Noon 20+

Today is Tuesday, which makes it three days since you’d both attended a party in the dorms up the hill. Three days since you’d burst out of the party and into the quiet night, the music fading to nothing behind you. Although the day had been mild, that late at night your breath had been visible, white puffs that thinned and dissipated as your laughter settled down during the walk back to your building.

Your dorm building was at the bottom of campus, down a lengthy concrete staircase that you’d unlovingly named The Death Stairs. You’d been heading down the steps, a bit uncoordinated from the dark night, the late hour, and, yes, a few drinks. You’d miss a step. You’d stumbled - and Vernon had grabbed you by the waist, his reflexes quick as always.

Now, on Tuesday, warmth pools in your belly as you remember his hands firm on your waist, each finger burning a resting place to return to later. You’d both frozen, his hands tight on you, the night still and silent around you. 

“You good?” he’d murmured, voice low and quiet. But he didn’t take his hands away, not even when you turned in his hold to face him.

You’d stood there, a third of the way down The Death Stairs, his hands still settled just below your ribcage. Your heart beat wildly, but you barely noticed. Everything felt still as you looked at him, his brown eyes nearly black in the darkness. You barely dared to breathe as he held you steady, wondering if this was it - the moment you’d lose the balance of being friends, tip and fall for good.

You were ready. He was the mystery.

“I’m good,” you’d breathed, and it had been the wrong answer, because he’d taken his hands off your waist and guided you by the elbow to the next stair instead. 

“Let’s get you home, then,” he’d said, as if the moment had never happened - as if you hadn’t just stood together close enough to kiss, tension pulling between you so pervasively you almost felt it physically move you close to him. 

Vernon, your best friend. Vernon, unknowable. 

Balance. 

Now, Tuesday, he’s starting to walk with you away from the university’s cafeteria after telling you he’d be busy tonight. This is where, normally, you’d part ways for the night, him to his dorm across the quad, and yours at the bottom of the stairs from hell. 

Unless you decide fuck the balance and just do what you want instead.

“Vernon,” you call, and he pauses, turning back to you slowly, a question on his face. When you don’t speak, he ambles back to you, even and unbothered. His eyes trace your face as if he might find the answer to his unvoiced question there. 

He won’t.

“What are your plans later?” you ask, trying to be bold, trying to be unafraid. 

Emotions wander across his face with leisure, landing on a tiny, knowing smile. “Studying with my math group,” he says, that smile so small but telling you so much. “Why? You want in?”

He’s teasing. You hear it clear as day - were you jealous? He tosses one of his airpods from hand to hand mindlessly as he waits for you to answer.

“Yuck,” you say, but inside you’re bouncing a little. You’d thought busy meant, perhaps, a girl, a date, something where you didn’t belong. You’re pleased and relieved that you were wrong. “I do not want in. I’m more allergic to numbers than you are to peanuts.” 

“Ha.” Then, he gives you a softer look. “I’ll text you when we’re done.”

Maybe he’s not unknowable. Maybe you know him pretty well, actually. 

“Maybe I’ll be busy,” you tease. 

His smile is killer, slow and clever, climbing up the side. “Tell your study buddies you’re taken,” he instructs, and then he disappears into the glare of the sunset, golden and blinding. 

You wait until you’re back in your dorm to scream about it.

It’s starting - it’s starting, it’s starting. The maybe of it thrills you, the possibility is intoxicating. You try to study, too - alone, no study buddies - but your eyes keep finding your phone screen, waiting to see his name light it up the way his presence lights you up from inside.

You try not to be disappointed when it doesn’t come, even when it grows so late that you have no choice but to sleep.

In the morning, you see that he texted you so late it almost blurs into early - “sweet dreams”.

You stare at this text the whole time you brush your teeth the next morning, eyes narrowed. What did it mean that he didn’t text you until after three in the morning on a weeknight? Conversely, what did it mean that he thought to tell you sweet dreams at three in the morning? Was this a setback or was it progress? 

You rinse your mouth and chuckle darkly to yourself. Perhaps it’s both. Just more push-and-pull. Balance.

When your morning class ends and Vernon isn’t waiting for you outside, you text him - “lunch?”

No answer has come by the time you reach the student center, so you resign yourself to eating lunch alone. He was still up at three a.m., you rationalize to yourself. He’s probably still sleeping. You eat at a small table near the door, text him, “you alive?” 

When no answer comes, you trudge off to your afternoon class sporting a frown and a sour mood.

Two hours of research writing pass at a snail’s pace. Then dinner - alone, again. You go to bed feeling grumpy about his silence; you wake up worried about it. 

You two don’t normally call - texting is more than enough - but you break the rule on your way to Thursday’s first class. The phone rings tinny against your ear as leaves crunch under your feet. The day is flat and grey - clouds hanging heavy, a cool breeze sending leaves skittering down walkways. 

His voicemail picks up, his voice saying “Vernon Chwe” as emotionlessly as possible. You don’t leave a message, but you text him again - “the silence is kind of freaking me out!”

You skip lunch after class. Instead of heading upstairs to the cafeteria, you head into the basement - where the mailroom is. Vernon’s part-time job. Where he should be every Thursday at 11am.

Something inside you knows he won’t be there, even before you confirm it by showing up.

The mailroom has a half-door, the bottom shut and the top open, creating a tiny little countertop for students to sign out packages or whatever else they need to do here. Through the open top half, you can see that Vernon isn’t in his usual place.

There’s another guy there, instead. You squint at him for a minute, trying to place him; he’s friends with Vernon, you’ve met him at parties before. It takes you a moment to remember his name. Which friend of Vernon is this - pink underwear friend, or puked down the staircase friend? 

Oh, yeah. The latter.

“Chan.”

The guy turns to you, letters in one hand and a package in the other. 

“Yeah?” he asks, clearly baffled by this stranger who knows his name.

“No Vernon today?” you ask, leaning on the little counter made by the open half-door.

Chan shrugs, eyes already back on the letters in his hand. “He didn’t show. I covered for him, said he was sick. If you find him, tell him he owes me.”

“If you find him,” you reply, straightening up and tapping the counter in goodbye, “tell him I’ve spent the last two days thinking he was dead in a ditch, and he owes me ice cream.”

Chan salutes you in reply, and you head to the next possible Vernon location: his dorm.

You have to wait for someone to come out so you can slip through the door, but that’s normal. The inside hallway is deserted and silent - that’s not normal. Normally doors are ajar, music spilling into the hall. Normally, other students are coming and going, conversation drifting around them. Ill at ease in the echoing silence, you climb the creaky stairs to Vernon’s third-floor room, the handrail slightly sticky beneath your palm. 

Your stomach twists with anxiety when you knock; something inside you expects no one to answer. Something inside you expects the door to swing open on its own, slowly exposing an empty set of rooms. 

You’re relieved when the doorknob turns, and Seungkwan blinks at you. 

“Vernon’s not here,” he informs you, already knowing why you’re there. 

“Have you, like, seen him?” you ask, peering around his shoulders like maybe Vernon is there after all, and he just didn’t notice. “I haven’t heard from him since Tuesday.”

Seungkwan seems to ponder this. “Yeah, he’s been in and out since then,” he decides. You’re not sure you believe him. 

With a defeated sigh, you try your last resort, the only other place on campus you might find your friend: the bowels of the library.

You weave through the large first room, dodging tables surrounded by backpacks and heaped with notebooks and laptops. You take the stairs down to the lesser-traveled lower level, pausing at each aisle of the stacks and peering around for your wayward friend.

It’s cooler down here, and the lights are dimmer. You pull your thick cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you travel deeper into the library’s dank basement. Disappointment and worry simmer beneath your skin as you check the second-to-last aisle. No Vernon - no anybody. One more aisle to go. 

Come on, Vernon, you think. Be where you’re supposed to be. 

But the last aisle is empty, the air around you stuffy and unmoving. The ancient fluorescent light flickers, dims visibly, and then rights itself with a hum.

You rub your forehead, anxiety rising behind your ribs, and turn to head back upstairs. 

A body blocks your path, so close that it startles a gasp out of you. No one else had been down here. You hadn’t heard anything behind you - no footsteps, no breath, no clothing rustling.

Vernon says your name, tinged with surprise. 

You slap his chest feebly, your whole body suddenly jelly-like with relief. “Where have you been?” you demand.

He smiles ruefully. “I went a little AWOL, huh?”

“I haven’t heard back from you since Tuesday!” you hiss. “I thought you were dead! I thought - after we - I don’t know, Vernon, you scared me!”

His brows furrow and his hands come up to your arms, soothing. “Hey,” he says softly, regret laced up in his voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to worry. I’ve just been… swamped. I’m… honestly, I’m having trouble juggling everything I have going on right now.”

Including you. He doesn’t say it, but you hear it anyway. 

“I don’t need, like, hours of your time or anything,” you say, looking down. You can’t meet his eyes while referencing an “us” you’re not sure he’s really invested in. “I just need to know you’re okay.”

Vernon’s gaze drops; he looks almost ashamed. “If anything is worth hours of my time, it’s you,” he says quietly, and though he says it earnestly, with conviction, you can see the tips of his ears redden with the admission. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

That teetering, again; your friendship losing its center of gravity and wobbling towards something else. 

You meet his eyes. They’re warm, beautiful, gorgeous golden-brown. “Are you really okay?” you ask, tentative. Because something in his shoulders, his voice, his eyes, seems to indicate that maybe he’s not. Something is off.

“I just have so much to balance right now,” he says, his voice very quiet. “I’m going to stay and work on this project for a few more hours. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod. He pulls you in and presses his lips to the top of your head in goodbye - somehow, this does not seem to qualify as a Kiss. 

How can he have no idea what he does to you? You’re crazy about him, wild about him - throw it all away for him, make a fool of yourself kind of crazy. The spot where his lips touched your head buzzes and buzzes.

It doesn’t occur to you until you’re back in the safety of your dorm that he didn’t actually answer the question. Your are you okay was left wide open.

–

Friday bursts with color. The morning sun shines like it has an agenda, bleeding through tree branches and your dormroom’s blinds. Outside, the leaves adorn the trees in fire - reds, oranges, yellows, browns. The air bites at your exposed places - your face, your neck, your fingertips - as you hurry to class. 

You don’t hear from Vernon all day - again - but you try not to let it consume your day, like it had yesterday. Something stubborn in you refuses to chase him down two days in a row. If he’s busy, like he said yesterday, then he’ll show up again when he can. 

Still, you muse, instead of listening to your lecture, it sucks that he’s suddenly drowning in responsibilities immediately after saying something as forward as tell them you’re taken, as complicated as if anything is worth hours of my time, it’s you. What did that mean? 

You go back to your dorm after class, wanting to stash your heavy bag and put on comfier shoes before heading to the student center for dinner. Your roommate, a loud red-head from one of the land-locked American states (you cannot ever remember which one), is practically waiting for you, shoving her phone in your face as soon as you’re through the door.

It should annoy you, but Sylvie is one of the only people on campus that you consider a friend besides Vernon. 

“Check out this post,” she says, and as your eyes take in the screen you can see she’s showing you a video on social media. 

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and down your arm to rest on the floor, your eyes on her screen. The video is dark and heavy with jewel tones. Either Sylvie’s sound is off or the video is silent. It seems to be filmed nighttime scenes from a circus or festival - entertainers in deep purple and black harlequin diamonds drift in and out of view, a golden lion shakes his mane. A ferris wheel lit in white and red drifts lazily past a waning moon. A tightrope walker in royal blue sequins teeters precariously, a clown smiles through narrowed eyes, too close to the camera. The last shot seems to be the circus tent from afar, the night dark around it, the warm light from the open tent-flap glowing and inviting. Then, a graphic: a series of dates, a location, and the words “dusk to dawn”.

“Is that near here?” you ask. “It’s only open at night? That’s bizarre.”

You look at the account’s handle - it’s midnight_menagerie. 

“Click it,” Sylvie says from over your shoulder, where she’s been watching along with you. You tap the account name, but nothing comes up. The video disappears, taking you to Sylvie’s home screen instead. 

Your brows furrow. 

“The account doesn’t exist,” Sylvie informs you, a tint of excited hush in her voice. 

“You mean, it’s private?” you ask, moving further into the room now that you’ve looked at what she wanted you to. 

“Nope,” she says, following you as you scoot your bag closer to your desk and toe your shoes off. “If it was private, you would get their page but the posts would be hidden. I’ve been talking to everybody about it today - it’s the same for all of us. The video comes up on our feed, but the account goes nowhere. Can’t search for it either. Isn’t that weird?”

She asks this in a way that implies that “weird” means wonderful, exciting, interesting. 

“It’s something,” you reply, though you think it’s probably very clever marketing. Halloween looms - advertising a circus or carnival right now would certainly benefit from leaning into the spooky factor. It’s a smart tactic, actually. 

“It’s tonight,” she says, her fox-like smile growing. 

You consider this, knowing what she’s asking. “I don’t know, Syl.”

“Rana’s whole suite is going, we could ride with them. It’s in the parking lot of that old, closed-up mall? The one by that good Mexican place?”

You laugh. “I had a birthday party in there when I was a kid. The mall, not the restaurant.”

“Pleaaaase go with me?”

You make a noncommittal noise, like you’re considering it. But you already know you’ll go - what else are you going to do tonight, with Vernon not answering again? Sit around and moon over him? Absolutely not.

“Probably,” you tell her finally, and she lets out a tiny squeal. “But I really need to eat first.”

“Dinner,” she agrees. “Then, creepy mysterious circus!”

–

The night is overcast, affording views of neither stars nor moon. You shiver slightly as you stand in line to purchase tickets, Sylvie resting her chin on your shoulder and trying to huddle for warmth.

“I told you to wear a jacket,” you grumble at her, but you’re all bark and no bite. The breeze is just cool enough to be unpleasant, even with the jacket you wore, and the branches and leaves rustle in the distance, barely louder than the distant circus music that must be emanating from inside the tent. 

“Can’t believe we have to buy paper tickets,” Rana complains. She lives down the hall from you and Sylvie, and you share a math class. Aside from those factors, you don’t have much in common.

“I think it’s part of their whole schtick,” you muse. “Virtual tickets are too… modern. Normal. They’re trying to make it feel old-timey, I think.”

“It’s not a schtick,” Sylvie complains. “You suck the fun out of everything.”

“Mean,” you say, though your feelings aren’t hurt in the slightest. Sylvie lives with her head in the clouds; you’re much more grounded. It’s another balance in your life.

When you reach the ticket booth, the woman who stares back at you looks like she’s styled head-to-toe like an old-Hollywood version of someone else’s culture.

“Come on,” you complain under your breath. “What’s next, she’ll pull out a crystal ball?” 

“Cash only,” Rana scoffs, just as quietly. “Haven’t these people heard of Venmo?”

You send her an amused smile as the woman behind the glass slides four paper tickets through the slot. They’re the tiny blue raffle tickets of your youth, attached to each other by perforated edges. Sylvie rips them and hands you each a slip.

“Show starts at midnight,” the woman tells you, her voice lilting with an accent that you find hard to place. “We recommend being seated at least ten minutes before.”

You glance at your phone. Your service has gone out - you only have SOS mode. But the time informs you that you have about fifteen minutes to find seats. 

“Come on,” you say, mostly to Sylvie, but everyone files in behind you as you start to push through the crowd.

“Does anyone else have cell service?” Rana’s roommate asks from behind you. 

“Only SOS,” you reply, and the others agree. 

“Must be a dead zone,” Rana muses.

“Or maybe it’s from the magic,” Sylvie says. She’s teasing, but you know her well enough that you’d bet a tiny part of her is hoping she’s right. 

The crowd is heavy, and you struggle to stick together with the other girls as you pass all the typical carnival booths - games that are rigged to be impossible to win, a tent to the left with a sign that reads only “Curiosities”, a tent to the right reading “Menagerie. Caution: DANGEROUS ANIMALS”. 

Now that you’re inside, the noise is overwhelming - people calling conversations, booth-runners hawking for customers, ragtime piano tinkling from speakers high above you. Lights blinks and flash around you and people scream from the rides just around the corner - a funhouse, the ferris wheel, a teacup spinner, and a flying viking ship all have long lines, and you’d bet there are more further in. 

Your stomach growls as you wade through the viscous scent of fried dough and chocolate sauce.

“We’ll spend some time out here after the show, right?” you ask Sylvie, and she nods excitedly.

“I wanna do the ferris wheel,” she says. 

You eye it suspiciously as you pass, still leading your little band towards the circus tent looming further in. “Do you think it’s safe?”

“I’m not sure any of this is,” Rana admits with a little laugh. 

Inside, a man dressed as a jester points to which steps you should take into the audience. You lead the way up the rickety bleachers, sliding in as the other girls fill in the space next to you. 

“I should’ve gotten popcorn,” murmurs Sylvie, to your left, but the lights are already starting to dim and the chatter of the crowd begins to hush. 

The ringmaster takes the center of the floor, illuminated by a moving spotlight that chases him from place to place. His voice booms through the crowd, which fills the stands all the way around the edges of the gigantic tent. Every seat seems filled as you glance around. 

When he’s done greeting the crowd - welcoming you to the Midnight Menagerie, his voice echoing strangely, like the sound system has a lag - the lights go out completely, plunging the crowd into sudden black. Beside you, Sylvie sucks in a sharp breath, her hand finding your knee in panic. 

