheekily. "The pink one, with a heart on it," you added when Jisung gave you a puzzled look. Then you saw his eyes widen and his face blush a record shade of red.

"Who told you?!"

"Jaehyun."

Jisung groaned dramatically. "Look, noona. I'm not a creep. It just smelled so good-Fuck! That's what a creep would say-" he tried to defend himself desperately.

"Jisung," you called for him, giving him a tender kiss. "What do you need the shirt for if you can have me anytime you want."

His eye color matched the blush on his face at your words as he licked his lip tentatively. "Anytime I want?"

 You nodded and kissed him again, feeling him smile into the kiss. 

Then a thought crossed your mind and you broke to kiss, gasping in realization.

“We’re gonna get a noise complaint. Or a complaint for public indecency. We’ll get banned from using airbnb.”

“Under whose name is the reservation?” Jisung asked

“Jaehyun’s.”

“Can’t you just do that thing you do and make booze appear?” Jaehyun groaned, following you to the living room. You turned towards him and lifted an eyebrow. “Please?” he asked, giving you his best pout which made you laugh out loud.

“Fine,” you sighed, sitting on the floor. “Bring me as many empty bottles as you can find.”

Jaehyun wasted no time and went to do as he had been told the exact same second Jisung made his entrance. He gave you a shy smile and sat down near you.

“Hi, Jisung!” you smiled back brightly. “Ready for a horror movie?”

His smile widened and he opened his mouth to reply, when Jaehyun came back into the room, carrying a bunch of bottles of different sizes and complaining about how a witch of your category should be able to materialize bottles as well.

“Materializing solids is harder than materializing liquids,” you deadpanned what you thought should be obvious. 

“You’re gonna do magic, noona?” Jisung leaned forward and looked at the bottles with curious eyes.

“Why are you here, Jisung?” Jaehyun asked finally acknowledging the younger’s presence. “The movie won’t start yet so you can take a nap or something.”

“I-uh… just wanted to say hi,” Jisung mumbled nervously.

“You always come out of your room as soon as Y/N arrives,” Jaehyun pointed out and chuckled teasingly. “It’s like you can smell her or something.” 

 At this Jisung blushed furiously and his eyes widened as he looked at Jaehyun and then at you, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times but not being able to formulate any words.

“Leave him alone,” you gave Jaehyun a stern look and grabbed Jisung’s hand, ignoring the surprised gasp that left his mouth and pulling him to sit closer to you. “He knows I get in a good mood when I see him, right?”

 Jisung didn’t reply, too stunned looking at the way your small hand barely managed to circle his.

 Jaehyun snorted.

“Sure, he’ll keep you company while I go take a shower then,” he yawned and his figure disappeared into the corridor. 

“Okay, wanna see some magic, Ji-” you turned to look at him and found him placing your palm against his, marveled at the visible size difference. You had never paid proper attention to his hands before; his fingers were long and beautiful and they were lacing with yours now as he let out a soft whisper that sounded like 'so small…'

“Jisung…” you called after you remembered how to breathe. “I need both hands to do magic.” 

“Oh-” He seemed to finally escape whatever trance he was trapped in and let go of your hand hesitantly. “Sorry.”

You smiled at him and gathered the bottles in front of you.

“I would ask you what alcohol you want me to materialize, but you’re too young to drink-” you tried to lighten the mood.

“Just beer is fine,” he said.

“What?” you were sure you had misheard him. There was no way he knew anything about alcohol.

“I mostly drink soju and tequila shots,” he shrugged and helped you reach the bottles that were too far. “But some of the others can’t handle that much, so beer would be better.”

“Uh… sure, then let’s go with beer tonight,” you said and got to work.

 It took you about 20 minutes to fill the bottles with alcoholic liquid. You could have finished sooner, but Jisung was staring intently at your hands made it really hard to concentrate.

 The movie was not as scary as you expected and no one could take it seriously. Some of the guys would randomly scream just to scare the others and they ended up getting drunk and throwing chips at each other.  You on the other hand, had had a long week and your body was starting to give up on you, your eyes closing slowly.

“Noona,” you heard a deep but soft voice on your left, “are you tired?”

You smiled tiredly at Jisung. “Yeah… I should probably go home soon.”

“It’s kind of late, though,” Jaehyun said from your right side. “Wanna spend the night here? We can share my bed.”

“But you won’t let me sleep,” you groaned.

“Oh? Is that an invitation to go back to our old arrangement?” he teased and just then everyone went silent, looking at you both.

“What arrangement?” Yuta asked curiously, breaking the silence.