When a spotlight comes back on, illuminating a man in a red, sequined top, you exchange a look with her, laughing at yourselves a little. Still, it takes some time for your heart to calm, for your systems to agree that you are not currently in danger. 

You watch in nervous anticipation through several acts - a lion tamer, a tightrope walker, a magician whose partner vanishes through what appears to be a completely normal hula-hoop and reappears on the back of an elephant. 

Between each act, the lights go off like they did at first. As your eyes adjust, each time, you feel certain you see movement along the sides of the ring and in the crowd, vaguely glowy - but once your eyes adjust fully everything is as it should be - performers in the ring’s center, audience seated and enthralled. 

At one point, you’re certain you see a skeletal face in the audience, straight across from you. But, of course, when the lights come up, there’s nothing amiss. You roll your eyes at yourself and try to focus on the show. 

Below you, in the ring, a trio of jugglers wander the perimeter. There’s clearly a main juggler - the crowd gasps in delight and fear as he switches out colored balls for more interesting and dangerous items, including what you think is a chainsaw. 

But your attention isn’t on him.

You lean forward in your seat, squinting across the ring. One of the other jugglers has caught your eye - you know that slender build, the sharp jaw, the slice of unsmiling mouth. 

Your hand shoots sideways, to Sylvie. 

“Is that Vernon?” you ask, though you’re sure it is. 

“What?” she asks, leaning sideways to hear you better.

You lift a hand to point. “Is that Vernon?” you repeat, more emphatically, and she looks that way, but the juggler has turned his back to your section of the crowd, entertaining the stands on the far side of the ring. So far away and through the dim lighting, it’s impossible to tell. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, a bit of a laugh in her voice. “You’ve got Chwe on the brain? I knew you had a thing for him.”

You don’t let your eyes leave the juggler, but for the rest of his portion of the show, he doesn’t show his face. When he exits the tent, a line of coffee-black horses trotting in to replace the jugglers, you sink back, disappointed. 

Doubt plays with your memory, but you’d been sure it was him. It eats at you. You’re not even sure what the horses do, you’re so distracted. 

When the lights come back up, Rana leads you all back out of the tent. The night’s grown even colder, but the other girls are noisy and excited, unbothered as they discuss if they want to do rides or games first. 

“I have to pee,” Sylvie announces. “I bet the line is insane.”

“We’re starving,” Rana says. “Why don’t we just all meet at the ferris wheel in like twenty minutes?”

“That’s fine,” you agree. You don’t say what your plan is - to zigzag through the crowd and look for a certain familiar razor-sharp smirk.

You scan the crowd obsessively as you walk - there are jesters, clowns, acrobats, jugglers weaving through the civilizations, performing for tips. 

If that was Vernon you spotted - and you’re sure it was - then he’s here somewhere. And you have questions. Is this why he’s been so hard to reach, even missing work? Why didn’t he just tell you he got a new job? When did he learn to juggle? Why the secrecy? 

It takes you only minutes to spot him, stepping behind a funhouse. Your heart gallops as you register that it was him, adrenaline flooding your system.

“Vernon!” you call. A few guests turn, but you ignore them, hurrying to follow your friend around the side of the ride, behind the noisy generator it’s hooked up to. “Hey! Vernon Chwe!”

He has to hear you. He has to hear you - there’s no logical way he doesn’t. You’re too close to him, your voice loud and clear. But he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even slow his step. You watch his shoulders dip between two staff tents, and then you’re jostled sideways by some rowdy frat guys, and you lose him again. 

You make for the tents where Vernon vanished, but find yourself back on the main strip of booths, next to a darts game. You pause, frowning. You hadn’t turned back to this area - had in fact been moving away from it. 

Flummoxed and annoyed, you head back towards the funhouse. If you go around its side, you should be back where you spotted those staff tents. 

But when you turn the funhouse’s corner, right behind the generator like before, the tents aren’t there - instead there seems to be a small beer garden, roped off, the tables all slammed with bodies.

You stand there, staring at it. Are there two funhouses? Did you get turned completely around? Something crawls under your skin, up your spine - some kind of intuition starting to pay attention. 

You head back around for the main line of booths, hoping to catch sight of the top of the tent. From there, you can orient yourself again, follow the path from the tent that your friends had just taken minutes ago. But you can’t spot the top of the tent, in any direction. It’s like it’s not even there. 

Giving up on finding the staff tents, you go back to your original plan - aimless wandering, watching for Vernon. As you navigate the thick crowd, squeezing past elbows and pressing through small gaps, you can’t help but notice how tense you feel. Your heart races, your palms sweat. 

The DANGEROUS ANIMALS tent catches your eye, and you step sideways out of the flow of foot-traffic to take a breath, to take stock of what’s happening. You pull out your phone and check it, but you still have no service. 

That ragtime piano music tinkles from hidden speakers above you, mixing with the noise of conversation. Your ears prick. The music’s in a minor key - it wasn’t before, it shouldn’t be. 

And then the strangest thing happens - as soon as you’ve noted it, it continues on merrily, the minor key abandoned.

Get a grip, you tell yourself firmly. It’s supposed to be spooky here. It’s part of the brand. 

But that intuition is crackling, telling you that maybe you should find Sylvie and head for the doors. 

Decision made, your feet lead you towards the ferris wheel looming in the distance, its lights blinking white and purple. 

You bump into someone, your eyes on the ferris wheel instead of the crowd, and you’re quick to apologize. The man looks at you over his shoulder as he squeezes through the crowd, his face gaunt and skeletal, eyes hollow, black holes.

It’s a costume, you remind yourself, even as your heart gallops. It has to be. But you’re vaguely queasy as you continue on towards your destination. 

Your ears ring loud, as suddenly as being dunked under water, drowning out the crowd and the music. For a second, you’re sure you hear a single, horrified scream through the ringing. But when the ringing begins to fade, your hearing returning to normal, no one in the crowd around you seems fazed. You press on, unnerved even further, legs a little shaky. 

You’re coming up to the end of the ferris wheel’s line when Sylvie appears at your elbow.

“I got you a beer because I love you,” she says in greeting, pressing a sweating plastic cup into your hand. 

“Thank you,” you say, but your eyes are behind her. Your heart leaps as you spot Vernon again, on the far side of the square, colored balls leaving his hands and arching over his head as he walks. 

“Can we go this way?” you ask Sylvie quickly.

Her eyes go wide and she glances at the long line of people behind you. “I thought we were going to ride the ferris wheel?”

“I want to leave,” you tell her honestly. “I’ve felt weird since we left the show. My ears keep ringing and…” 

You trail off. You don’t want to say and I keep getting lost. You don’t want to say I thought I saw a skeletal man. You don’t want to say the music is playing jokes on me, or I think I heard someone scream.

And you really don’t want to say I’m trying to find Vernon.

Rana and her friend appear behind Sylvie.

“Ferris wheel?” Rana asks. 

Sylvie looks at you pleadingly.

“I just want to see something over here,” you say. “Why don’t you guys get in line and I’ll come meet you in a second?”

Sylvie twists her lips; she’s not happy about it, but she doesn’t argue as Rana starts to head to the end of the ferris wheel line. You start to inch in the opposite direction. Somewhere behind you the music flows into the minor key again, chilling and wrong.

You meet Sylvie’s eyes to see if she hears it, but it’s already righted itself again.

Your ears ring again, and as you pass the darts game you’d seen before you notice with some alarm that it is now next to a dunking booth - not the basketball game, like before. Like they switched places.

Or like there’s more than one, you tell yourself firmly. 

You wander clear to the entrance without any luck, where you have no choice but to double back. Your stomach squirms itself into and out of knots; the desire to just leave from here wars with the desire to demand answers from Vernon, here where he’d have to admit that something weird is going on. The decision to stay wins out only because your friends are still inside.

The booths have moved again. Your throat tightens and your stomach lurches as you realize it. There’s no logical argument this time, no maybe there are two - you just walked down this path only moments ago, and now it’s different.

I want to leave. 

The message is strong and clear, enough so that you actually stop walking. Maybe you can meet your friends outside, at the door. You hover, unbalanced, feet unsure which way you’ll walk next.

You’ve just decided to leave, to wait at the entry for Sylvie and the others, when someone steps into your path. You see the overhead arch of blue - then red, then yellow - before you register that Vernon stands before you. He juggles flawlessly, his eyes never following his tools - all blind faith that they’ll follow directions.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” you blurt out, recognizing the words as the same you’d said to him in the library. “Vernon, what the fuck is going on? Do you work here now? Why is it so weird here?”

He tilts his head, considering you. His hands work mindlessly, tossing and catching simultaneously, even as he puzzles you out. 

“Perhaps the hardest thing a juggler must learn to do,” he says calmly, instead of answering you, “is see things without looking at them.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck, Vernon!”

His eyes look at you, but they don’t seem to see you. “Those are the words of Paul Cinquevalli, in his article How to Succeed as a Juggler.”

“I don’t care what Paul Cincanelli has to say about juggling!” you tell him hotly, but your anger is covering fear. Something in his dead eyes is screaming at you - this is not your Vernon. “I need you to explain to me what’s going on!”

“Juggling is more than muscle memory - it’s balance. Balance of your body against the sphere of gravity around you, balance of your muscle memory against the wandering of your mind. Balance is something you maintain, not something you achieve. It needs constant -”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him fiercely. You watch his eyes carefully. They’re flat, the brown not even his brown - and you know his brown by heart. 

You look at each other in silence. Vernon’s flat gaze feels somehow pensive, like he’s confused by your presence.

You’ve been arguing with yourself all night, finding logical excuses for every strange happening, but the sense that you are losing Vernon - your best friend, your person - drives you to admit what you didn’t want to: something supernatural is happening here, whether you believe in it or not. 

“Vernon,” you say, quieter this time, tentative. “Do you know who I am? Do you know me?”

His brows furrow now, the first sign of an emotion on his face, and his mouth opens just slightly like he’s weighing his answer. Then, a hand closes around your upper arm and tugs you sideways.

“We stood in line and did the ferris wheel without your stupid ass!” Sylvie informs you, cranky. You look back up at Vernon - but of course, he’s gone, as if he were nothing but an apparition.

You close your eyes and inhale shakily. Do you go after him again? For how many hours can you chase him around the grounds - just to get nonsense juggling philosophy spouted at you?

Maybe you need to sleep. Maybe you need to get away from here and let your mind recover. 

“Can we go home?” you hear yourself whisper, and Sylvie softens.

“Are you okay?” she asks, peering at you. Rana and her friend stroll up behind her, phones in hand.

“Oh, good, my service works here,” Rana says, her eyes on her screen. “I guess since we’re so close to the entrance. Should I order a ride home, or are we doing another lap?”

Sylvie’s eyes find yours - she’s going to let you make the call.

“I want to go home,” you say, as steadily as you can. But even as you step outside, even as you enter your rideshare, even as you leave the circus lights behind in the night, the feeling clings to you that something has altered in your world that can’t be fixed, can’t be put right.

–

It doesn’t surprise you at all when Vernon doesn’t reappear on campus over the weekend. Your texts don’t even go through to his, anymore, instead showing up with a red exclamation point. 

On Monday, you consider doing another lap of campus - to his dorm, to his classes, to his job. It’d be a waste of time and energy. You know where he is. You just don’t know why - can he not leave? Is whatever strange force made him so blank and empty also keeping him physically there? 

Part of you thinks about asking for help - from the police, from the university, from his parents. Surely an adult could walk into the Midnight Menagerie and just drag him by an elbow back to reality, back to being himself?

You know there’s no way you’ll ever say to an authority figure that you think a creepy circus has taken over your friend. 

You ask Sylvie to let you know if she sees any more posts from the Midnight Menagerie, since searching for the account finds nothing.

“Why?” she asks, suspicious.

“Just trying to see something,” you mumble.

In the end, you find a post yourself, scrolling before going to sleep on Wednesday night - five whole nights since you saw Vernon there.

Final Show, the caption reads, with Friday’s date. 

You don’t weigh options, you don’t consider different choices. You’ll go. You’ll find him. And you’ll bring him home.

You go alone this time, and maybe that’s why it feels colder, seems darker. 

The night feels like a thing alive, pressing in around you as you navigate the crowded main strip of booths. You don’t buy a ticket for the show this time. Instead, when midnight rolls around, you circle the outside of the giant tent, looking for the performers’ exits. 

It takes two entire laps of the humongous tent before you find it, as if it had hidden from you the first time. Maybe it did. Apparently that’s a thing that can happen here.

You tuck yourself away, out of sight of the performers who come in and out of the entry, carefully waiting. When the main juggler - who is carrying something resembling a chainsaw - exits the tent, wiping sweat from his brow, you spring forward, knowing Vernon will be right behind him. You manage to catch your prey by the elbow and pull him hard, tugging him clear around the tent, out of view of the other performers.

It’s the element of surprise that allows you to succeed in this minor kidnapping, and nothing else. 

He blinks at you, his hands holding the colored balls at his sides - red and blue in one hand, green and yellow in the other. 

He stares at you in empty confusion, mouth scrunched just slightly, but he doesn’t speak.

“I’m taking you home,” you tell him shortly, suddenly very over this whole thing. 

His eyes are still the wrong color, and they blink at you slowly. “This is my home,” he says finally.

“No,” you say hotly, “your home is on campus, with me. And, somewhere in the countryside, at your parents’ house. Your parents? Remember them? They’re nice people. Your sister, too. I get it if you’ve decided that I don’t matter, but them?”

“I am home now,” he says, a tiny bit insistently, like he’s forgotten to be blank. 

“Vernon,” you plead. “Come with me.”

He shakes his head; it’s the first time he’s reacted in any physical way. “I belong here.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say, halfway hoping you’ll provoke him if you get angry enough. You belong with me, you want to say. 

Vernon - not really Vernon, somehow - doesn’t answer this, just blinks at you again. His right hand twitches, like he’s fighting to keep it still.

“Fuck it,” you mutter to youself. You meet his gaze firmly, determined and angry and confused and ready to tackle this. “Why not say it? The worst that can happen isn’t you reject me. The worst that can happen is this isn’t enough to get you out of here. So, I’ll say it. You don’t belong here. You belong with me. You’re mine, Vernon Chwe, not… not this.” It’s hard to argue against something when you don’t know who your opponent is - a magical force? A spirit? Is there a magic ringleader?

Vernon blinks again, but you swear something ripples in his face, some change to the edges of his expression, like the mask has cracked enough to let some air in, and now the seal isn’t tight. 

“I don’t want you to stay here,” you tell him firmly. “I don’t want to lose you to this… this place. This thing.”

Your ears ring suddenly, your sense of balance going wobbly for just a few quick seconds before normalcy trickles back in. Your heartbeat is loud - almost louder than his answer.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Vernon says, and there’s something in his voice that makes your eyes snap back to his - some musicality, some glimmer of Vernon in his tone. 

His eyes are beautiful, golden brown. His brown.

You feel sure that somehow, you’re speaking to your Vernon again.

“So… you’ll just go?” you ask, your voice thin and quiet, a stark opposite to the fire you’d leveled at him a second ago, when he wasn’t him. “What about school? Your family - your music?”

He doesn’t address any of this. “You could come too,” he says, instead, and you stagger back a step, eyes wide, trying to understand him.

“Come where?” you ask, breathless, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. 

He shrugs, nonplussed, suddenly so extremely Vernon after the lack of Vernon-ness that it seems overdone. “Wherever we go next.”

You do laugh, now, once and without humor. As if you could just walk away from your family, from your future, from your friends, from your life. To do what, exactly - be Vernon’s little circus girlfriend as the unnatural operation goes to the next town to claim its newest victims?

Vernon’s looking at you intensely, gauging your expression. “What do you think?” he asks, and there’s something suddenly vulnerable in his tone. Your heart cracks, begs you to reach for him. “Do you think you could? Learn to juggle or balance or - or something?”

Your breath leaves you, your pulse skittering, your head going woozy. 

You’re very sure that, for whatever reason, this is your Vernon pushing through whatever supernatural shit has him - and saying what he wants to say in the only way he can, the casual words hiding what he really means. He’s admitting that he’s scared, alone. He’s begging for you to be with him. 

And at any moment his face might go too tight again, his expression blank, and then he’ll be gone again. You’re sure of it, in the same way you’re sure you’re running out of air when you’re underwater for too long, in the same way you’re sure that something is too hot when your skin stings. 

He holds your gaze. As the ferris wheel begins to cycle behind you, his face comes in and out of light and shadow - he’s him, then he’s gone, then yours again. 

You think of him, golden in the sunlight, an arm over your shoulders, his lips against the top of your head. You think of him laughing at one of your stupid jokes, you think of the way his voice goes low when he’s not being careful. 

Could you - walk away from everything, follow him into uncertainty, just to know that he won’t be alone, won’t be scared anymore?

Light passes over his face, leaves it in shadow, lights it again. His eyes are brown, but you can’t tell which brown. 

You think of his hands on your waist, keeping you steady. You think of his smile, razor-sharp and clever. You think of the way your pulse dances and your stomach flutters and your mood buoys when he’s around. You think of how empty your life felt during the few days that he was trapped here.

He slowly lifts his hand, palm up and fingers open. His eyes stay steady on yours as he holds his hand out. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to persuade you any more. He simply watches you, and he waits.

Your answer hangs in the balance.