“It’s nothing,” you said before Jaehyun could answer. “Jaehyun, no,” you hissed only for him to hear.

“Your lose,” he simply said and winked at you.

“Nah, I really wanna know now,” Johnny stopped the movie and turned so he could face his object of interest.

You looked around and saw each of the guys’ faces staring back at you intently. Jisung looked like he was holding his breath.

You then looked at Jaehyun who at least had the decency to look guilty  about letting it slip. You sighed and decided to come clean.

“We used to fuck,” you finally said. 

The collective gasp would have been comical if you hadn’t been the one who caused it. Questions about details were fast to arise.

“How was it?” was the last question heard by everyone and followed mostly by cheering and a couple of reprimands. 

Jaehyun bit his lip, suppressing a smirk before whispering a short “sorry” your way and replying to the question. “Fucking amazing.”

 Louder cheers and some dramatical screams exploded around. 

“If it was so good then why did it stop?” interrupted Ten.

“It was not my decision for sure,” said Jaehyun.

“We just weren’t compatible,” you shrugged.

“He’s all talk, isn’t he?” Jungwoo asked you. “He didn’t make you cum.” he wasn’t asking, but stating a fact.

Everyone waited in silence for your answer, and you looked at Jaehyun apologetically. He lifted his eyebrows in disbelief.

“No way…” he waited for you to laugh and tell him that it was all a joke, that he was the best fuck you’ve ever had and that you would love to do it again. “You did cum, I’m sure.”

“I did. I made myself cum,” you murmured. “You just happened to be there.”

 Some of the members of the pack snorted but tried not to be too loud and hurt Jaehyun’s ego even more. Jisung, who had been silent the entire time next to you, scoffed.

“Anyways,” you continued trying to end the conversation as soon as possible. “What I meant earlier is that I can’t sleep with you in the same bed because you snore, so I would rather go home.” 

 Mark and Haechan in a corner laughed harder at you mentioning Jaehyun’s snoring. 

“It’s late, Y/N,” Taeyong reminded you. “Are you sure? One of us can sleep on the couch and you can take the bed.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Jisung suddenly said. Everyone seemed to be surprised to finally hear his voice. “You can sleep in my bed, noona.”

“No, no.” You quickly said. “I can sleep on the couch-”

“No,” he insisted. “I’m not sleepy yet so I’ll watch some TV instead. I’d rather sleep here.”

“Oh… Thank you, Jisung,” you gave in and everyone went back to their own conversations, standing up to go to bed too.

“Well,” Jaehyun tried to lighten the mood, placing his hand on your thigh. “If you change your mind, I’ll leave my door unlocked-”

A deep growl pierced through the choir of voices and caused a heavy silence to reign in the living room. Everyone stood in shock, looking at the source of the threatening sound: Jisung, with his fists clenched and a slight glimpse of red visible in his eyes, set on where Jaehyun’s hand made contact with your body. 

 Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. He seemed to understand what was happening immediately. He wasn’t oblivious to Jisung’s crush on you, but he never thought much of it. It was just a crush, after all. Or was it? He had to make sure…

 Without breaking eye contact with Jisung, Jaehyun slid his hand towards your inner thigh and gave it a soft squeeze. Something that you would have taken as a friendly touch, not uncommon for you two. But it seemed to set Jisung off, his growl becoming louder and more feral, bearing his teeth as if he was about to bite Jaehyun’s hand off.

“Jisung!” Taeyong’s voice rumbled against the walls and it seemed to get to the youngest member of the pack. Jisung shook his head and looked at his leader, and then at your stunned expression. 

He cleared his throat and coughed a couple of times.

“S-sorry, I think I’m about to catch a cold or… something.”

 When no one said anything, he spoke again. 

“I’ll wash up first.” he mumbled awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. “My room is all yours to use, noona,” and just like that he scurried away, followed quickly by Chenle.

“You just want your bed to smell like her!” Chenle accused a bit too loud, causing Jisung to shush him and drag him away before he could say something else. Jeno and Jaemin failed to contain their giggles as they left the living room too, and soon other members followed. The last ones to leave were Taeyong and Doyoung, exchanging worried looks and whispers and leaving you and Jaehyun alone. 

 Jaehyun sighed.

 “Our Jisung is a man now, huh?” he said

“What the hell was that? Did he growl at you?!” you still couldn’t believe sweet, shy Jisung had such a side.

“Sure did…”

“Why?!”

Jaehyun didn’t say anything for an entire minute.

“It’s too soon to say,” he finally turned to smile at you and ruffled your hair. “Don’t worry about it yet.”

“Yet?” you repeated as you watched him stand up and make his way out of the living room. “And later?”

“Well…Just don’t play with the poor boy, okay?”

“...what do you mean?” you whispered.

Jaehyun smiled, but he seemed too worried for the smile to reach his eyes.

“Nothing, Y/N… Forget about it. Goodnight…” 

You tossed and turned in Jisung’s bed, failing to fall asleep.You just couldn’t stop worrying about Jisung’s behavior earlier. Was he mad at Jaehyun? Was he mad at you? What if he was actually getting sick and sleeping on the couch made it worse? The pang of guilt you felt was enough to get you out of bed and quietly go to the living room to check on him.

His long body certainly didn’t fit in the couch so his feet were hanging off but  he seemed to be fine overall, sleeping soundly on his back, with hands over his head. You gently placed your hand on his forehead to check on his temperature; he was warm but not enough to alarm you. Letting out a relieved sigh, you stepped away from him, but you hadn’t walked two steps when you heard him call you.

“Noona..” he whimpered softly. 

 You turned to look at him, worried that you had woken him up or that he needed something, but you were met with his sleeping form, eyes closed, breath evened and a content smile like he was having the best of dreams.

“Noona,” he repeated, arching his back slightly and sighing. “You smell so good…” 

 You felt your face heaten up. Was he dreaming of you?

 You waited, but nothing else came out of his parted plump lips. He just laid there pacifically like he hadn’t just made you short circuit. 

 You forced your legs to take you to the kitchen, thinking a cold glass of water would calm you down. Your hands searched for the right cabinet blindly, and then remembered that they had moved the glasses to the top shelf about two weeks ago. You stood on your toes and mentally cursed your height. So you could make alcohol appear but couldn’t reach the top shelf? You weren’t particularly good at levitating objects either so there was no way for you to get a glass. Just when you were about to give up, you felt a warm body behind you and saw a long arm grab a glass over you easily, placing it on the counter in front of you.

 “You wanted this, right?” you heard Jisung’s sleepy voice near your ear as he continued hovering over you.

“Y-yes, thank you,” you stuttered, not daring to move. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s fine,” he mumbled. “The real thing is much better.”

You gulped. He was probably still half asleep and wasn’t making any sense, you thought as you watched him close the cabinet over your head. 

“I never noticed how t-tall you are.” you laughed nervously.

“I’m not particularly tall,” he hummed and you could swear you felt him inhale against your hair, before he let out a soft groan. “You’re just so small.”

 “A-am I?” you asked just for the sake of saying something. All intelligent thoughts had left your brain when he placed his large hands on top of yours on the counter.

“Uh-huh,” he squeezed your hands and pressed his body closer to you from behind, making it impossible not to notice a prominent bulge against your lower back. He hid his face on your neck before he whispered: “I could split you in half.” 

 You moaned out loud before you could think about how wrong this was. This was little Jisung! He hadn’t even presented yet and he had you feeling more hot and bothered than any man before, while whispering such crude things with the softest tone and barely humping your ass. You were losing it for him doing the bare minimum, when you didn’t even know you were attracted to him.

“You sound even better than in my dreams,” he groaned, thrusting against you a bit harder, his hands leaving yours to travel up your arms and finally circle your waist, holding you firmly in place for him to pursue his pleasure. 

 You don’t even know what took over you when you leaned forward into the counter and arched your back with a shaky breath, pressing your behind harder against him and eliciting the most delicious moan out of him.

 “Can’t believe he didn’t make you cum,” he suddenly spit, sliding a hand under your shirt and massaging your breast. “I wouldn’t stop until you’ve soaked the bed,” he groaned, his other hand traveling down the hem of your shorts. “My bed…”

“J-Jisung!” you finally came to your senses and grabbed his hand right as it started sliding into your shorts. “Wait, w-we can’t!”

 He stopped all movement and stilled behind you, slowly raising his head.

“Huh?” was all that came from him as if he was waking up from a trance. And then, he practically jumped away from you like you had burned him. “Noona?!”

 Hesitantly, you finally turned around and looked at him. He looked from his hands to you, eyes flashing red and golden intermittently. Whether he was still panting due to his previous activities or because he was panicking, you didn’t know. 

 “I-,sorry I… I don’t k-know why I… shit, noona I’m so sorry,” he stuttered and stumbled over his own feet as he fled to the bathroom and locked himself in there.

 You stood in the darkness in silence, the glass long forgotten on the counter and your upper thighs uncomfortably sticky due to the wetness you couldn’t stop. Your heart was pounding against your chest like you were a teenager facing her first crush, and all because of Jisung. 