--

“I’m proud of you!” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his heart. “It only took, what, six months and undeniable proof of him messaging his ex from your bed? Growth, babe.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already reaching into his coat pocket for his phone, thumb tapping away with theatrical flair. A few seconds later, yours buzzed.”Wooyoung…”

“I’m just saying,” he said, all innocent like as he straightened up and began backing toward the door, “sometimes a girl needs a little visual aid to move on.” You looked at your screen and saw a link.

wooyoung: For when you’re lonely 😌 You’re welcome

He winked, hand already on the doorknob. “Trust me. Watch it alone. Preferably with a glass of wine. And maybe a towel.”

“You are so…”

“Helpful?” he interrupted, grinning like the devil. “Exactly. Byeee!” The door clicked shut behind him, and silence settled in again. You stared at the link for a long moment, smirking to yourself as you shoved your phone in your bag. Whatever weird video Wooyoung had sent could wait. Right now, you still had papers to grade… and a very peaceful, boring night ahead.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time you got home, the sky had turned the color of smudged charcoal, the chill of the late evening settling into your bones. You barely managed to kick your shoes off before the familiar smell of spice and soy sauce hit you like a comforting wave. Your apartment was warm. Lived in. The scent of your favorite dish from Yunho’s parents’ restaurant drifted from the coffee table, where three opened takeout boxes were already being attacked with chopsticks. Steam curled up lazily in the lamplight.

“Hey,” came his voice from the couch, low and distracted. “I didn’t know if you were staying late again, so I brought you dinner just in case.” You rounded the corner to the living room and found your best friend exactly where you expected, half lying, half slouched across the couch in the way only Yunho could manage, PS5 controller in hand, socked feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table like a menace.

He didn’t even look away from the TV. “There’s galbi, kimchi fried rice, and that soup you like. I left the radish out this time, cause I’m nice like that.” You dropped your bag with a grateful sigh and toed off your other shoe. “You’re disgustingly good to me sometimes.”

“I know,” he said smugly, tongue peeking out slightly between his lips as he focused on a combo in his game. “I’m the best fake husband in Seoul. Honestly, someone should marry me just for my food sense.” You snorted. “Someone should marry you just to keep you from dying of snack related malnutrition. When I moved in, you were living on ramen and banana milk.”

“That was a delicate nutritional balance,” he countered, eyes still locked on the screen as you wandered toward the food, nudging his leg with your knee. “Pause and eat, or I swear I’m changing the WiFi password.”

“Power move,” he muttered, pausing the game with a sigh and finally looking up at you. His hair was still a little damp from his earlier shower, falling into his eyes, and his hoodie was slightly too big. He stretched, arms high over his head, hoodie rising just enough to reveal a flash of toned abs before settling again.

You blinked and immediately looked away. No big deal. He was always like this. You dropped onto the other end of the couch and grabbed the container closest to you, stealing a bite of the rice before he could reclaim it. Yunho just leaned back, watching you with that lazy grin of his. “Rough day?”

You hummed. “Kids were wild. Wooyoung was worse.” His grin widened. “What did he do now?” You hesitated. “He… sent me something. Called it a gift.”

“Oh god.”

“Exactly.”

“Please tell me it’s not another playlist of breakup anthems titled, men ain’t shit vol. 5.’”

“Nope.” You reached for your bag, pulling your phone out. “It was a link this time. Said I needed something visual to help me get over my ex.”

Yunho looked vaguely horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t open it in front of students.”

“Of course not,” you scoffed. “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”You laughed around your spoon, already unlocking your phone without thinking. “You know what? I’m gonna go to my room and suffer in private.” He waved you off. “Enjoy whatever weird shit that man’s into.” You stood, phone in hand, and started walking toward your room.

You ate in bed, legs tucked under you, laptop open with some old comfort show playing in the background. Chopsticks in one hand, your phone in the other, screen still lit up with that message from Wooyoung, unopened. It stared at you like a dare. But you weren’t biting. Not yet. Not when galbi and rice were calling. Not when your muscles still ached from standing all day trying to get a room full of fourth graders to not weaponize glitter glue.

You set your empty food containers aside with a satisfied sigh and padded barefoot to the bathroom, the familiar creak of the floorboards under your feet a lullaby you’d gotten used to since moving in. The shower steamed up fast, warm, clean, and quiet. Your shoulders dropped, tension melting as the water poured over you. You didn’t even bother closing the door all the way. No need. Yunho had seen you in your bathrobe more times than you could count. He never cared. Never looked twice. Not like that.

Still, you didn’t hum or play music like usual tonight. Maybe it was the weird mood lingering from Wooyoung’s cryptic message. Maybe it was something else. Just as you rinsed the last of the conditioner from your hair, you heard the unmistakable creak of the bathroom door opening and wiped the water from your face, unfazed. “Yunho?”

“Yeah, it’s just me,” he called casually over the sound of the water. “Sorry. I really gotta pee.” You snorted. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock,” he said, the sound of him flipping the toilet lid up following immediately. “You didn’t hear me over your shampoo commercial.” You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother covering up. “Not like this is new. Pretty sure we stopped pretending about bathroom boundaries when we both got food poisoning that one weekend.” Yunho laughed, voice a little groggy like he’d just been dozing. “Dark times. I still can’t look at chicken katsu the same.”

He flushed, and you stepped away from the running water of the shower a moment as it got hot, and you heard the water run briefly. Then the soft sound of his socked feet shuffling across the tile. “You want me to warm you some tea?” he asked, hand on the doorknob now. “I’m good,” you called back.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

The door clicked shut again. And you were left with the water running, your heart suddenly ticking a little too loud in your chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d come in while you were showering.

But for some reason… it felt different tonight.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Steam followed you out of the bathroom like a lazy fog, warm skin prickling as the cooler air of your room kissed it. You shut the door behind you, towel twisted on top of your head, still drying off with a quiet hum in your throat as you moved on autopilot, body lotion, oversized sleep shirt, a pair of old cotton shorts. It was muscle memory at this point, the same nighttime rhythm every night since you’d moved in with Yunho last year. He always teased you for being chronically cozy.

You turned off the main light, crawled into bed, and let the soft yellow glow of your nightstand lamp cast a halo across your sheets. Your phone blinked with a notification, the tiny preview of Wooyoung’s last message still hovering there like a neon temptation. You stared at it for a second, then another. You weren’t actually planning to open it. You should just close your eyes, throw on your sleep playlist, and pass out like a responsible adult with children to educate in the morning.

But then again, Wooyoung had a way of being… shockingly on point with his chaos. With a sigh, you unlocked your phone, tapped the link, and set it on your chest, screen tilted just enough to catch the full view without having to hold it. The page loaded slowly. Too slowly. It started with dim lighting. Soft, almost amber hued. You could hear faint music in the background, lofi, moody, something you might play when grading papers or when pretending you weren’t lonely in bed.

The camera was angled low. Just enough to show the lower half of a man’s torso. Sweatpants clung low to his hips, the waistband dipped just enough to tease something dark and intimate beneath. A hand dragged slowly across bare skin, fingers long and languid, dragging along his own abs in a way that made you squirm. His face wasn’t visible. But his voice was. Low. Smooth. A little husky and playful. “Missed me?” Something in your stomach flipped. That voice was…..

The man’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, slow and deliberate, and your breath caught because that voice was familiar. Too familiar. And then he laughed, just a breathy chuckle under his breath. Quiet. Confident. Not loud enough to be staged, just real.

You propped your phone up a little higher against your chest, shifting beneath the covers like you were settling in for just another typical mindless scroll. Nothing to see here. Just a random hot guy on a random site that your menace of a coworker sent you. Totally normal post shower behavior. Except your pulse had started to pick up, and it wasn’t just from the visual.

He was talking again now, soft, coaxing things. “Bet you’ve been thinking about me… haven’t you?” His voice was rich, smooth, just the slightest rasp at the edges. You exhaled slowly, fingers curled at your stomach, chewing the inside of your cheek. Okay. It wasn’t exactly Yunho’s voice. It was deeper, maybe, lower, like he was trying to keep it quiet. And he was probably using a filter or something. Right? Lots of camboys did that.

Lots of them also had long, veiny hands and fingers that looked suspiciously like they were made for both cooking and ruining lives. You swallowed as the camera panned in tighter. The man, no, the camboy, was palming himself now, slow and teasing through the thin cotton of his gray sweats. His hand flexed once, and your eyes tracked the way his muscles tensed in his stomach. Long lines of definition. A dusting of hair low on his abdomen. You couldn’t look away.

And then, he slid his hand under the waistband. No showy pull down, no dramatic striptease. Just slow fingers wrapping around himself, already hard, thick and big and perfect. Your lips parted slightly, not even aware of the way your thighs shifted under the blankets and your breath caught as he stroked himself with lazy precision, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to keep your attention.

And god, it was working.

“Just like that,” he murmured. “You’re watching me, aren’t you?”

Your thighs clenched. But then he shifted back, and the camera caught just a little more of the background. Not much. Just a small portion of a bed. Plain navy comforter. A soft corner of a valorant poster on the wall. Some LED lights above the headboard glowing a faint blue….

Your stomach dropped. Your blood ran cold, and yet heat still licked down your spine. Because now that you were looking, not just watching, but looking, you saw the subtle things. The way his wrist wore that stupid woven bracelet Yunho refused to take off since junior year of college. The exact cut of his jaw in the shadowed corner of the frame as he leaned forward.

The voice hadn’t been a coincidence. The room wasn’t a coincidence. You were watching your best friend. Your roommate. Yunho.

You shot upright like you’d just touched a live wire, the blankets falling from your shoulders as your finger slammed the side of your phone and killed the screen. Your heart thundered in your ears. No fucking way. You sat frozen in your bed, blinking at your reflection in the dark window across from you. Mouth parted. Chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

It couldn’t be him. You were tired. You were horny. You were spiraling because Wooyoung had sent you some anonymous dick video and your brain had decided to latch onto your hot, too perfect best friend as the scapegoat. That was it. It had to be.

You waited a few seconds. Then another few. Then you turned your phone back on. Just to check. You tapped the screen, heart pounding in your throat as the video paused exactly where you’d left it, his hand still wrapped around himself, the camera angled just low enough to tease, but not enough to prove.

You didn’t hit play again. Instead, your thumb hovered over the profile icon, finally clicking it. The screen blinked as his homepage loaded. “RADIANTYU.” Not exactly subtle considering radiant was Yunho’s rank in valorant and Yu was half of his name.

The profile image was a cropped body shot, shirtless, faceless, in a low slung towel that showed off defined abs and a V line that should’ve come with a warning. A couple of rings on his fingers. A silver chain at his neck with a cross pendant you knew too well….

The bio was short: “Not here for small talk. Just say please.”

You felt your throat tighten. No name. No voice samples on the page. A couple of likes from users named things like missnasty91 and devon4licks. But then you started scrolling. And gods help you, you tapped another video. This one opened differently. He was lying on his side, hand already between his legs, voice thick and lazy. “I know what you came for,” he said lowly. “Why don’t you sit back and let me take care of it?” Your toes curled, and you immediately clicked out and opened another one. He was in the same room, same soft lighting, but shirtless this time. The camera caught just enough of his mouth when he sucked on his fingers before reaching between his legs again.

You paused that one too. Then clicked another. And another. Your brain was screaming This isn’t him while your gut whispered it is! And you kept watching. You told yourself it was for confirmation. Not because you wanted to hear him say “good girl” again. Not because your thighs were clenched tight beneath the covers. Not because you were one breath away from slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your own shorts.

You clicked back to the original video. And this time, you didn’t look away when he moaned. You didn’t even realize your hand had moved. Somewhere between the second moan and the way his head dropped back out of frame with a breathy, broken “fuck,” your fingers had slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, absently brushing over the heat pooling between your thighs.

It wasn’t intentional at first, just instinct. Just that helpless kind of ache you couldn’t smother anymore. Not with the way he touched himself like that. Not with that voice. That pace. That slow, deliberate stroke of his hand down his dick like he was thinking about you. Like he could see you watching. And fuck, he knew how to move. Lazy and confident, like he had every viewer begging to fill in the blanks, to imagine what it would feel like to kneel between those thighs, to taste the soft curse slipping from his mouth when he was close.

You didn’t want to believe it was him. You couldn’t let yourself believe it was Yunho, your Yunho, splayed out like that in his bedroom, right down the hall, completely unaware that you were now part of his secret world. But you couldn’t not believe it anymore either. Not with the very clear evidence. Because the longer you watched, the more you tuned in to the rhythm of his breath, the occasional muttered praise, the way he grunted low in his throat and spread his legs wider, the more you knew.

You knew that voice. You knew the shape of his hands. You knew the flex of his abs when he tensed. You knew his room. And now, god help you, you knew the sound he made when he was about to come. Your fingers slipped inside yourself without conscious thought, two of them, curling up the way you knew drove you crazy, your hips already moving in slow, needy rolls against your palm. You buried your face in your pillow, the screen balanced on the mattress beside you, the soft sound of his moans washing over you like they were meant for you alone. His voice dropped lower, raspier. “So fucking good for me… that’s it, baby. Keep watching.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. The pressure inside you was building fast, coiling tight with every pump of his fist on screen. Your fingers matched the rhythm of his, hips moving faster, chasing that edge with every gasped breath, every low curse that fell from his lips like a goddamn prayer. “Come for me,” he growled, voice rough now. “You’ve been so patient.” Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hot and dizzying, stealing the air from your lungs. “Yunho…” you gasped into your pillow, the name ripping from your throat in a strangled, broken moan as your body clenched hard around your own fingers. You trembled through it, thighs trembling, breath catching on every stuttered sound he made on the screen as he came moments later.

You lay there in the aftershocks, panting. Sweaty. Wrecked. The room was quiet again. Your phone screen faded slowly to black beside you. And it hit you all at once. You had just gotten yourself off, completely, shamelessly, desperately, to a video of your best friend.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Your alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. You hadn’t slept. At least not well. Not with images from last night playing on a loop behind your eyes like a cursed projector. Yunho’s voice, that voice, rasping praise through your earbuds. The way he gripped himself. The soft grunt he let out right before he came. You’d watched the whole damn thing again at 3:00 a.m. Just to “make sure.” Which was a lie. And you knew it.

You pulled on your work clothes in a daze, something soft and professional, but your brain wasn’t even registering fabric or color. Just flashes of gray. Gray. Fucking. Sweatpants. You padded out into the kitchen, hair half up, mug in hand, still telling yourself you were just going to grab coffee and ignore the chaos that lived in your frontal lobe. And then he walked in. Barefoot. Shirtless. Still rubbing sleep from his eyes. And wearing the same goddamn sweatpants from the video. You almost dropped your mug.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, deep and a little hoarse. You froze. You could hear it now. That same exact rasp. “M… Morning,” you replied, way too fast. You tried to look anywhere else, at the fridge, the window, the cat calendar on the wall, but your gaze dragged back to him like it had a mind of its own. And it was bad. The waistband of those pants was low. Dangerously low. The kind of low that made you wonder if he had anything on underneath, and the worst part was, you knew the answer to that now.

His hair was tousled. His eyes still half lidded. And he stretched. Full stretch. Arms up, abs flexing, gray sweatpants tugging lower, and you felt your soul leave your body as he yawned and you clenched your thighs together so hard you thought your bones might snap. “You okay?” he asked, finally blinking at you like a normal human being instead of the devil in disguise. You nodded a little too hard. “Fine! Just… running late.” He glanced at the clock. “You’re early.”

“Nope. Late. Super late.” You grabbed your travel mug like it was a life preserver and started backing toward the door making Yunho tilt his head, brows furrowing. “Did I forget something? Are you mad at me?”

“No! God, no…. why would I be mad?” You let out the world’s most awkward laugh. “You brought me food last night. You’re perfect.” Perfect?! Yunho blinked. “…Okay. You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Well, I’m not!”

“You’re blushing.”

You groaned internally and turned toward the door. “See you later, roommate!”

“Love you, too, psycho,” he called after you.

You paused. Because that wasn’t weird. You two said that all the time. Only now, your brain said it differently. Love you, but moaning. Love you, but breathless and wrapped around him. Love you, but saying his name with a broken gasp as you came so hard you saw stars. You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, eyes wide. “Oh my fucking god,” you whispered to yourself. “I came to Yunho. I came to my best friend.” And he was in the kitchen right now. Drinking oat milk. In those sweatpants.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The minute your car rolled into the school parking lot, you spotted him. Wooyoung. Leaning against the hood of his little black coupe like it was a throne, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, already dressed like a walking HR violation in joggers that were just tight enough and a windbreaker zipped halfway down his chest. You barely had your keys out of the ignition before you were storming across the lot, lips pressed into a thin line, heart pounding out a staccato of, what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK.

He saw you coming and immediately grinned. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the queen of delayed gratification. How was your gift, hmm?”

“You!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “Did you know?” Wooyoung blinked behind his sunglasses. “Uh… did I know what?”

“That video,” you hissed, voice low but sharp. “The link you sent me. That man. That fucking…” Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Oh, so you did open it.” You grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the side of the car like you were about to shake him down for answers. “That’s not just some random camboy, Woo. That’s Yunho.” He blinked. “Who?” You blinked right back. “My Yunho. My roommate. My best friend Yunho.” There was a moment. A very brief, very stupid moment of silence. And then Wooyoung lost his goddamn mind. He doubled over, cackling so hard he nearly dropped his coffee. “NO… NO FUCKING WAY! You’re lying. No. That’s…” He wheezed. “That’s the guy in the video? Your Yunho? With the arms and the voice and the hands…”

“Yes!” you hissed, smacking his arm. “I recognized his bedroom, Woo!” Wooyoung had to brace himself on the car. “Oh my god…. holy shit… I didn’t even know his name! I got the link from Yeji’s Discord server, I thought the guy just looked hot… you watched your best friend jerk off?”