 But his reaction confirmed your theory that he wasn’t really awake and it made you feel incredibly guilty. Had you scared him? What if he felt like you had taken advantage of him and hated you know? 

 You heard the faint singing of birds coming from outside and noticed the room wasn’t as dark anymore and took it as your queue to go home, getting dressed and grabbing your stuff silently, not wanting to face anyone right now.

 Once you got home you took a quick shower and hid under the blankets, falling asleep immediately as if all energy had been suddenly stolen from you. 

You woke up to your phone ringing insistently on your nightstand.

“What?” you sleepy mumbled placing the phone on your ear.

“When did you leave?” Jaehyun’s voice asked.

“Uh I don’t know…early, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I would have walked you home.”

“It’s fine, I got home safe and sound.”

 He hummed and yawned. “Next time wake me up, okay?”

“Okay…” you mumbled and bit your lip, suddenly remembering what had happened last night. “Hey, Jae…does Jisung normally…sleepwalk?”

“Sleepwalk?” he sounded confused. “Uh no, not that I know- why?...did something happen last night?”

“Uh…”

“Hold on, Y/N.”

 You heard faint murmurs being exchanged on the other side of the line and then you heard Taeyong’s voice asking for the phone.

“Y/N, did Jisung go to the room where you were sleeping last night?” Taeyong asked straight to the point.

“NO!” you basically yelled. “No, of course not.”

“Did he do or say something weird then?” he insisted

It took you a bit too long to answer. How could you possibly tell them?!

“Y/N, I need you to tell me or we can’t help him.”

“He…uh, I-” you inhaled deeply before thinking of a way to tell them without giving away many details. “I went to the kitchen last night and I think maybe I woke him up, or…I don’t know but he was there and talked and…acted in a way that wasn’t like…like him, you know? And his eyes were changing colors…”

You heard even more voices discussing on the other side of the line before Taeyong spoke again.

“What did he say exactly?”

 You froze. Jisung’s whisper of 'I would split you in half' echoed in your head.

“I- I don’t remember… I was half asleep,” you lied.

Taeyong’s silence made it clear he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t insist. 

“Is Jisung okay?” You finally asked.

“He’s fine,” Taeyong assured you. “He is a bit moody today, hasn’t left his room, but he isn’t sick or anything… We think he’s about to present.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly. That made sense; the weird change of eye color, a more aggresive attitude and sudden hornyness. You felt relieved, but also a bit disappointed. It was just his animal side and he would have reacted like that with any other woman; he wasn’t attracted to you. And after he presented, it would only be a matter of time before he met his destined mate. Great. It’s not like you liked him either, right?

Right?

When the call finished, you were in a terrible mood. And you were still in a bad mood for the next few days, a week even. And when it was time for another movie night at Jaehyun’s, you declined, saying you were tired. Instead, you grabbed a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate and watched a movie on your own, while the heavy rain tapped against the window.

  As you approached the end of the movie, you heard a soft knock on your door. You stopped the movie and looked at the door, just in time for a harder knock to be heard.  Puzzled, you stood up and walked softly towards the door, the knocking becoming louder and more insistent. 

“W-who is it?” you asked nervously once you reached the door.

“Noona,” called the deep voice from the other side. “It’s me…”

“Jisung?!” you shrieked and quickly opened the door, facing the boy whose clothes and hair were soaking wet. “Jisung what are you doing here?! Look at you, why didn’t you bring an umbrella with you?! You’ll get sick-”

“Are you mad at me?” he asked immediately, staring into your eyes.

“W-what?”

“Are you mad because of what I did that night? Is that why you don’t want to go to our house anymore?”

“No, Jisung.” you sighed. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just wasn’t feeling it today.”

 His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “Oh, okay…I’ll see you around then…”

“Jisung,” you called him before he could leave. “Come in and take a hot shower okay? Let’s get you some dry clothes to change into.”

 He looked at himself, like he had just noticed his state and murmured a soft “okay” before entering your place timidly. You showed him the way to the bathroom and left a clean towel for him to use, letting him know there would be dry clothes waiting for him in your room.

 Meanwhile you went to the kitchen to prepare a cup of hot chocolate for him right when your phone started vibrating in your pocket. It was Jaehyun calling.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Y/n, is Jisung with you?” he asked urgently.

 You almost choked on your saliva. How did he know?!

“Uh…yes, he just showed up.”

“Oh thank god,” he sighed, and then his voice sounded distant as he seemed to be speaking to somebody else, telling them 'he’s with her!'

“Is everything okay?” you asked nervously

“He suddenly left in a hurry and didn’t tell anyone anything. He left his phone here, and Chenle tried calling some of his friends but no one had seen him.”

“He’s fine, just got wet because of the rain so he’s taking a shower now. He can stay here until the rain stops,” you offered.

“Thank you,” Jaehyun said and paused for a minute before adding: “Don’t tell him I called you.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a bit…sensitive these days,” he murmured. “And he isn’t very happy with how close I am with you so…”

“...That makes no sense,” you replied and lowered your voice as you heard Jisung exiting the bathroom and entering your room to get changed. “We’ve been friends for years and he’s never seemed to have a problem with that.”

“Yes, but now he’s presenting Y/N.”

“So?”

“Look…,” you heard some movement and then a door closing, indicating that he had probably gone to his room to talk without anyone hearing. “Taeyong doesn’t want me to tell you this, something about not wanting to pressure you into anything but…uh…”

“Just spit it out,” you were starting to get impatient

“We think Jisung imprinted…on you,” the last part was barely audible. 

 There was an awkward silence that none of you knew how to break until you cleared your throat.

“That’s impossible,” you said. “He hasn’t even presented yet.”

“It’s not impossible. It’s more common for wolves to find their mate after presenting, but it’s not necessarily the rule. I think… We think he imprinted on you a long time ago.”

 When you didn’t say anything he continued.

“You know he’s had the biggest crush on you for a while, Y/N. What if it wasn’t a simple crush? You saw how he reacted when I touched you that night… No wolf would be that agitated unless it’s their mate that’s being touched. All the signs have always been there, we just dismissed them.”

“I- I don’t know what to do with that information, Jae…” you said, biting your lip nervously.

“I thought you liked him too…” he accused. 

“Me?!”

“Yes, you. You have a soft spot for him, you always ask for him when we hang out, you bring him snacks and presents for no reason, you smile like an idiot when he talks and you are incredibly touchy with him.”

“That’s just…”

“Don’t bullshit me, Y/N. We all knew you had a thing for him. If you like him, go for it. But if you don’t like him like that, send him home now and don’t toy with his feelings,” he warned you before sighing and softening his voice. “You’re my friend, Y/N, and he’s my pack brother. I want the best for both of you, okay? I gotta go, call me if anything happens.” 

 When he hung up you placed your phone on the kitchen counter and went to your room to check on Jisung. There would be time to ask him about his feelings and talk things out properly after he drank something hot and was more comfortable, you thought as you knocked on your bedroom door a few times.

“Jisung, are you ready? Do you want hot chocolate? or something to eat?” you asked, trying your best to hide how affected you were after that phone call. But the only reply you heard was something that sounded like a muffled cry. “Jisung?” you insisted only to get a louder cry in response. Worried, you opened the door and stood there speechless.

 The clothes you had prepared for him were scattered on the floor  along with the towel you had given him earlier. Jisung was completely bare on your bed, mounting your pillow and rutting against it desperately, while water drops traveled from his hair to your bedsheets, where his face was buried, muffling his incessant moans. 

“J-jisung…” his name was the only thing you would say and he finally turned his body to the side slightly to look at you, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the precum leaking from his reddened cock, staining your pillowcase. 

“N-noona,” his voice was an octave deeper than usual. “Noona, everything smells l-like you…” he whimpered, fucking the pillow harder and faster without breaking eye contact with you. “I-I’m so close-” was the last thing he managed to say before a deep moan echoed through the room and his hips stilled, his buttcheeks contracting a couple of times, pressing his member harder against the soft fabric.

 He laid limp on the bed, hooded eyes still looking at you, the strange dance of eye colors happening again told you that he was being consumed by his wolf again.

“Sorry,” he finally panted. “I made a mess...”

“I-it’s okay!” your voice cracked because you were actually not okay, but you knew he had no control over his body right now and the last thing you wanted was to make him feel guilty about it. “There’s some tissues on my nightstand, so- uh how about you c-clean yourself up and g-get dressed?” you nervously walked closer to him, picked up the clothes from the floor and offered them to him.

 He slowly sat up, as if his body was too heavy to move. He didn’t even bother covering himself like the shy Jisung normally would. He was far too gone for that. But when he saw the clothes you were trying to give him, he had enough energy to snatch them from you and throw them further away, with an annoyed huff.

“Wha- Jisung!” you reprimanded him. “You have to get dressed!”

“I’m not wearing his clothes,” he hissed. “And neither are you. Those are Jaehyun hyung’s, aren't they?”