“Shut up!”

He snorted. “Did you finish?”

“I hate you.”

He was fully wheezing now. “You watched it all the way through, didn’t you? You nasty bitch!” You covered your face with both hands, groaning into your palms. “I said shut up, Wooyoung.”

“I literally sent it as a joke,” he said, wheezing, “and you unlocked a whole new level of horny best friend trauma… this is the best day of my life.” You peeked through your fingers. “I can never look him in the eye again.” Wooyoung grinned and sipped his coffee like this was a rom com. “Or you could look him in the eye while he’s doing it next time.”

“JUNG WOOYOUNG!”

The bell rang and you both stood frozen for a beat, your voice echoing across the lot and Wooyoung smirked. “You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?” You turned around and walked away before you could commit an actual crime.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The bar wasn’t exactly packed, it was one of those cozy Friday night after work spots, dimly lit with just enough music to fill the space without making you shout. You and Wooyoung had claimed a small booth in the corner, two empty cocktail glasses already on the table and a third round on the way. He was halfway through his usual. something fruity, something neon, something completely ridiculous, and you were nursing a gin and tonic like it might somehow sober your life decisions. “So let me get this straight,” Wooyoung said, swirling the little umbrella in his drink like it held magical gossip powers, “you recognized him by his voice, didn’t believe it, then confirmed it by his bedroom in the background?”

You glared. “It was the sweatpants.”

He laughed so hard he snorted. “Of course it was the sweatpants. Why is it always the sweatpants?” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I cannot go home tonight.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, smug. “You just have to act normal. Easy.”

“Easy? I accidentally moaned his name while coming to a video of him jerking off in the same pants he woke up in this morning. You think I can look him in the eye?”

“Babe,” Wooyoung said sweetly, leaning forward over the table, “you looked him in the dick last night.”

“JUNG WOOYOUNG.”

He cackled, completely unfazed. “Look, all I’m saying is…. if you go home acting all stiff and weird and guilty, he’s gonna figure it out.” You stilled. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He took a sip of his drink, then pointed at you. “Yunho is not dumb. He’s like a golden retriever with a 4.0 GPA and emotional intuition. If you so much as blink too hard in his direction, he’s gonna be like, Are you mad at me? Did I forget your birthday? Did I eat your leftovers? Did I say something? Is it my flannel? Should I wear the blue one instead?”

You blinked. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”

He shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”

You leaned back against the booth, sipping your drink, staring off into the middle distance like a woman on the brink. “He was so… confident, Woo. Like…. talking dirty, praising. It was so… intentional.”

“And you loved it,” Wooyoung said proudly. “I raised you well.”

“I hate you.”

“You came.”

“Still hate you.”

He giggled and lifted his glass. “To best friend thirst. May your future be filled with awkward glances and unresolved tension.”

You clinked your glass with his out of pure spite.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You managed to unlock the apartment door without dropping your keys, barely. The lights were dim inside. Cozy. Quiet. No sign of Yunho. You exhaled through your nose, nerves tingling with a weird mix of relief and disappointment. You weren’t sure if you wanted to see him or hide from him forever, or worse, see him and melt into a puddle of, “Sorry I accidentally got myself off to your secret porn career please pass the remote.”

“Act normal,” you muttered to yourself, heading straight for the fridge. “Be cool. He doesn’t know. You’re cool. You’re so cool.” You grabbed a drink, sparkling water, because the alcohol was already fogging your brain, and padded barefoot into the living room. The couch welcomed you like an old friend, and you dropped down onto it with a heavy sigh. TV on. Streaming menu open. You picked some random crime docuseries and let the flickering light wash over the room. You sipped, breathed, and kept repeating Wooyoung’s advice in your head like a mantra, Act normal. Or he’ll know.

You could do this. Just chill. Just watch some Netflix and act like you didn’t spend last night coming with his name in your mouth. Twenty minutes passed. The documentary had just reached a dramatic police interrogation scene when your bladder gave the first warning nudge. You groaned, dragging yourself off the couch. You were halfway down the hall, passing Yunho’s closed bedroom door, when you heard it. A voice. His voice. That voice. Low. Deep. Familiar in a way it absolutely shouldn’t be now. “yeah, just like that… don’t stop. You’ve been so patient for me, haven’t you?”

You froze. You weren’t imagining it. Your ears knew that cadence now. The way he dragged his vowels out like he was savoring every syllable. The way his voice dipped when he got cocky. The way it broke when he got close. The same voice that ruined you the night before. You didn’t think. You just moved. Straight into the bathroom. Door shut. Locked. And then you just stood there. Palms flat on the counter. Eyes wide in the mirror. Breathing like you’d just run a damn marathon.

Your brain was short circuiting. Yunho was filming right now. He was literally down the hall, in his room, probably shirtless, probably already sweating, probably doing all the same things you’d seen him do in those videos. Only this time you weren’t behind a screen. You were in the same apartment. You were within hearing distance of your best friend moaning for strangers online. And you were going to die. Or worse… listen. You shook your head and turned the shower on.

The mirror fogged over quickly. Your clothes hit a pile on the floor soon after, and the tile was cool beneath your feet as you stepped into the shower, dragging the curtain closed behind you like it could seal in your sanity. But it couldn’t. Not when you could still hear him. Barely audible through the pipes and plaster, his voice filtered through like static on the edge of your thoughts. You couldn’t make out words anymore, but the tone was unmistakable. That low, focused rhythm. That quiet breathlessness when he lost himself. That little hitch when he got close. The sound of it wrapped around your spine like heat.

You braced one hand against the tile, letting the water cascade down your back. It didn’t help. Nothing cooled the fire in your skin. Not when your mind was a reel of everything you’d seen him do, everything you’d heard him say. And now you were hearing it live. Real. You bit your lip, water slipping down your jaw as you lowered your forehead to the wall. Your other hand drifted south, slow, trembling, unsure, and you let yourself feel it. That gnawing ache he’d carved into you since that first click on his profile.

You hadn’t even known you could want him like this. Not until last night. Not until he said “Good girl” in that voice and made your whole world tilt. Your breaths came faster. Fingers moving now, slower, deeper, chasing something you couldn’t name. Outside the shower, he was probably on camera right now, eyes half lidded and teasing the screen with words that made strangers fall apart for him. Praise dripping from his lips. Filthy promises and soft curses spilling out in the same voice he used to ask you if you wanted tea at night. It was too much. Too hot. Too intimate. Like a secret you’d swallowed and couldn’t unhear.

You moaned into the crook of your arm, quiet, broken, shaking against the tile as your body arched and pleasure bloomed deep in your gut, sharp and dizzying. You came hard. His name caught on your tongue like a confession you couldn’t take back. “Yunho…” The sound of it cracked out of you in a breathless whisper as you trembled through it, forehead still pressed to the wall, water beating down over your back like thunder. Silence followed. No sound from his room now. Just your own breath, ragged and uneven in the mist.

You stayed there for a long time. Not moving. Not thinking. Because the only thing worse than what you’d just done… was knowing you wanted to do it again. Steam still clung to your skin when you cracked the bathroom door open. The hallway light was low and golden, and you were already reaching to tighten the towel you grabbed at your chest when you nearly collided with a wall of warm skin and broad shoulders.

Not a wall. Yunho. He was standing right there, barefoot, damp hair curling against his temple, one hand frozen mid reach for the doorframe. For half a second, neither of you breathed. “When did you get home?” he asked finally, voice softer than usual. You caught something flicker behind his eyes, something quick, wary, almost like panic, before he blinked it away and put on that easy smile. “I didn’t even hear you come in.” You forced a shrug, trying to sound casual while your pulse sprinted. “About an hour ago. You were… busy.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze sliding away for a beat. “Just finishing up some… editing.” Editing. Right. You nodded too quickly, clutching the towel a little tighter. The air between you was heavy, thick with the scent of soap and something that still felt like electricity. You had stood in front of him wrapped in a towel a hundred times before, it had never meant anything. But now your brain wouldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice through the wall, the way his mouth might’ve looked saying those words.

“Did you eat?” he asked, gentle as ever, and the normalcy of it almost made you dizzy. “Uh huh,” you managed, backing a half step toward your room. “Leftovers. Thanks.” He smiled, soft, sleepy, harmless, and somehow that only made it worse. You mumbled a goodnight and slipped past him, heart hammering, the brush of his arm against yours leaving a spark that followed you all the way to your door.

Once you were alone, you leaned back against it, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Because you could lie to him, sure. But you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It had been a few days. Three, to be exact. Seventy two hours of holding your shit together like a gold medalist in Denial Olympics. And honestly? You were kind of crushing it. No stammering. No suspicious blushing. No accidentally whispering his name like it was your favorite word while zoned out during a team meeting. You’d managed to slip right back into your usual rhythm with Yunho, sharing leftovers, mock arguing about laundry, and yelling at the TV together like two completely normal, totally platonic best friends who you did not masturbate to.

You were fine.

Really.

And you told yourself that again as you opened the front door, kicked off your shoes, and dropped your bag on the floor with a heavy thud. “Home!” you called out, voice tired but cheerful. Yunho’s voice drifted from the living room. “Couch.” You followed the sound like it was muscle memory, and sure enough, there he was. Stretched out, socked feet propped on the coffee table, PS5 controller in hand. He had one of his oversized crewnecks on today, sleeves bunched at his elbows, and a look of deep, exaggerated focus on his face. “Boss level?” you asked, plopping down beside him, stealing a throw pillow for your lap.

He smirked. “Don’t talk to me unless you’re here to cheer.” You snorted, curling into the cushions. “Go team murder or whatever.” Yunho laughed through his nose, biting back a grin as he hit a combo. The game lit up the screen in bursts of movement and color, casting a flickering glow across his jawline, one you tried very hard not to track with your eyes. This was good. This was safe. Just two roommates. Two friends. No tension. No awkwardness.

You didn’t even think about what he might’ve been doing last night with his bedroom door shut and headphones in. You didn’t think about the towel incident. Or the voice. Or the sweatpants. You definitely weren’t thinking about how he looked when he came. Nope. Brain cleared. Vibes immaculate.

“By the way,” he said casually, not looking at you. “You used my shampoo this morning.” You blinked. “What?”

“I could smell it,” he said with a shrug. “It’s fine. I don’t care. You smell nice.” Your whole body stiffened slightly, barely. But enough for you to feel it. You played it off with a breathy laugh. “Wow. Bold to call me out on a hair heist in your gamer era.” He side eyed you with a grin. “You just like smelling like me, don’t you?” Your mouth opened but nothing came out. He didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said, his attention fully locked on the boss fight as his thumbs danced across the controller. But your heart? Was not fine.

You lasted maybe twenty minutes on the couch before the day hit you all at once, work stress, kid chaos, a craving for something salty and shameful. Your usual. “I need noodles,” you groaned, stretching your arms over your head like a sleepy cat. “Keep slaying or whatever. I’ll be back.” Yunho grunted in acknowledgment, but you caught the side glance as you stood. Nothing pointed. Just… tracking. You didn’t think too much about it.

Or maybe you did, because instead of staying in your work clothes, you ducked into your room and changed. Just something comfy. Something you’d worn a hundred times. Tiny pajama shorts and a thin tank top. Nothing fancy. Nothing new. Just… soft cotton and bare legs and skin that hadn’t felt cool air since your shower that morning. When you walked back out, the living room was still glowing from the TV, but Yunho’s controller was resting in his lap now. His game was paused. His eyes, however? Not.

He glanced up from his seat, and this time, really looked as you crossed to the kitchen like you didn’t notice, tugging open the cabinet with practiced ease, leaning slightly on your toes to grab the ramen from the top shelf. The movement made your shirt ride up just a little, shorts clinging when you stretched. You felt his gaze linger as the silence stretched behind you, thick and charged. You opened the ramen package, pouring it into the pot with methodical calm, refusing to look back. Acting normal. Like you hadn’t just derailed the entire atmosphere with a pair of shorts. Like his eyes weren’t burning into your spine.

“You want some?” you asked over your shoulder, voice casual, light. There was a beat of silence before he cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure.” You grabbed a second pack and tossed it in the pot. Still not looking. Still very aware of how quiet it had gotten behind you. Of the way the air shifted. Of how heavy his stare felt, hot, questioning, different now. And how, for the first time in days, you kind of wanted to turn around and look back.

The ramen boiled fast, faster than your pulse managed to settle. You ladled it into two mismatched bowls, grabbed a pair of chopsticks for each, and turned just in time to see Yunho shifting on the couch to make room. His game controller was set aside now, the screen switched to Netflix, some mindless comfort movie already queued up. “You always make the best instant ramen,” he said, reaching for his bowl as you handed it to him. “It’s literally boiling water and noodles.”

“Yeah, but yours has, like… love.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, flopping down beside him and tucking your legs under you. The couch dipped under your weight, your bare thigh brushing his sweats. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You both stared at the screen as the movie began, the sound of chopsticks clinking against ceramic the only real noise between you. Comfortable. Familiar. Until it wasn’t. Because at some point, your knees bumped again, and Yunho didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer, just a little. Just enough that your shoulders touched. His scent clung to his him like laundry soap, his cedar shampoo, and that faint trace of warm skin you swore was burned into your memory from three nights ago.

You focused hard on the ramen. So hard, you didn’t even register the line in the movie that made him laugh under his breath. But you felt it. The sound of it, soft, genuine, close. You glanced sideways, bowl in hand, just to catch the curve of his grin. And he was already looking at you. Not in a weird way. Not overly intense. Just… watching you eat ramen like it was the most natural thing in the world and your stomach twisted. Not from the noodles. Not even from the memory of his videos. But because for the first time in days… you weren’t panicking. You were melting. Quietly. Slowly. Beside him. In the space where friendship used to be simple.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It had been a week. Seven full days of you and Yunho slipping back into rhythm like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t heard his voice through the wall. Like you hadn’t felt it echo through your whole body in the shower. And somehow, it had worked. You’d kept it together. At home, everything was smooth. Movie nights, shared takeout, dumb banter about his messy laundry habits. No weird tension. No awkward looks.

Except for the quiet little moments that made your skin prickle, when his knee bumped yours under the table and didn’t move. Or when he let his fingers linger too long as he passed you the remote. Or when he came out of the shower one morning shirtless and his hair still wet, and all you could think about was what else he might’ve done before rinsing off. You were fine. Until now.

Because now you were walking into his world. Yunho’s parents’ restaurant was tucked into a cozy side street downtown, the kind of place with regulars, warm wood panels, and the smell of magic in every dish. You’d been here a dozen times before, but it felt different today. Maybe because Wooyoung was with you. Or maybe because you hadn’t seen Yunho since that morning, he left for the restaurant early, mumbling something about prep shifts and delivery orders, and you hadn’t texted since.

You adjusted your tote bag and glanced at the menu even though you already knew what you wanted. Wooyoung didn’t. He was too busy scanning the place like he was searching for secrets. “Nice place,” he muttered. “Smells like good decisions and generational guilt.” You snorted. “You’re so weirdly poetic when you’re hungry.”

“No, seriously,” he said, leaning closer. “He works here every day? Like… all day?”

“Pretty much. Prep, lunch rush, dinner service. He runs half the kitchen now.”

Wooyoung gave you a sideways glance, sipping from his water. “So you’re telling me your hot secret camboy roommate also makes killer galbi and probably knows how to dice onions at warp speed?”

You closed your eyes. “Wooyoung…”

“I’m just saying, your future husband is busy.”

Before you could tell him to shut up for the fifth time that day, you heard it. “Y/N!” Yunho’s voice, cheerful and unmistakably his. You turned in your seat just as he emerged from the back, black apron tied around his waist, sleeves pushed up, hair tucked under a cap but still messy from the heat of the kitchen. He looked flushed and golden and like he’d just stepped out of a Kdrama that started with a meet cute and ended with a broken bedframe. He beamed when he saw you. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”

“Last minute lunch,” you said, smiling a little too quickly. “Figured we’d surprise you.” His eyes flicked to Wooyoung, then back to you. “Good surprise.” He said it to both of you, but his gaze lingered on you just a little longer than it should’ve. And you felt it. All over again. That ripple under your skin. That itch in your stomach. Like something was about to change as he took your order.

Yunho flashed you one more grin before disappearing into the kitchen with your order slip, promising “extra crispy egg on top, just how you like it.” His apron strings bounced slightly as he turned, and you didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t watching him walk away. Because how could you not? Tall, flushed from the heat of the kitchen, forearms flexing as he pushed the door open, that damned cap pushed backwards on his head like a personal attack. And Wooyoung saw it. “God,” he said, dragging out the syllable like it physically hurt him. “You are the strongest person I know.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You,” he said, jabbing a finger at you across the table. “You, specifically. The willpower it must take to live with that man, watch his videos, know what he sounds like when he comes, and still walk around fully clothed in his presence…” You tried to shush him, voice low. “Woo…”

“No. No, I’m serious,” he continued, leaning in, voice pitched to the exact level that made it worse. “If it were me? I would’ve climbed him the minute I saw that vein pop in his neck mid stroke.”

Your eyes widened. “JESUS!”

“I mean it!” he hissed, flapping his hands like he was fighting off a holy vision. “He’d be cooking eggs, and I’d be behind him like, Surprise! No pants!” You slapped your palm over your face. “Please shut up.”

“I would’ve been horny homeless,” he said, dead serious now. “My lease would be canceled. My dignity? Gone. I would’ve ridden that man so hard the ghost of his ancestors would’ve felt it.” You were wheezing, forehead hitting the table as you tried to quiet the scream of a bewildered laugh building in your chest as Wooyoung smirked over his drink. “And you… you just eat ramen next to him like he didn’t invent edging. You’re either a saint or a coward. There is no in between.”

You finally sat up, glaring at him. “You’re not allowed to say edging in public.”

“I say edging everywhere.”

And then, of course, the door to the kitchen swung open again, and Yunho walked out with your food. He looked happy. Bright. Unaware. And you couldn’t look at his hands without remembering what they looked like between his own legs. Wooyoung didn’t help. He leaned toward you with a smirk and whispered just as Yunho was setting the plate down, “Saint it is.”

Yunho set your food down with a soft, “Careful, it’s hot,” before sliding in beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was natural. That was the problem. Because nothing about the way your body reacted to his presence felt “friendly” anymore. You grabbed your chopsticks, suddenly hyperaware of how close your thighs were to his under the table.

Yunho glanced at Wooyoung across from you, smiling like a prince hosting court. “Glad you came by. Food okay?”

“Amazing,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “Compliments to the chef.”

“Thanks,” Yunho said, already mid bite. “It’s mostly my mom, but I make the rice like a beast.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Wooyoung muttered and you kicked him under the table. Hard. Wooyoung cleared his throat, dramatic as ever, then leaned his chin on one hand like he was settling in for an interview. “So, Yunho,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Any hobbies?” Your entire soul seized as Yunho blinked. “Hobbies?”

Wooyoung smiled sweetly. “Yeah. What do you do for fun? Outside of cooking.” You panicked as your foot flew under the table again and kicked Wooyoung harder in the shin making him jolt. “Shit!” Yunho turned to you, concerned. “You okay?” You smiled with the intensity of a hostage. “Cramp.”

Wooyoung was trying not to laugh, biting his straw and glaring at you across the table as Yunho gave your thigh a gentle pat under the table, just a quick touch, a friendly squeeze, and you almost dropped your chopsticks. “Poor thing,” he said, eyes soft. “You need to stretch more.”

Wooyoung coughed into his drink. “She probably does.”

You kicked him again. Harder. Yunho didn’t seem to notice the minefield you were barely tap dancing through. He kept eating, totally chill. “I don’t really have a ton of hobbies,” he admitted. “Work keeps me busy. I do some freelance stuff on the side. Mostly online. And gaming.”

Your stomach did a full somersault as Wooyoung raised an eyebrow but, mercifully, didn’t take the bait. You shot him a death glare that said, thank you and also shut your entire mouth forever. He winked at you as you turned to your food, stabbed your egg, and told yourself you were absolutely not going to spontaneously combust at this table. Not today. Not in front of your coworker, his bulgogi, and your best friend who moans like a sin you still dream about.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It was late. The apartment was quiet. just the hum of the fridge, the occasional creak from the hallway, and the faint rhythm of your own breathing as you lay flat on your back in bed, arms spread like you were waiting to be struck by lightning. Yunho had gone to bed over an hour ago. You’d said goodnight casually, like you hadn’t been clutching your chopsticks under the table earlier just to keep your hands from shaking. Like hearing him say “I do some freelance stuff online” hadn’t made your entire body buzz with tension.

You’d nodded. Smiled. Taken it in stride. And then spent the rest of dinner trying not to imagine him on camera, in that room, making a living doing things you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks. You didn’t even realize your phone was in your hand until the screen lit up. Muscle memory. You hesitated. Brows furrowed. Don’t do it. You’re over this.

Except you weren’t.

You opened the site.

His profile was still bookmarked. Top of your private tab. Still no face. Still just the same cropped body shot, abs, towel, chain. But this time… something new. A glowing “recent upload” banner pulsed beneath the thumbnail. New. Posted just last night. The title made your stomach clench, “Could’ve been you.” You blinked as you sat up and clicked it.

The screen went dark for half a second. Your breath hitched. And then he appeared. Soft blue lighting. Bed unmade. Camera lower than usual, catching the edge of his desk chair. Yunho sat lazily back in it, completely bare except for that familiar silver chain around his neck, the cross pendant mocking. Hair tousled like he’d just gotten out of the shower. Eyes low. Lips slightly parted. You swore your heart stopped.

And then he spoke, voice low and smooth and devastating. “You’ve been good for me before. Let me show you how good I can be for you.” Your breath caught in your throat. Not because of what he was doing, not yet, but because of the way he looked. Yunho was leaning back in his chair like he had nowhere else to be, thighs spread wide, body on full display, head tilted slightly. Your entire body went still. Because it wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Soft. Focused. Like he was waiting for a reaction. And suddenly, you weren’t just watching him. You were responding.

Your breath picked up. Your thighs squeezed together. That ache you’d worked so hard to ignore for weeks sparked back to life like it had been waiting right under your skin. He shifted in the chair, legs spreading wider, hand already wrapped around himself. Slow. Lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to drag this out and make whoever was watching feel it. “You always get so shy at first,” he said, voice a little lower now, a little rougher, “but I know what you really want. I can see it.” You swallowed. Hard. Your free hand drifted down, slow, tentative at first, until your fingertips brushed your inner thigh. Your skin was warm. Too warm. You kept watching.

He stroked himself with a rhythm that was cruel in its patience. Like he was imagining someone there. Like he already had a face in mind. “You’d let me take my time, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “You’d let me ruin you slow.” You gasped, quiet, involuntary, your back pressing into the mattress as your hand slipped beneath your waistband. You didn’t even think. You just felt. Like every part of your body was tethered to him through that screen. Like his voice was inside your head now, curling around every nerve ending, unspooling your restraint one breath at a time. “I’d keep you close. I’d hold your face. I’d make you say my name.” Your fingers moved faster as he groaned, low and wrecked, and your eyes fluttered shut as heat bloomed deep in your core, sharp and sudden. “Say it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

And just like before… “Yunho…” you moaned, broken and quiet, hips arching off the bed as the orgasm hit you hard and fast. You came with your forehead pressed into the crook of your arm, chest heaving, fingers shaking. The screen was still glowing beside you, Yunho still moving through the end of the video, voice soft and satisfied. And all you could think was… that could have been you. And god, you wanted it to be.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The apartment was dark and still. Just after midnight. Yunho hadn’t meant to wake up. But nature had other plans, and now he was padding barefoot down the hallway, hoodie tugged halfway down his chest, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The place was quiet. Too quiet.

He passed the bathroom and was about to open the door when he paused. Something made him stop. A sound. Soft. Faint. His head tilted. There it was again. A quiet rustle. A breathless noise. Coming from behind your door. He froze, one hand still hovering near the bathroom knob. Then he heard it. His voice. Not yours. His. Through the wall. Muffled. But clear enough to recognize. That low, coaxing tone he only used on camera. That lazy confidence, the kind that curled around syllables like it knew exactly what it was doing. And then a sound from you.

A choked breath. A moan. His name. “Yunho…”

His body went cold and hot at the same time. He stood there, wide awake now, every nerve in his body crackling like static. You were watching him. His videos. And you weren’t just watching. You were… you’d known. You’d known for who knows how long, and you never said a word. His heartbeat spiked. Part disbelief. Part adrenaline. Part something else, something far more dangerous. The idea of you hearing him like that. Touching yourself to him. Saying his name when you came.

He swallowed hard, backing away from your door like it had teeth. Like the sound of your moan had reached out and grabbed him by the throat. He barely remembered getting back to his room. Barely remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie still half off, staring at nothing. You knew. And now he knew you knew. And there was no pretending after this.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Saturday morning had always been slow in your apartment. No alarms. No obligations. Just the sun bleeding through the windows, the smell of coffee, and the occasional soft snore drifting from your bedroom well into the late morning. Yunho sat at the kitchen table, staring at his untouched cereal. He’d poured it twenty minutes ago. Milk lukewarm now. Spoon resting on the edge of the bowl. His mind somewhere else entirely.

Your voice.

The way you’d said his name. The way your breath had caught. The soft stutter of your moan, quiet and broken, but not quiet enough. He’d barely slept. Kept hearing you. Kept replaying that one second, that confirmation, you knew. You’d known. And you hadn’t said a word. Which meant something. He just didn’t know what.

The sound of your bedroom door creaked open down the hall, pulling him out of the spiral. Then came the soft shuffle of your feet. The sleepy drag of soles on the floor. He heard you yawn, stretch. Padding into the kitchen like it was any other morning. And then you turned the corner and Yunho nearly choked on air. You were still half asleep, eyes barely open, one hand running through your hair as you wandered toward the fridge. Oversized tshirt swallowing your frame. Just the edge of black panties peeking out when you lifted your arms to stretch again.

That was it. That was all you wore. No pants. No bra. No idea what you were doing to him. And it wasn’t new. You’d done this dozens of times before. But now, after last night? Yunho couldn’t look at you the same. It’s no secret to himself how he’s wanted you for years…. But hearing you moan his name…. His eyes swept over your bare legs, the curve of your thighs, the sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, and he had to grip the edge of the table to stay grounded.

You rubbed your eye with the back of your hand, voice rough and soft. “Mornin’. Why are you up so early?” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.” You pulled out a carton of juice and didn’t even bother with a glass, sipping straight from it before leaning against the counter with a groan. “Ugh. Feel like I got hit by a dream truck.” Yunho smiled, tight. “You remember it?” You blinked over at him, still groggy. “What?” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

You wandered closer, eyes still half lidded, and dropped onto the couch next to him. Shirt riding up slightly. Legs folded. Completely unaware of how undone you looked. And Yunho? He was wrecked. Because now, every time you said his name, he wouldn’t be able to unhear that version. The one whispered into the night. The one coated in pleasure. The one that had made him need to know what would it sound like if you said it to him?

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The apartment was dark, quiet, safe. Your bedroom door was shut. He’d checked twice. He heard nothing from inside, just the soft hum of the fan you always slept with. You were out cold. He should’ve waited until tomorrow. Should’ve skipped tonight. But the truth was, he hadn’t filmed in days. Not since he heard you moan his name from the other side of the wall. And tonight? Tonight it wasn’t about content. Or fans. Or tips. Or routine. Tonight, Yunho was filming because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, camera already positioned, warm light set to its softest blue setting. Not too bright. Not too staged. Just enough to glow off his skin, to kiss the edge of shadow along his chest and thighs. His chain hung low around his neck, catching the light every time he moved. The camera rolled silently. The timer blinked red. But his eyes weren’t focused on the lens. They were picturing you. The way you looked that morning, bare legs, oversized shirt, hair tangled from sleep. The sleepy rasp in your voice when you said his name like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.

And now that he knew you’d watched him? That you’d touched yourself to him? It had completely ruined him. He leaned back on his hands, legs parted slightly, breath already uneven. “Could’ve been you,” he murmured again, low and slow, just like in the last video.But this time? He meant it. He imagined your knees on the bed. The press of your thighs straddling his lap. The look in your eyes if he said it out loud, I know what you did. I heard you. Would you panic? Would you lean in and whisper do it again?

He wrapped his hand around himself, slow and steady, biting back the sound that threatened to escape. Not yet. He had to focus. But he couldn’t. Because now, every stroke felt like it was for you. Every shift of his hips, every low breath, every filthy thought was laced with your name. He imagined your mouth. Your fingers. Your moans. Your eyes, wide and watching him from across the room, or maybe from the door. Maybe this time… you’d watch in person. The thought made his breath stutter. He didn’t say much in this one. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he might say your name.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The classroom was finally quiet. Desks wiped. Chairs stacked. Crayons rounded up from beneath tables like colorful landmines. The after school silence was your favorite part of the day, right after the chaos, right before you had to face whatever chaos was waiting for you at home. Lately, that chaos wore sweatpants and acted like he wasn’t a walking, talking fantasy you accidentally moaned for.

You sighed, tossing a few leftover worksheets into your “grade this later and cry” folder just as a knock tapped against your doorframe. You looked up. “Hey,” the voice came first, warm, slightly sheepish. Mr. New Guy. The fourth grade science teacher. You smiled out of instinct. “Oh…. hey, Jisung.” He stepped inside, looking a little nervous, a little too handsome for a guy who taught plant cycles and could get thirty ten year olds to care about sedimentary rocks. “Didn’t mean to bug you. I just saw your light was still on.”

“Just cleaning up,” you said, straightening a stack of stickers. “Or avoiding my inbox. One of the two.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

There was a pause and you could feel it, awkward and purposeful as he scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh… listen. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

“I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get dinner sometime? Nothing fancy. Just… outside of school. Where we don’t have to whisper about the copier being jammed again.”

Oh. Oh! You weren’t expecting that. Jisung looked so sincere. And nervous. And you hadn’t been asked out by a normal, age appropriate, non literal porn star coworker in a long time. You opened your mouth to say something… And your brain helpfully supplied the image of Yunho the night before, dragging a hoodie over his bare chest, voice still thick and rough from whatever he’d just filmed behind his closed door. The memory slammed into you like a punch. His voice. His moans. That chain. Your name in your head when you came. You blinked.

Jisung was still waiting and you smiled, soft but unsure. “That’s… really sweet. I just… can I get back to you?”

“Yeah!” he said quickly, waving his hands. “Totally. No pressure at all.” He backed toward the door, cheeks a little flushed. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

The door shut behind him and you sat there, staring at your hands. Yunho hadn’t asked you anything. But somehow… he was the only one you wanted to say yes to.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Dinner was simple tonight, steamed rice, spicy pork, a few banchan dishes he’d brought back from the restaurant, all laid out between you on the kitchen table like it was any other weeknight. And it should’ve felt normal. But it didn’t. Because you were sitting across from him in a sweatshirt that hung off your shoulder, hair messy from your afternoon nap, cheeks pink from heat, and Yunho couldn’t stop thinking about how just two nights ago he came so hard to the thought of you, he had to stop filming and pretend it was part of the act. He hadn’t touched himself since. Couldn’t. Not when the real thing sat across from him every night and smiled like you didn’t know what you’d done.

You stirred your rice absently. “So, something funny happened today.” Yunho blinked, grateful for the distraction. “What’s that?” You didn’t even look up. “The new science teacher asked me out.” He froze. Spoon halfway to his mouth. Not even breathing. “What?” You glanced at him now, tone casual. “Jisung. He stopped by after class. Asked if I wanted to grab dinner sometime.”

His chest tightened as you didn’t even say it like it was a big deal. Like it meant anything. Like you hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the center of his chest and kept on chewing your kimchi like you hadn’t heard the explosion. “Oh.” He set his spoon down slowly, forcing a small laugh. “That guy.” You squinted at him. “You’ve never met him.”

“Don’t need to.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. “Anyone asking you out is automatically suspicious.” That made you laugh. “What, you think he’s got evil intentions?”

“No. I think he’s got obvious ones.”

Your brows lifted. “Which are?”

Yunho met your gaze now, steady. Sharp. “Same ones I’d have if you weren’t my best friend.” The air went still between you. You blinked. He didn’t look away. Just waited as you cleared your throat. Didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Just shifted slightly in your seat, dragged a few grains of rice through the leftover sauce, and said, cool as you pleased, “Maybe I should say yes. I mean… it’s been a while. Since my ex.”

Yunho felt that hit like a punch under his ribs. His grip on his chopsticks tightened, just barely, but enough that he had to set them down again before they snapped. You kept eating. Calm. Relaxed. Like you hadn’t just thrown him into a spiral so fast he could barely see straight. He studied your face. The tilt of your lashes. The slight flush in your cheeks. The way your lips wrapped around your next bite like you weren’t saying anything world shattering. Like you weren’t talking about letting someone else touch you.

He swallowed hard. “So you’re thinking about it?” You shrugged. “I mean… why not?” Why not. Yunho laughed. Quiet. Almost bitter and you finally looked up. “What?” He leaned back, stretching his arms out behind his chair like he needed to do something to bleed out the tension. “It’s just funny.”

“What is?”

“That you think you haven’t been with anyone since your ex.”

You blinked, brows furrowing as he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not physically. Sure. But come on, baby.” You stiffened. Baby? It just slipped out. Too honest. Too fast. But he didn’t take it back. He leaned forward again, eyes on yours. “After everything I’ve heard… everything I know… are you really gonna sit here and pretend I haven’t already wrecked you without even touching you?” Silence. The kitchen clock ticked loud enough to fill it.

Yunho didn’t look away. Neither did you. He could see it, right there in your face. That flicker of heat, of guilt, of something so deep it nearly made him forget where he was. He didn’t know if you were going to laugh, yell, or kiss him. But god, he hoped it wasn’t the first one.

You blinked like you hadn’t heard him right. Like you hadn’t moaned his name in the dark, hadn’t come to the sound of his voice, hadn’t watched him over and over again behind a locked door with your fingers between your thighs. “Yunho…” you said slowly, setting your bowl down, nervous laugh escaping as you shook your head. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raised a brow as you bit your lip. Eyes wide. Too wide. “I mean… wrecked me?” you laughed again, high and off key. “That’s… dramatic, don’t you think?” Yunho leaned forward across the table, elbows on the wood, hands clasped like he was studying you. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” you said too quickly.