 Right. The only clothes you had that could fit him were shirts and boxers that Jaehyun would leave behind whenever he crashed at your place. You had prepared those clothes for Jisung before Jaehyun called you to warn you about Jisung’s feelings.

“...Fine,” you sighed in defeat, not wanting to irritate him more. “I’ll go get you something else, but don’t complain if it’s too small for you.”

Before you could walk away, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer to him, making you stand in between his legs, pressing his head against your lower belly.

“Don’t go,” he pouted, planting a soft kiss on your stomach over the thin fabric of your shirt that made you blush even more. “It hurts less when you’re here.”

“Are y-you in pain?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he inhaled deeply and groaned as he caught the smell or your arousal. “But maybe you can help me?” he asked using one of his hands to lift your shirt slightly, kissing your skin directly now and making you gasp. “Can you make it better, noona?” he looked up at you innocently while sticking out his tongue and licking at your hip bone.

“Fuck!” you tilted your head back unconsciously pushing your hips closer to him, which he took as a sign for him to start pulling your sweatpants lower, his mouth kissing and licking every bit of skin he found on his way. “J-jisung, hold on!”

 You placed your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away slightly, he whined.

 “Why?” he asked, his hands still pulling at the hem of your pants.

“Jisung, I think y-you’re… presenting,” you told him.

He furrowed his brows and looked at you confused, but then his mouth parted slightly as the cogs started turning in his head.

“Oh,” he finally said, dropping his arms to his sides and letting go of you. “Does that make you uncomfortable? Am I scaring you?”

“No!” you softly took his face in your hands and made him look up at you. “That’s not it, Jisung. I just want you to be sure-”

“I’m sure,” he said quickly.

“-And I don’t want you to regret it-”

“I won’t,” he assured you, grabbing one of your hands and bringing it to his mouth so he could give it little kisses. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this for, noona.”

“Jisung… are you- uh… am I your m-mate?” you finally gathered the courage to ask.

“Yes,” he hummed contently, kissing your fingertips. “Mine. Not Jaehyun hyung’s.”

“How can you be s-sure?” you barely managed to ask while looking at his lips wrap around your thumb and suck gently.

“Always knew. Since the first time I saw you,” he said simply, letting go of your fingers with one last kiss. “But you always treated me like a kid, so I waited… hoping you would see me differently once I presented.”

Suddenly, his hands were back on your pants and without a warning he pulled them down, making you lose your balance, which he took as an opportunity to grab your arms and pull you on his lap, one of his hands behind you taking the sweatpants off your legs, leaving you on your shirt and underwear only

“And judging by how wet you are for me, it was worth the wait,” he smirked, caressing your arms and guiding them to his shoulders.

 You were incredibly embarrassed but didn’t bother to lie. You knew he could smell your arousal and it was stupid to lie to him. “Sorry, I couldn't help it.”

“Don’t be,” he said, kissing your cheek softly. “It smells really fucking good, but it’s making me really hard…”

 You looked down and gasped when you saw that he was indeed incredibly hard for someone who had literally just ejaculated on your pillow.

“Please help me, noona,” he begged, grabbing one of your hands and placing it over his hardness. “It hurts so bad.”

 You couldn’t stop yourself from tracing his cock delicately with your fingertips, feeling his body tense up under you. 

“I’ll help,” you finally said, wrapping your hand around him, making him moan and release a mantra of ‘thank yous’. “But… you can’t mark me.”

He looked up at you like you were crazy. Marking you was what he wanted the most. You were denying him the ultimate pleasure of owning you for the rest of your lives. Frustrated he shook his head and opened his mouth to complain, but then you let go of his member completely, earning a pained gasp from him.

“Jisung, you can’t mark me during your first rut,” you tried to reason with him as he whined incoherently and tried to put your hand back on him. “It 's too soon. If you still want me in the future, then we can think about it, okay?”

 He looked up at you with such sad eyes that you almost gave in, but you knew it was better to take things slow. Finally he dropped his head and mumbled a defeated 'okay.'

 “Good boy,” you whispered sweetly, making him shudder at the pet name. This time you grabbed him firmly and started pumping him rhythmically without hesitation. He let out the loudest gasp yet and arched his back, hips thrusting against your hand like crazy.

“N-noona!” he dug his fingers into your waist in a desperate attempt to ground himself. “yes, please, yes-yes!”

 You were so focused on his fucked out expression that you failed to notice one of his hands making its way into your panties. He quickly found your clit and massaged it, groaning at how wet you were.

“J-jisung!” you panted, trying to wiggle away. “T- this is supposed to be to help you!” you argued but the rest of your complaints were forgotten when one of his long fingers entered you slowly. “Ah!”