“You don’t flinch when you’re lying,” he said, voice lower now. “You get quiet. Look down. Bite your cheek. I’ve known you for almost a decade. Don’t play dumb.”

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard you. You didn’t mean to be loud,” he added, quieter. “But it was late. And the walls are thin. And you said my name.”

Your entire face changed. A flicker of heat. Shame. Panic. Desire. You dropped your eyes to the table. And he knew. It wasn’t just once. You hadn’t accidentally clicked that video. You hadn’t accidentally come to him. You hadn’t accidentally moaned his name like it belonged to you. “I didn’t mean for you to hear,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said. “But I’m not sorry.” Your eyes snapped to his as he leaned closer, voice low and steady. “You watched me, baby. Over and over. You heard me, felt me, and now you want to pretend it didn’t happen?” He shook his head. “No. That’s not happening.”

You looked frozen. Breath shallow as Yunho smiled, soft, but laced with heat. “Unless you want me to stop. Unless you want me to pretend too.” He let it hang there. The invitation. The challenge. The truth.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The classroom was loud. Markers squeaked across whiteboards. Chairs scraped tile. A kid in the back was pretending his pencil was a lightsaber, making whooshing sounds like he was the Jedi of math. You weren’t hearing any of it. Because your brain had checked out somewhere around 8:00 a.m., the second you walked into the building still echoing with the memory of Yunho’s voice from the night before. “You watched me, baby.” Your stomach flipped just remembering it. You’d gone to bed without saying anything. Without even turning off your bedside light. Just laid there in bed, hands clenched in the sheets, heart racing, trying to understand how you were supposed to live with him now, eat breakfast with him, split the water bill, pass him in the hallway…. when he knew.

He’d heard you. He’d called you out. And you’d panicked. Denied. Like a coward. And what did he do? He looked right into your eyes, called you baby again, and said “I’m not sorry.”

“Miss?” a little voice snapped you back to reality. “Miss, your marker’s broken.” You looked down. You’d been holding a dry erase marker against the board, unmoving. A big purple streak stained the sleeve of your cardigan. You didn’t even care. “Right,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry.” A few of the kids blinked at you, concerned in that way only 10 year olds could be when their teacher malfunctioned. You managed to finish the lesson. Kind of.

After dismissal, you stayed behind like you always did, papers to grade, emails to ignore, but mostly, to sit in your desk chair and breathe. You pulled your phone out of your drawer like it might bite you. No texts. No calls. Nothing from Yunho. But you could still hear him like he was whispering in your ear. You hated how much you wanted him to call you baby again.

You barely looked up when the door creaked open. “Please be a wine delivery,” you muttered. “Close. It’s me,” Wooyoung announced, strutting in like he owned the school. “And I brought gossip.” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because just seeing him made the entire night before slam back into your brain like a freight train. He raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost? Or worse… your ex.” You looked at him. Dead in the eyes. And then you said it. “He knows.” Wooyoung blinked. “Who knows what?”

“Yunho,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Yunho knows. About the videos. About me knowing. He…. he knows I know.” Wooyoung dropped his bag on the floor like it personally offended him. “What.”

“I was in my room a few nights ago,” you rushed out. “Watching one of his newer ones…”

“Oh my god!”

“and I said his name when I…. when I came, okay?” you hissed, whispering like the whiteboards had ears. “And he heard me, Woo. He was in the hallway. I didn’t even realize he was there…. he called me out last night… called me baby and…. and said he wasn’t sorry.” Wooyoung covered his mouth like he was trying to contain an earthquake. His whole body shook. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was joking,” you groaned, collapsing into your chair. “He called you baby?? Like sexy baby? Not, aw baby, but like, you’re watching me get off, aren’t you, baby?”

“Woo!”

“I need a cigarette.”

“You don’t even smoke!”

“I do now!”

You rubbed your temples while he paced like a game show contestant on the final question. “You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that Yunho…. your sweet best friend roommate Yunho…. knows you’ve been getting off to his secret camboy alter ego. And instead of being mad, he called you baby and said he wasn’t sorry.”

You nodded once and Wooyoung stared. Then grinned like the devil. “Well,” he said, “guess you won’t be needing that new teacher date after all.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The apartment was still. Too still. Yunho’s door was wide open, which meant he wasn’t home. Which also meant it was safe. Now you were sitting cross legged on your bed, hoodie half zipped, blanket barely hanging onto your shoulders like it could protect you from your own worst impulses. You hovered over the new video. Your heart beat too fast. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea.

You clicked it anyway. The video opened with black. A beat of silence. And then his voice. Low. Smooth. Familiar. Way too familiar. “Hi,” he said, shirtless, those same damn gray sweats, face on display for once, hair pushed back like he’d run his fingers through it a thousand times, staring directly into the camera. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your stomach dropped. Your mouth went dry as Yunho leaned closer on the screen, elbows on his knees now, gaze way too intimate. “Wondering if you’ve been watching,” he murmured. “If you’re still touching yourself to me like you did that night.” You froze. There’s no way. There’s no way this video was public. This… this was too specific. Too targeted. Like he was talking to you. “You were so loud,” he said. “You didn’t even realize, did you?”

He leaned back, hand dragging up his chest to rest at his throat. “Say my name again,” he whispered, eyes half lidded. “Like you did then.” Your hand was trembling where it sat on your thigh. He hadn’t even touched himself yet. And already, you were losing it. You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears, thighs pressed tight together. Was this for you? Was this really for you? Because it felt like it. It felt like every glance into the camera was a dare. Every word was meant for your ears only.

He licked his lips. Shifted in his seat. And then finally, “You’ve been so patient,” Yunho murmured. “So good. So quiet. But I heard you.” You clapped a hand over your mouth, your entire body going rigid. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a confession. You slammed your laptop shut like it had personally offended you. Like it hadn’t just made you come apart at the seams without even touching you. Like Yunho’s voice, his voice, hadn’t just whispered the most intimate filth you’d ever heard directly into your soul.

Your pulse was still pounding in your ears. Your legs were shaky. You needed a drink. You all but stumbled into the kitchen, bare feet slapping softly against the hardwood, your fingers curling around the fridge handle like it might steady you. You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed the bottle of soju from the back, the one Yunho had forgotten about, green glass chilled, frosted slightly at the neck. No shot glass. Just the bottle.

You twisted the cap off with trembling fingers and tilted it back, taking a long, burning pull that did absolutely nothing to cool your insides. The heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with alcohol. And your thighs still clenched together like they had a mind of their own. You took another swig as the front door opened and you nearly choked.

“Hey,” Yunho called casually as he stepped in, keys jingling as he tossed them into the bowl near the door. “Smells like ramen in here….” He stopped mid sentence when he rounded the corner and saw you. You. Standing in the kitchen. In sleep shorts and a hoodie that barely covered your ass. Hair a mess. Soju bottle lifted halfway to your mouth. Face flushed, pupils still blown, practically radiating guilt.

Yunho blinked.

You blinked back.

“Rough day?” he asked slowly, voice cautious but teasing. “Or are we just going full frat boy tonight?” You scrambled, setting the bottle down too hard on the counter. “I…. I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s only nine,” he said with a raised brow.

“Then I couldn’t… not sleep. Whatever.”

Yunho smirked faintly, stepping toward the fridge and opening it like this wasn’t the weirdest moment of your entire life. “You want a chaser or are we pretending that’s water?” You shrugged, trying to act normal. Casual. Chill. “I’m good,” you muttered as he pulled out a bottle of water for himself, cracking the cap open. “Want me to make popcorn? You look like you’re in a very specific kind of mood.”

You didn’t trust your voice. So you just nodded, backing up slowly and gripping the counter for dear life as he turned toward the stove. He was wearing those damn grey sweatpants again. You had to look away. You were acting weird again.

Not weird like last week, where you were jumpy and flushed every time he came around. This was different. Too calm. Too still. Like you were actively trying not to be weird and it was making you way weirder. Yunho stirred the pot on the stove, but he wasn’t focused on the popcorn. His eyes kept drifting over his shoulder, drawn to the way you stood there like you were rooted to the tile, gripping the edge of the counter like it was keeping you upright. Cheeks pink. Lips parted. Still holding that half empty bottle of soju like a lifeline.

Something had you rattled. And he was willing to bet a whole month’s worth of OnlyFlans tips that he knew exactly what. He glanced at you again. Your eyes snapped away like you hadn’t just been staring and a slow smirk tugged at his mouth. Yeah. He knew. He turned the stove off. “You see it?” he asked suddenly, cutting through the silence.

You blinked. “See what?”

Yunho took a slow step toward you, tilting his head slightly, like he could read every flicker of guilt in your expression. His voice dropped, low, teasing, but pointed. “My new video.” Your throat bobbed. “W… What video?” Another step. Now only the narrow kitchen counter was between you as he leaned in just slightly, enough that his words felt heavier, like they were pressing against your skin. “The one I posted last night.”

He saw it, the way your fingers tightened on the bottle, the way your legs shifted like you suddenly forgot how to stand. You didn’t answer and that smirk of his curved higher. A little cruel. A little cocky. “Are you gonna lie to me?” he asked, voice soft, heat buried under every syllable. “Or are you gonna tell me how many times you watched it?” You opened your mouth and closed it as Yunho moved around the counter, now fully in front of you, towering. Barely inches between you. “Well?” he murmured. “You gonna answer me?”

You hesitated. And that was all the answer he needed. Still, you gave it a shot, eyes darting to the side, lips twitching into something that wanted to pass for casual. “Video? Oh, that…. uh, no. I was just scrolling. Didn’t even have the sound on.” Yunho blinked. Then laughed. Just once. Low and disbelieving. “No sound?” he repeated, taking another step toward you. “That’s funny…” Your breath hitched as he tilted his head, watching you. Watching the cracks start to splinter through your fake calm. You weren’t good at lying. Not to him.

“You know…” Yunho said slowly, pretending to think, like this wasn’t already seared into his brain. “You said my name. Loud. Real soft at first,” he stepped close enough that the bottle in your hand bumped his chest. “But then you moaned it, baby. Whispered it like a prayer.“

Your lashes fluttered. “Yunho…”

“Mm. Just like that,” he said, voice a quiet taunt, warm and thick and curling around you like smoke. “You sounded so needy. So pretty.” You swallowed hard. “I wasn’t…” He reached out, curling his fingers lightly around your wrist, lifting the bottle from your grip with infuriating ease. “You wanna try that again?” he asked, tone playful but loaded. “Or are we finally done pretending?”

Your mouth parted. He could see it, your brain short circuiting, heart beating like it wanted to climb right out of your chest. But your legs? Still not moving. “You watched it,” Yunho said, cocking a brow. “Did you like it?” You were silent as he took another step, cornering you now, back against the cabinets. “Did you come to it?” That one landed like a punch.

You gasped, scandalized, probably, but your thighs pressed together, and that told him everything. His smile dropped lower, darker, as he leaned in. His voice barely a breath against your ear. “You touch yourself to me again, sweetheart… I want you to leave the volume up this time.” You blinked up at him, wide eyed and breathless, still pressed against the kitchen counter like you weren’t sure if you wanted to run or pull him closer. “You’re my best friend,” you said finally, a whisper like it actually hurt to say it out loud. “You’re my…. my best friend, Yunho…”

He tilted his head, that dark, knowing smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. I know.” Your hands came up to push against his chest, weak and half hearted. “I can’t…. I can’t want you like that.”

“But you do.”

“Yunho…”

“I’ve wanted you since the day we met.”

Your breath hitched. He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t some world shifting confession. Like it wasn’t about to detonate everything you thought you were. “I didn’t say anything because I knew you weren’t ready. You had that boyfriend. You were hurting. You needed me to be safe.” His eyes dropped to your lips, his voice dropping with them. “But now? You moan my name when you think I’m not listening. You watch me like you’re starving, like you’ve been starving.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, breaths colliding in the charged air between you. “You want me,” he said, hushed but firm. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want you too.” Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He hovered there, waiting. Letting the silence throb between you, heavy and warm and full of tension so thick it could break you both. “Say the word, baby,” Yunho whispered. “And I’ll ruin the way you say best friend forever.”

Your lips were parted, eyes wide, chest heaving against the oversized hoodie like you’d just been dropped into someone else’s life. And maybe you had. Because the man in front of you wasn’t just Yunho, your messy, snack hoarding, laundry ignoring, ramen obsessed best friend. This was RadiantYu. Voice like sin. Fingers like ruin. Tongue like temptation. And he was looking at you like he already had you under him.

“Say it,” he whispered again, breath warm against your cheek. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want me.” Your hands were still on his chest. But they weren’t pushing anymore. They were fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. Holding on. “I don’t…” His brows ticked up slightly. You’d barely gotten one syllable out before your body betrayed you. “want to stop,” you whispered. The teasing melted out of Yunho’s face, and what replaced it made your stomach drop straight into heat. His pupils dilated. That lazy smirk was gone. He looked like a man who had just been handed permission. “Say that again,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to stop.” You barely finished the last word before he was on you. Yunho surged forward and grabbed your face with both hands, lips crashing into yours like he couldn’t hold back a second longer. His mouth was hot and open, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your startled gasp as he stepped into you, pressing you back into the counter like he wanted you embedded in it. And then he lifted you. One smooth motion, his hands gripped under your thighs, body flush against yours and you were off the ground with a soft yelp against his lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders as he turned and walked you toward the hall.

You didn’t even have time to process it. He was carrying you straight into his bedroom. The same room you’d seen in shadows and soft lighting, in cropped frames and half glimpses on a screen for weeks now because you couldn’t bring yourself to go in there after watching that first video Wooyoung had sent you. The same room where his voice had undone you in the dark.

The door swung open behind you with a quiet thud, your back pressed to it as he kicked it shut. Yunho’s lips never left yours. The walk was a blur. A blur of breathless kisses, wandering hands, his fingers slipping under the hem of your hoodie. He didn’t throw you onto the bed. He sat you on it. Slow. Deliberate. And when you leaned back on your hands, legs parted just slightly on the edge of the mattress, Yunho stood over you like he was starving.

He leaned down, mouth brushing your throat, and you felt it, the shift. This wasn’t the friend you watched movies with. This wasn’t even the camboy you watched through your screen. This was Yunho, in the flesh, in his room, about to make you his. His mouth dragged along your neck, open mouthed kisses, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. One of his hands was at your waist, the other sliding under the back of your hoodie as he kissed you like he’d waited years for this moment. His hand gripped your thigh now, sliding up, palm warm and heavy as he kissed you once more, slow this time, then pulled back. Not far. Just enough that you could see his eyes. Dark. Focused. Hungry in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Your heart skipped. For half a second you wondered if you’d crossed a line, but then he straightened, gaze never leaving yours, and reached behind him. For his gaming chair. The same one. The black chair with the worn armrests, the slight squeak when it rolled. The one you’d seen him sink into a hundred times on screen, legs spread, body relaxed like he owned the world. He dragged it closer to the bed and turned it so it faced you directly. Then he sat. Slow. Casual. Spreading his legs just slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. He looked exactly like he did in the videos, but worse. Real. Close enough that you could see the way his chest rose with each breath. “Show me.”

You blinked. “Show you… what?”

He tilted his head, lips curling into that knowing half smile, the one that had ruined you more than once through a screen. “How you do it,” he said softly. “When you watch me.” Your pulse thundered in your ears as he leaned back into the chair, fingers gripping the armrests like he was restraining himself on purpose. “I wanna see how you touch yourself,” he continued, voice calm, steady. “How you get off to me.”

Heat rushed straight to your face. “Yunho….”

“No,” he interrupted gently. Not sharp. Not angry. Just firm. “You’ve watched me. You’ve heard me. You’ve come to me.” His eyes dragged slowly over you, taking in the way you sat on the bed, knees parted just enough to give him a glimpse of skin. “Now it’s my turn.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, voice dropping. “Show me what you do when it’s just you and a screen.” Your breath came shallow. Your fingers curled into the blanket beneath you. This was different. This wasn’t him taking control the way you’d expected. This was him watching. Studying. Letting you expose yourself exactly the way you had in private.

“I want to see your hands,” he said quietly. “I want to see your face when you start thinking about me.” His gaze lifted to yours, unwavering. “Don’t rush,” Yunho murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.” The silence stretched. Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat in that damn chair like a living temptation, legs spread, eyes dark, waiting. The same chair where you’d watched him touch himself night after night. The same angle. The same distance. Only now, you were the one being watched.

Your breath trembled as your fingers drifted to the waistband of your pajama shorts and his gaze dropped instantly when you hooked your thumbs beneath the soft fabric, and Yunho’s jaw tensed, just a little, as you began to ease them down. Inch by inch. Past your hips, your thighs, dragging the cotton slow over your skin. You let them fall to the floor with a soft sound that felt too loud in the quiet room. But Yunho didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t tease. His eyes were locked between your legs.

Your panties clung to you, soaked through. The thin cotton was dark with wetness, the evidence of just how wrecked you were from the moment he pulled you into this room, maybe even earlier. Yunho’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Already wet for me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent as you swallowed, still sitting on the edge of his bed, legs parted slightly, panties sticking to your core like a second skin. Your breath came faster, chest rising and falling, heart thudding like it might crack your ribs. And Yunho just sat back deeper into his chair. “Take them off,” he said, voice soft, steady. “Nice and slow.”