“You are helping m-me, noona,” he gasped against your lips, thrusting his finger in and out of you slowly while his thumb circled your clit. “You’re doing s-so …so good f-for me.” 

 He took you by surprise when he finally connected your lips, swallowing your moans and sliding his tongue into your mouth messily. He made use of this distraction to insert a second finger inside of you and make you sob into the kiss. Your thumb reached the tip of his cock and circled it, imitating the way he was massaging your clit, and successfully making him break the kiss to gasp.

“That’s it, noona,” he gave your lips a couple of messy licks before pressing his forehead against you. “J-just like that-don’t stop…don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop-” 

 He moaned and tilted his head back, his fingers mercilessly abusing you while spurts of his cum covered your hand, making you reach your climax while he rode out his. You dropped your head on his shoulder, body limp, trying to catch up your breath but he wouldn’t stop his assault on your clit.

“Ji-,” you squirmed, but he held you in place. “Jisung, I’m s-sensitive.”

“But it hurts,” he pleaded, still breathing heavily. You lifted your head to look at him. His dick was still as hard and red as when you first entered the room.

“Fuck…” you mumbled. “How…?”

“More?” he asked you as innocently as he could, considering his fingers were still inside of you. 

“Uh okay, I-... can you lay down?” you asked him, and he nodded eagerly, letting you stand up so he could lay down on the cum stained bed.

 “W-what are you gonna-Fuck! Oh fuck, noona-” he moaned as soon as he felt your warm lips on his aching cock. “P-please noona, I- oh… you’re crazy if you t-think I won’t m-mark you after thi-ah!”

 You let go of his member with a soft pop and licked the tip softly. “We said no marking, Ji,” you teased him between licks.

“I-I know but-...But noona,oooohh!” he arched his back and grabbed the bedsheets in a pathetic attempt to control himself, tears staining his pretty face. “more, m-more-!”

 You gave him more, wrapping your lips around him and sucking, making loud slurping sounds and had him tossing and turning under you, calling your name and sobbing.

“Keep g-going, noona c’mon k-keep-,” his thighs started shaking and his abdomen contracted as a clear sign that he was very close. “Keep sucking, y/n, k-keep sucking my cock, just l-like that noon-ah! keep g-going, keep fucking g-going-,” his desperate mantra between gasps got interrupted by you finally deepthroating him. “Fuuuuckk!”

 You hummed around his cock and started lifting your head when you felt both his hands on the back of your head, pushing you down and forcing his dick into your throat. You choked and grabbed his hands, trying to push him away, but he had no intention of letting go, keeping your nose pressed against his navel and your throat contracting against his member in an attempt to breathe. 

 “Stay,” he growled, using a voice that was unknown to you, deeper and huskier than you’d ever heard him. “Take my cock, just like you’re meant to,” he then gave your head short fast pushes, still pressed against his hips, that made you choke harder and sob, the vibrations making him feel in heaven.

 With a final guttural growl, he came in your throat, forcing you to swallow his load before he finally let go of your head, cooing at your coughs.

 Once you managed to stop coughing, you looked at him in shock, expecting an apology for losing control like that, but when your eyes met his, you saw no guilt or regret. His eyes full of lust were shining a bright red and a cocky smirk had replaced his shy typical expression.

 His wolf had taken over.

“You look so good like this, Y/N,” he said casually, leaving all formalities behind and calling you by your name. 

“J-jisung? How d-do you feel?” you asked a bit afraid. You had never seen him like this before.

“Fucking fantastic,” he purred. “Will feel even better after I knot you.”

“K-knot?!”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? So Jaehyun can breed you full of cum but your real mate can’t?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“No I-...I’ve never t-taken a knot before,” you admitted, suddenly feeling shy, looking down. “I n-never let him…”

“He didn’t knot you?” he repeated.

You shook your head no and he immediately took your face in his hands and pulled you closer to him, kissing you passionately. 

“Good girl, y/n. You did well,” he praised you, helping you take your shirt off, and kissing your breasts affectionately. Your back arched into his touch and let him make you feel good. You suddenly felt so small and vulnerable, like you were meant to submit to him.

“Your tiny cunt will only take my knot from now on,” he mumbled against your left breast, circling your nipple with his tongue. “Take my cock only for the rest of your life.”

 You moaned and pulled at his hair, your hips rubbing against his softly.

“I’ll mark you so good everyone will know who you belong to…”

That knocked some sense into you.

“J-jisung! We s-said not yet-”

“Sit on my face,” he commanded. 

“Huh?!”