You nodded once, barely, and your fingers trembled as you reached for the waistband of your panties. Yunho’s eyes tracked every motion. The way your thighs shifted. The way your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed the slick fabric. You lifted your hips, peeled them down, slow, just like he asked, and he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. When you tossed them to the side, Yunho’s eyes flicked down. You were bare. And dripping. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, palms spread open on his thighs like he was bracing himself. “Now…” he said quietly, gaze climbing back to yours, “show me.”

Your fingers hovered between your thighs. You could feel how wet you were, heat slick and pulsing, but when you finally moved to touch yourself, your hand slowed. Stilled. Your breath caught, and you glanced up at him, lashes fluttering like you’d been caught doing something forbidden.

“I…” you swallowed. “It’s not… silent when I….” The words came out small. Honest. Yunho froze. Not because you stopped, but because he understood. His eyes softened first. The hunger stayed, but something else layered over it now, recognition. Intention. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, voice dropping instinctively. “You need my voice,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. You nodded once, embarrassed, fingers curling into the sheets instead of touching yourself. “I can’t… I don’t finish if it’s quiet. Not when it’s you.”

Something dark and satisfied flickered behind his eyes as Yunho exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he was settling into something familiar. Comfortable. The chair creaked softly beneath him as he leaned back, legs spreading just a bit wider, hands resting loosely on his thighs. “Okay,” he murmured. His voice changed, not louder, just fuller. Rich. The same cadence you knew too well. The one that slid under your skin and curled there. “Go on,” Yunho said softly. “Touch yourself.”

Your fingers trembled as they finally moved, brushing over your clit, and he watched your face like it was the only thing in the room. “That’s it,” he continued, voice smooth and coaxing. “Just like you do when you’re alone.” Your breath hitched as his words wrapped around you, warmth flooding low in your belly as your fingers pressed just a little firmer. “Good,” he murmured. “You look so pretty like this. All open for me.”

Your hips shifted instinctively, chasing the sound of him, the presence of him. “And you don’t have to be quiet,” Yunho added, voice dipping. “I already know what you sound like when you come, remember.” He watched the way your fingers circled yourself, slow and tentative at first, your hips rocking just a little as his voice filled the room. The chair creaked softly when he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the way your hand moved. “Just like that,” he murmured. “Don’t be shy now. You’re already soaked.”

Your breath hitched when his voice dipped lower, thicker, the voice. The one that always got you in the videos. Your fingers pressed a little firmer, drawing a soft sound from your throat before you could stop it and Yunho’s jaw tightened. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, head tipping back as your fingers slid through slick heat, your body responding instantly to the sound of him watching you. Every nerve felt lit up, tuned only to his voice.

“Good,” Yunho murmured, approval warm and steady. “You sound so good when you stop holding back.” Your thighs trembled as the moans came easier now, your hips moving in slow, needy rolls against your hand. You could feel how close you were already, how fast he was winding you up just by talking. And then his tone changed. Firm. Certain. “Put them in.” Your eyes snapped to his. “Yunho…”

“Fingers,” he clarified calmly, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “I know you do it. I’ve watched you tense every time you get close.” His gaze dropped to your hand, unblinking. “So don’t tease yourself now.” Your breath shook as you obeyed. One finger slid inside you easily, your moan breaking louder this time, back arching off the mattress. Yunho’s chest rose with a slow inhale, his voice rougher when he spoke again. “Yeah… that’s it,” he said. “You feel how wet you are? That’s all for me.”

Your hips bucked, fingers curling instinctively, and he nodded once, pleased. “Add another,” Yunho said quietly. “Go on. Fuck yourself.” The words sent a sharp pulse straight through you. Your second finger slid in, stretching you just enough to make you gasp, a broken sound tearing out of your chest as your body clenched around them. “Good girl,” Yunho murmured, voice warm with approval. “Now move them. Slow. I want to see you fall apart.”

You were gone. Completely lost in it, fingers moving without thought now, sliding in and out of you in a rhythm your body had memorized from nights alone with his voice in your ears. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and real, your hips lifting to meet your hand every time you thrust your fingers deeper. Your moans were loud now. Unchecked. And Yunho didn’t tell you to quiet down. He stood.

The chair rolled back softly as he stepped toward you, slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. You barely registered it, too far gone, too focused on the way your body was tightening, coiling, every nerve buzzing like it was about to snap. “That’s it,” he murmured, closer now. “Just like that. Fuck yourself for me.” Your fingers curled inside you and you gasped, head falling back, chest arching as the pressure built fast and sharp. Your thighs trembled, slick heat spilling over your hand as you chased it harder, faster.

“Yunho!” his name broke out of you, breathless and wrecked. He was right there now. Standing at the edge of the bed. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that he could see everything as your hips bucked hard as your orgasm hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. You cried out his name again, loud and broken, fingers still buried inside you as your body clenched tight around them. A soft splash of your slick hit the sheets beneath you, spotting his bed as you came undone, back bowing, mouth open in a breathless moan that didn’t stop until the tremors finally started to fade.

Yunho watched every second of it. Your name on his lips this time, silent, but there. You sagged back against the mattress, chest heaving, fingers slipping from you as the last shudder rolled through your body. The room was thick with your breathing, the scent of sex, the undeniable proof of what you’d just done for him. Before you could even catch your breath, Yunho reached for you.

His hand closed around your wrist, firm, warm, and he lifted it slowly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers were still slick, trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and you sucked in a breath when he brought them to his mouth. “Look at me,” he said quietly. You did as Yunho’s lips closed around your fingers. Slow. Unhurried. He sucked them clean, tongue warm as he dragged it along your skin, eyes dark and focused on your face while he tasted you like it was something he’d been starving for. The sound was obscene, wet and intimate, and your hips twitched helplessly in response.

When he pulled your fingers from his mouth, they were clean. Shining. And then he dropped. Right there between your legs, Yunho sank to his knees at the edge of the bed. One hand pressed into the mattress beside your thigh as the other pushed gently at your hip, guiding you farther back onto the bed. “Up,” he murmured. You went willingly, breath shaky as you scooted back, palms braced behind you. Yunho followed you, crawling, slow, controlled, body close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him. He moved like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t about rushing to anything but about making you feel every second of it.

His mouth traced the inside of your thigh as he advanced, kisses open and warm, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. His hands spread your legs wider, thumbs pressing into your skin like he was claiming space. “You did so good for me,” he murmured against you, breath hot. “Made such a mess in my bed.” You whimpered softly as his lips hovered there, not touching yet, making you ache for it. “And now,” Yunho said quietly, lifting his head just enough for you to see his eyes, “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

His lips dragged up your inner thigh, soft and wet, just barely grazing where you needed him most before veering off again. You gasped, frustrated, aching, and Yunho just chuckled against your skin. “Thought about this too many times to count,” he murmured, trailing another open mouthed kiss higher. “How you’d taste… how you’d sound.” His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging gently into your skin like he needed to feel you open for him. His mouth hovered above your dripping core, but he didn’t go there yet.

Instead, he looked up at you. His voice was low, almost conversational, but laced with heat. “You know how it started?” You blinked down at him, dazed. “W… what?”

“The whole camboy thing,” he said, mouth brushing your thigh again, one slow kiss after another, almost reverent now. “Wasn’t some grand plan. Wasn’t even about money at first.” Your heart was pounding again. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the crease of your thigh, making you twitch. “And I was jerking off so much… to the idea of you…” His mouth pressed hot against your skin. “It got to the point where I figured… if I’m gonna keep doing it, I might as well get paid for it.”

Your breath caught. “Yunho…”

His voice dropped lower, rough with truth. “I used to film the videos and think about you watching. Pretend it was your name I was saying. Your mouth I wanted.” He kissed higher, closer now, so close it made your thighs tremble. “You were always the reason.” And then he stopped talking. He looked up at you once more, and dove in. His tongue licked through your folds in one slow, devastating drag that pulled a full body shudder from you. He moaned into you like he was finally getting a fix he’d been denied too long, one hand sliding under your thigh to hook it over his shoulder as his mouth sealed over you. Warm. Wet. Unrelenting.

You cried out, head tipping back as his tongue moved in tight, practiced circles, confident, filthy, familiar. Just like his videos, but now it was real. Now it was you. And god, he ate like a man with something to prove. He groaned into you, low, guttural, like he felt your taste hit his tongue. And then he changed pace. No more slow licks. No more teasing flicks of his tongue. He thrust into you.

His mouth sealed tight as his tongue pushed inside you again and again, fucking you with wet, obscene precision. Each stroke was firm, focused, filthy. It was so much. Too much. You screamed his name as your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, tugging instinctively, hard, and he groaned again at the feeling, the sound vibrating straight through you. He didn’t stop. He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as his tongue worked deeper, faster, dragging you to the edge with ruthless rhythm. Every moan that tore out of your throat only spurred him on. Every pull of his hair made him dig in harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

And god, the sounds, wet, loud, echoing off the walls of his bedroom. The same room you used to watch him from a screen. The same mouth that used to whisper filth to his camera was now buried in you, giving you everything you’d only imagined as your back arched. Hips rolled. He matched your rhythm, tongue plunging into you again and again until your body was shaking, sweat damp and gasping, chasing that high with a desperation that felt like fire in your veins. “Please,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Don’t stop…. please, Yunho…”

He growled low and pulled you even closer, burying himself deeper. You didn’t know how much longer you could take it. Your body was shaking, slick and soaked, fingers still tangled in Yunho’s hair as he dragged one last slow lick through your folds before lifting his head. His lips were swollen, chin wet, eyes dark and wild. Then, his hand replaced his mouth. Two fingers slipped into you, slow and smooth, and you cried out at the stretch, so familiar from your own touch, but deeper, thicker, him. Yunho watched your face closely as he eased them all the way in, curling just slightly, testing as you gasped. Your whole body twitched.

“There she is,” he murmured. His free hand gripped the hem of your hoodie. “Take this off.” You sat up just enough, dazed and pliant, arms lifting shakily as he pulled it over your head, slow, careful, like he was unwrapping something sacred. When it hit the floor, you were finally, completely bare for him. Yunho froze for a beat. Just looking. Like he’d imagined this moment a thousand times and reality still hit harder. Then he moved, climbed over you slowly, fingers still deep inside you, and brought his mouth to your chest.

His lips wrapped around your nipple without a word, tongue flicking once before sucking hard, and at the same moment, his fingers thrust into you, deep and slow. You moaned, arching into him, overwhelmed by the way he filled your body and claimed your skin all at once. His pace picked up. Still not fast. Just firm. Steady. Confident. Each pump of his fingers was matched with a kiss to your breast, tongue circling, teeth grazing, his breath warm against your skin as you moaned his name again and again, legs falling wider, hands clutching at his shoulders now, needing something to hold on to.

“You feel so good,” Yunho muttered between kisses, voice rough against your chest. “You don’t even know.” You were too far gone to answer. You just spread your legs farther and took it. You couldn’t think. Not with Yunho’s fingers pumping into you like that, deep and deliberate, curling just right with every thrust, hitting the spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. Your body was stretched beneath him, flushed and bare, thighs trembling as he hovered over you, lips trailing wet kisses across your chest while his hand worked between your legs with merciless rhythm.

Every time his fingers curled, you whimpered. Every time his mouth sucked at your breast, you shook. “Yunho… fuck, I…..” He looked up at you through his lashes, lips slick, eyes dark with heat. “You close, baby?” he murmured, voice low and knowing. “You gonna come all over my fingers?” You nodded, desperate, breathless, your hands fisting the sheets now as your hips rocked up into his touch without control and his pace quickened. Not fast, just harder. More pressure. His palm dragged against your clit now with every thrust, slick sounds filling the room, echoing with every needy moan you couldn’t hold back.

“Let it happen,” he whispered, mouth against your nipple again, sucking hard as he thrust deep once, twice….. And you broke. Your back arched off the bed with a strangled cry as your orgasm hit violently, your whole body clenching around his fingers. You screamed his name, loud, wrecked, and then shuddered, legs spasming uncontrollably. A sudden splash of wetness burst out of you, soaking his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath as you squirted, shaking, twitching, thighs locking around his arm as he kept fucking you through it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, watching you lose it completely. You couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t stop panting. Your hips jerked one more time, slick still dripping down the inside of your thigh, and Yunho slowly, finally, eased his fingers out of you—soaked, and stared at the mess you made on his hand. And then at you. Utterly ruined. Chest heaving. Mouth parted. Still shaking. “Goddamn,” he whispered. “You came so hard for me.”

Yunho didn’t even give you time to catch your breath. The second your orgasm began to fade, he was right back on you, dropping between your thighs like a man starved, his mouth locking onto your soaked cunt with a groan that vibrated against your sensitive skin. You gasped, legs twitching, back arching, as he sucked your clit into his mouth again, tongue dragging through your slick like he couldn’t get enough. “Yunho… fuck, please….” you whimpered, thighs trembling as the overstimulation lit your nerves on fire.

But he loved it. Loved how sensitive you were. How you twitched under his mouth. How your body tried to pull away even as your hands tangled in his hair, dragging him closer. He ate you like he was trying to memorize the taste. When you were gasping his name again, legs falling open wider, breath catching on every ragged moan, he finally pulled back, his lips shiny, pupils blown wide. And then he started kissing his way up.

Slow, open mouthed kisses at your hips. Your belly. Your ribs. One long drag of his tongue up your sternum. His hands framing your waist like he couldn’t let go even if he tried. By the time he reached your lips, your fingers were already tugging at his shirt, gripping the hem, dragging it up, needing him out of it. “Take it off,” you breathed against his mouth. “I want you naked too.” Yunho smiled, low, lazy, dangerous. “Yeah?” he whispered, sitting back on his knees between your thighs. “You want the whole show now?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your hands were already fisting the fabric, pulling his shirt higher until he yanked it over his head and tossed it somewhere behind him, revealing all that golden skin, flexed muscle, and fuck, that perfect line down his torso that led to everything you wanted next. He was gorgeous. And he was all yours.Yunho didn’t even get the chance to smirk again before you were on him, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants with zero patience left in your system. “Off,” you demanded, voice thick with heat, pupils blown wide as you shoved at the soft fabric like it personally offended you.

He laughed, low and rough, but lifted his hips, helping you drag the pants down over his thighs. The second they were off, they hit the floor with a soft thud, his boxers quickly following. And then you saw him. Not through a screen. Not with a grainy filter or a chat window popping up. No camera angles, no distance, no delay. Just him. Thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach, already leaking at the tip. Gorgeous in a way that made your mouth water and your thighs press together instinctively. You swallowed hard. “Fuck…”

Your hand wrapped around him before either of you could blink, fingers curling, wrist twisting a little as you gave the first slow stroke. His breath caught, abs flexing as his hands fisted the sheets beside you as you pumped him again, slower this time. Eyes locked on his face just to watch it change. “Is this how you do it?” you teased, voice a little breathless, a little smug. “When you think about me with no camera?” Yunho’s jaw clenched, a sharp inhale through his nose. “No,” he growled, eyes dark. “This is better.”

He was perfect like this. Wild and barely holding back, his hips twitching into your fist, his entire body tense under the weight of your touch. And you were smiling now, hungry. Powerful. In control for just a second. But you knew it wouldn’t last. Not with the way he was looking at you now. Like you’d lit a fuse. You didn’t say another word. You just moved, laying yourself down on your stomach right at the edge of the bed, arms folded beneath you as you rested your cheek for a second. Eye level with him. With all of him.

Yunho stood there like a goddamn fever dream, sweatpants kicked off and forgotten, one hand wrapped tight around his dick, jaw slack like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Holy fuck…” You tilted your chin up, locking eyes with him. Your mouth opened, slow, teasing, and your tongue slipped out, wet and ready, a silent invitation. And Yunho… he twitched in his grip. Like his entire body was trying to process the fact that this wasn’t a dream. That you, the girl he used to jerk off to almost every night, the reason he even started that whole camboy thing in the first place, were really here, mouth open and waiting for him like some unholy prayer.

“Don’t play with me,” he growled, voice low, dangerous. “I’m not,” you whispered, lips brushing the tip as you spoke and he groaned. Then with a tight inhale, Yunho let go of everything holding him back. His hand gripped the base of his dick, guiding it forward until the head tapped against your tongue once… twice… slow and heavy, precum slick and warm as he watched you like you were a miracle he still didn’t believe. “You have no fucking idea,” he rasped, hips flexing just enough to rub himself over your tongue again, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him as you wrapped your lips around the tip and Yunho’s head fell back, a broken laugh escaping him, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “After all these years,” he muttered, voice shaking as he looked back down at you. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last.” You took your time, because you wanted to watch him fall apart. You dragged your tongue along the underside of him, slow and purposeful, just to hear the broken sound Yunho made in response. He gripped the sheets with one hand now, knuckles white, the other still fisted tight around his base until you nudged it away and replaced it with your mouth.

You were warm and wet and so fucking eager. “Fuck…” he hissed, his thighs twitching as you sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat and your eyes watered. You pulled off with a wet pop and a smile, licking him again before diving back in, this time bobbing your head in a slow rhythm that had his hips jerking despite himself. Yunho’s fingers tangled in your hair, jaw clenched as he looked down at you. “Don’t tease,” he warned, but it was already too late, you were moaning around him now, swallowing him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, letting spit drip down your chin and onto the sheets below. Your hand gripped the base, twisting and stroking in sync with your mouth, and Yunho’s chest rose and fell like he was fighting for air.