“It seems I haven’t made you feel good enough if you still have half a brain to talk back to your alpha,” he grunted, easily manhandling you so your legs were on each side of his head, your pussy hovering dangerously over his face.

“A-alpha?” the term sounded so foreign to you. It was only used among wolves, so you never thought you would have to address anyone like that. 

“That’s right,” he purred, kissing your inner thighs. “Alpha will fuck you dumb, okay?” was the last thing he said before pulling your panties to the side and diving in. 

 You let out a silent scream and grabbed onto the bed headboard for support. His tongue felt hotter than what should be normal and the way he moaned and groaned against you like he was tasting the most delicious of meals sent constant waves of pleasure through your body. You felt yourself cumming faster than ever in your life so you tried to put some distance between yourselves, to avoid coming that fast and embarrassing yourself, but he wouldn’t have any of that. His arms circled your thighs and pulled you down, all your weight on his face making you tremble with pleasure. He chuckled and sucked your sensitive clit into his mouth, using his tongue to toy with it roughly. 

“Oh,” you sobbed, panting heavily, “I’m g-gonna cum, Ji- ah! gonna c-cum, Jisung-!” 

Your body shook against his hold as he hummed with your clit still inside his mouth, making you cum while screaming so hard, you knew you wouldn’t be able to speak properly for a couple of days.

“Are you okay?” panted Jisung against your core.

“I-I’m…okay,” you replied with difficulty.

 Jisung tsked like he was annoyed at the fact that you could still form coherent sentences. “One more then.”

 His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his strong hands grabbed your hips, pulling you against him again and moving you back and forth against his soft hot tongue.

“J-jisung w-wait,” you barely gasped. “I can’t c-cum again…”

 He raised his brows defiantly and moved you faster against your will, ready to prove you how wrong you were.

“Jisung please-!” you pleaded, but you were starting to feel another build up. How could everything feel so good with him?

Soon you felt your hips move on its own, which gave Jisung the opportunity to touch your body, from your thighs, to your ass and finally massaging your breasts as you rode his tongue thoughtlessly. 

“Oh, oh! s-so good, Jisungie-,” you spoke shakily. “Your tongue f-feels so good, a-alpha…”

Jisung moaned and you could see the corners of his lips lift in what would have been a satisfied smirk if it wasn’t because he had you riding his tongue. He knew he had you where he wanted, and he guided your hands to his head, encouraging you to pull his hair as you used him. 

“Y-yes,” you moaned, eyes rolling back and your hips bouncing empty-headed against his face. “Yes,yes-yeesss fuck alpha!”

 You came so hard you heard a ring in your ears, your body losing all strength and falling back. Jisung caught you right in time and laid you on the bed carefully.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked, voice raspy and face glistening with your juices.

 You barely acknowledged that he was talking to you, your eyes unfocused, and body shaking like a leaf with only one thought in your head:

“Ji…alpha,” you let out almost inaudibly. 

“Perfect,” Jisung groaned, taking off your ruined panties and positioning himself between your legs, entering you in one go.

You cried out loud and arched your back, tossing your arms around, looking for something to hold onto. Jisung wasn’t doing so well himself, his eyes were wide in shock at how good he felt, and they were switching into golden color again.

“F-fuck, noona,” he sobbed, kissing you pasionately, and giving an experimental thrust that made both of you moan. “Noona, my beautiful noona- h-how can you be so tight and w-warm?” 

 You weakly lifted your head and saw Jisung looking back at you.  Eyes full of adoration gleaming a golden color instead of the dark red you had seen before. Soft and lovely Jisung was back, but for how long?

“S-sorry, noona,” he said as he started fucking you with intent. “Don’t ask me to stop- I c-can’t stop.”

 He buried his face into your neck and whispered the sweetest praises, only interrupted by moans that were becoming louder. 

“If I don’t m-mark you I’ll d-die, noona ah!,p-please-,” he begged, sucking your neck like you had the mental capacity to deny him anything in this state. 

You then heard a chuckle. The wolf was back.

“And you’ll let me, right?” said that dark and velvety voice. “You’ll let alpha mark y-you and fuck you full of cum,yeah?” he sat up and his red eyes devoured you as he grabbed your hips and fucked into you roughly. 

 You were too fucked up to even moan out loud, your mouth hung open and your eyes rolled back as no sound came out of your spent troath. 

“Such a perfect little doll,” he hissed as his hips snapped against you, the bed headboard slamming against the wall loudly. “Won’t ever let you go, Y/N.”

 The base of his cock finally started growing in size making him moan shakily and fucking you faster.

“Yes! yes,yes, finally- finally Y/N!”