And then he snapped. “Shit…fuck, baby,” he growled, pulling your head down and thrusting up into your mouth, slow at first… then harder. Your eyes fluttered closed, throat stretching around him as you let him fuck your mouth the way he’d always imagined. His voice was ruined, ragged, desperate, each groan making you wetter than you already were, your thighs clenched together as he used your mouth and throat like it was his personal fantasy come true. But just when his hips started to stutter, when his hand tightened and you heard him pant, “Gonna come… fuck I’m gonna…..”

He pulled out. Chest heaving, dick flushed and slick, twitching from how close he’d gotten. “Not like that,” he growled, voice dark and breathless. “Not in your mouth. Not the first time.” He looked like he was seconds from losing it as he reached down, grabbing you under your arms and pulling you up against him, mouth crashing into yours like he couldn’t stand another second without the taste. His kiss was hungry, almost dizzying, but you didn’t let him keep it for long.

You shoved him back. His eyes widened, breath catching as you pushed him down onto the mattress, your thighs straddling his waist like you owned him. “Wait…” he started, voice rough but you silenced him with a look, wrapping your hand slowly around his throat, that cross chain necklace he always wore getting stuck under your grip. Yunho’s head tipped back, jaw flexing, lips parting. His hands gripped your hips but didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Let me,” you whispered. “I want to feel all of it.”

You reached between you, guiding him to your entrance, already slick and ready for him. And god, he was big, you’d felt it in your mouth, seen it on screen a hundred times, but nothing compared to the stretch as you finally sank down onto him. Inch by slow, gasping inch. “Fuuuck…” you moaned, head tipping back, nails digging into his chest as your thighs trembled. Yunho’s eyes were blown wide, staring up at you like he couldn’t believe this was real. His hands moved to grip your waist, grounding himself, but he didn’t take back control. Not yet. Because you were still in charge, and you were finally getting what you wanted.

You started slow. Rocking your hips in a rhythm that was almost cruel with how good it felt. The stretch of him inside you was dizzying, so full it bordered on too much, and yet you couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t help the way your mouth dropped open as you found your pace, your other hand bracing against his chest while the one still around his throat tightened. Yunho’s reaction was instant. His breath hitched. His eyes fluttered. A groan rolled out from deep in his chest, fuck, that sound. You watched it ripple through him like you’d lit a fuse.

“You like that?” you asked, breathless but smug, hips beginning to move a little faster, a little rougher. “You like being choked?” His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a gasp, shaky, wrecked as you pressed down, just enough pressure to make him feel it. “Didn’t expect that, huh?” you teased, your grin feral now as you bounced harder, his dick hitting deeper, dragging moans out of both of you. Yunho’s hands flew to your hips, gripping so tight you knew there’d be bruises. Not to stop you. Just to survive you.

His eyes locked on yours, throat working beneath your hand, and when you tightened your grip again, just for a moment, his whole body shuddered beneath you. “Shit..” he gasped, voice breaking, “you’re gonna make me come like this.” You grinned. “Not yet.” He growled at your words and the second he started thrusting up into you, everything shattered.

Your hand was still at his throat when his hips slammed into yours, hard and fast, and suddenly you couldn’t tell who was in control anymore. The rhythm broke apart, all fluid heat and sharp pleasure, both of you crying out as it hit, that overwhelming rush, his name torn from your throat as you came around him, your whole body clenching, trembling. Yunho followed with a guttural moan, the kind of sound that lived rent free in your spine. He buried himself as deep as he could, holding you down on him while he spilled inside, your bodies shaking from the high. But he didn’t let you go. Didn’t even give you a second.

You barely caught your breath before he was grabbing your waist, flipping you over, pressing you flat against the mattress. Your cheek hit the sheets, lungs still struggling to catch up, and then you felt his mouth, God, his mouth was on your back. Warm, slow kisses up your spine. Tongue flicking over sweat damp skin. You whimpered, hips twitching, already sensitive, already raw. “Still with me?” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and low. You nodded weakly. “Good.” He held you down with one hand, spreading you open with the other. You gasped when you felt him slide between your thighs again, thick and still hard, nudging against your entrance, already soaked, already pulsing for him. And then he pushed in. Slow. So goddamn slow it hurt. A different kind of ache. One that made your eyes roll back.

You whimpered, fisting the sheets. “Yunho…”

“I know,” he groaned, breath hot against your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’m right here.” Each thrust was deep and deliberate, dragging along every nerve ending like he was trying to memorize the way you felt from the inside out. Overstimulated, every sound from you was wrecked now, broken gasps, whispered curses, his name like a chant. Your whole body trembled beneath him. And Yunho held you there, grounding you with his weight, his voice, his touch, fucking you slow and deep like he had all night, like the first time wasn’t enough. Because it wasn’t.

Your body trembled beneath him, your moans broke apart into soft sobs of overstimulation. He held you there, one hand gripping your waist, the other tracing up your spine as he stayed buried inside you, deep and slow, savoring every inch, every sound you made. He kissed at your shoulders, your neck, your temple, whispering soft, ragged things between thrusts. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said again, voice strained now, thick with emotion and want. “For so long.” You gasped, turning your face into the sheets, but he wasn’t done. “I was the one who slashed your ex’s tires,” he murmured against your skin, laughing breathlessly. “When he cheated on you. That night…. you were crying in my room, and all I could think about was how you deserved so much more. I couldn’t touch you. But I wanted to. I wanted to so fucking bad.”

His hips rolled deeper, slower, as he kissed your shoulder again. “You have no idea how hard it was. Watching you date losers, watching you walk around this apartment in those tiny shorts, thinking you were just my best friend…” You whined, and his fingers gripped your hips tighter. “but I wanted you like this. Just like this.” He moved harder now, still keeping that deep, rhythm, each thrust driving into you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out as you clawed at the sheets, body trembling, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Yunho leaned over you again, chest flush against your back, lips dragging along your cheek as he whispered, “I think I’ve been ruined for anyone else.” Then he kissed you, soft, desperate, a little messy, and you reached back blindly, grabbing at his thigh as he picked up pace. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the room, and your breath caught when he angled just right, dragging another sob of pleasure from your throat. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice breaking now. “You hear me? Mine.”

And you nodded, barely coherent, “Yours… Yunho….. please… don’t stop!”

“Not stopping,” he panted, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Not letting you go.” He stilled mid thrust. The sound you made, raw and aching, cut straight through the haze in his mind. And then you said it. “Stop.” Yunho froze like you’d struck him, his chest heaving against your back, every muscle in his body going tight. He immediately pulled up, eyes searching your face with panic flickering behind them because you had just told him to not stop and now…. “Did I… Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” You twisted to look over your shoulder, breathless, lips parted. “I just… I need to see you.” For a second, he didn’t move. Then realization hit like a punch to the chest, and the worry in his expression cracked open into something softer, something vulnerable. He nodded once, like he understood in his bones, and slowly pulled out of you with a hiss, guiding your hips gently as you shifted beneath him. You rolled over onto your back, your chest rising and falling, and Yunho was already leaning over you, brushing damp hair from your face, eyes flicking over you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You reached for him, hands curling around his shoulders, your thighs parting instinctively as he settled between them.

And when you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, he groaned low in his throat, like just being this close, face to face, was almost too much. “Please,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I want to see you when you come.” He kissed you, slow and deep, like a vow, and then he sank back into you, both of you gasping at the contact. His forehead dropped to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.” Your legs tightened around him, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, and his hips started to move again, slow, deep strokes that made your eyes flutter shut.

“Keep them open,” he murmured, breath shaky against your mouth. “Look at me. I want to see you too.” You did. And the moment your eyes met his again, something shifted, something cracked. There was nothing frantic now, nothing rushed. Just Yunho, bare, undone, looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted. Every thrust was deeper, more reverent, his hands cupping your face, brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs as you fell apart all over again beneath him. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Like you were something he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to ruin.

Still buried deep inside you, his rhythm slowed to a languid, teasing grind, the kind of pace that drove you wild because it gave you too much time to feel. Every inch, every brush of skin, every shaky breath against your mouth. You clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms pulling him closer like you wanted to disappear into him. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp strands of hair brushing your cheek, and his voice was low as he whispered, “You’re all I want.” His hips rolled forward again, deep and slow, the stretch still delicious, still overwhelming. You gasped, back arching, and he caught your moan with a kiss, swallowing it down like it belonged to him.

“Look at me,” he breathed, when your eyes started to flutter shut. You did. God, you did. And it was that look, his gaze locked on yours, pupils blown, jaw clenched, love written all over his face, that undid you. Your hands fisted in his hair, your thighs trembling as you broke with a sharp, cracked gasp, “I love you.” The words fell out before you could stop them. Raw and real and so damn true it hurt. Yunho’s entire body jolted like the words had struck him, and then he was kissing you again, desperate, trembling, his pace finally faltering as your release pulled him under. His groan vibrated into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep one last time, chasing the high you gave him.

He came with a low, broken sound that only you would ever hear, forehead pressed to yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like if he let go, he’d fall apart completely. And maybe he already had. Because once the haze started to clear, and he was still inside you, still holding you like a lifeline, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you. Then whispered, “Say it again.”

You were breathless, hands playing with his hair now. “I love you.” And he buried his face into the crook of your neck before saying. “You think any of those moms of your students are fans?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous!”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Wooyoung was tipsy. Not drunk drunk, but tipsy enough that his phone felt heavier in his hand and his judgment had clocked out for the night. He was sprawled on his couch, one sock missing, a half finished drink sweating on the coffee table beside him.

He didn’t mean to open Yunho’s page. Okay, lie. He absolutely meant to open it. He’d seen the videos before. Hell, he was the reason you had seen them in the first place. He knew the username. Knew the vibe. Knew the way Yunho used lighting like a weapon and his voice like a loaded gun. It was old news.

Except… There it was.

Newest upload. Posted less than an hour ago. Wooyoung squinted. “Oh?” He tapped it. The video loaded, and the first thing that hit him was the framing.

Different. Yunho wasn’t hiding his face. No shadow. No strategic angle. No cropped jawline or lips only tease. Yunho was fully visible, hair messy, expression lazy and wrecked.

Wooyoung’s grin froze. “Wait.” He leaned closer, blinking hard. Yunho’s face was relaxed. Smiling. Not at the camera. At someone just out of frame. The camera angle shifted slightly, and that’s when Wooyoung noticed it. A girl. Her face was out of frame, just below Yunho’s chest. Hair familiar. Hands familiar with that little thumb ring you always wore.

The girl never looked at the camera. Never broke the illusion. But Yunho did. He looked down at her with that soft, stupid smile Wooyoung had only ever seen him wear around one person. And then Yunho spoke. Low. Fond. Unmistakably real. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice warm and wrecked. “You’re doing so good.”

Wooyoung bolted upright. “OH MY GOD…… DID THEY JUST SOFT LAUNCH ON ONLYFANS?!”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

“i want to try something.” you watched with curiosity and awe as jeno pushed himself back until he was leaning against the headboard, muscles flexing, slivers of sunshine brushing his skin in a perfect glow. your lips parted at the sight, instinctually moving forward and taking his outstretched hand. you knew what this was. you had mentioned it before, when you were on his lap in the living room. it was a sunday night, serenity in the air and you half-dressed after a shower. he didn’t bat an eye, said you should try it while tracing your delicate lines of ink, wondered aloud if you already had. only a couple of times. with the wrong person, but a seed of something was still planted: closeness—a complete union.

your knees sink into the mattress, distance closing as you approach his waist, cock hard against his taut stomach, but his eyes are gentle and soft. jeno smiles at you, something reassuring as your legs widen to accommodate the width of his thighs. a guiding hand placed on your hips as you sink down.

the stretch is familiar. his hands on your thighs are warm. your locked gazes send a chill down your spine. for a moment, all you do is watch each other, feeling his length exactly where you want it, loving the warm buzz of need but knowing you won’t give in. you tilt your head, eyes closing as the waves of sweet euphoria lap at the edges of your mind, begging for a total flood. jeno draws you closer. your chests collide. your head dips, lips meeting his skin, grazing his neck, and sucking your favorite spot behind his ear—the place that always pulls a delicious sound from his lips. his strong arms hold you in a soft possession, fingertips kneading over your shoulders and down your back, searching for the spot that wakes you up in the middle of the night.

the feeling of your body going slack in his arms is electrifying because jeno knows what it means—how significant it is to be trusted completely, reminded of a moment so early on it feels like a lifetime ago when he told you: take what you need from me. he remembers the surprise that shifted your features. it widened your eyes, parted your lips, and warmed your cheeks. in that moment, his words meant a million things. neither one of you could know exactly where they’d begin and where they’d end, if anywhere at all. in the moments you feel like you’re taking too much, all jeno experiences is satisfaction and safety in your heart as the man you decided was worth letting in, letting yourself be known by, letting yourself connect with, and fall and tumble into something so intertwined you don’t doubt it’s cosmic.

jeno knows you’ve fallen asleep and readjusts himself ever so slightly, propping up another pillow behind him before closing his own eyes to focus on the rise and fall of your chest. the beat he feels against his own is recognized by his heart, and his breath matches yours.

you wake up to the sound of your name mumbled against your skin, an apologetic tone. “baby, i’m so sorry. i’ve got to piss.”

you hum, amused and start to lift yourself, but jeno stops you, catching you in a blissful kiss. his thumb teases the side of your breast, hardening your nipples. no fair. when he pulls away, you kiss his nose and finally disconnect with a sigh. one that melts into his own.

he’s still taking his time, and you lay propped up on your side to admire all of his solid lines, finding the soft and round places with ease. “are you sure you have to pee?”

“my leg’s asleep.” his smile is lazy, eyes shrinking to crescents. a light laughter follows, spilling a similar glow to the sun’s throughout your bedroom, its light gone until morning.

“should i stab it with a pen?” his expression sends you into giggles, and you settle for gentle squeezes along his quad muscle. “not my jen, i could never.” you fall onto your stomach and pepper kisses just above his knee. “better?” jeno hums, encouraging you to keep going.

you kiss his body until jeno stops you, groaning about the damn bathroom again, knowing his hard on will create an unfortunate struggle. “don’t go anywhere.” like you ever would.

you coo loudly, embarrassing him as he waddles through your closet and into the attached bath. “shut up!”

you turn to lay flat on your back, drawing a fingertip up your abdomen and through the valley between your breasts, completely immersed in euphoria. “don’t you dare come back in here without washing your hands.”

“who do you think i am?” the faucet turns on for a full 30 seconds - yes, you count them - before your boyfriend is back and standing over your body. he admires you: the curves he’d recognize with his eyes closed, your blissful expression, the swell of your chest, faint bruises from the weekend decorating your hip. “should we make love, baby?”

“please,” his thumb traces your lips, and you watch his face with wide eyes, eager not to miss a thing.

“you always ask so nicely, doll.”

“jen,” you moan as he pops his thumb into your mouth. your tongue circles it on instinct, satisfied, he draws it out. “please don’t make me wait.”

“i wasn’t going to,” he kisses your nose and then your forehead. sinking into the mattress, his knees entrap you this time. his thumb is coated in your saliva, not that he needs the help—your folds are already soaked. “mmm, always ready for me too.”

“you make it easy, jen.” you squirm beneath him, close to steering his thumb exactly where you need it.

“Chenle, I’m being serious,” you groan, “You need to rest it or you can’t play basketball for the rest of your life.” You were obviously exaggerating, raising your brows for even more emphasis. If he won’t listen to you by simply telling him, you might as well scare him into listening to you.

“Rest of my life?” He frowns, looking down at wrist, “I… I guess a week doesn’t seem too long… Thanks Y/N.” 

You smile, relieved that he’s choosing to listen to your advice, “I’ll see you next week then?” 

He nods and gathers his duffel bag and his sweater, dragging himself out the door of the first aid room. 

You turn away from the door, ready to busy yourself with some housekeeping items when you hear a knock at the door. It’s quiet, and you almost think that you were imagining the sound, but when you turn to face the door, you’re met with the vibrant gaze of Lee Jeno, accompanied by a sheepish smile. 

Ah… Lee  Jeno—of course.

“Almost thought you weren’t going to show up today,” you joke, “What happened now?” 

To anyone unfamiliar with the two of you, it might come across as if you weren't exactly doing your job well, seemingly rushing through treatments even when faced with potentially serious injuries. However, the guy standing in the doorway right now has been delivering the most poorest excuses for injuries you've ever heard.

Sure, perhaps a couple of questionable 'injuries' wouldn't bother you much, because maybe the person was just overly cautious about their well-being. But when Jeno strolled into your office recently with the tiniest scratch on his left calf, you couldn't help but suspect that something was definitely up. 

“I need ice,” Jeno side-steps into your office and pulls the corners of his lips higher on his cheeks, “Please?” 

“Next time, just jog over to the nearby McDonald’s and get ice there,” you say jokingly. This was his nth time in the past month asking for ice. You wonder if he’s just been using it to put into his water or if this dude just has some kink involving ice. 

You only question Jeno’s recent tendency to visit your office because, ever since you started working at the gym, he's been a regular. Hell, his physique alone is proof to his long-standing commitment to the gym. It just doesn't add up that Jeno, with his apparent gym ‘seniority’, would be falling victim to injuries so frequently.

“Here you go,” you hand him a small, transparent bag that was partially filled with ice, “Anything else?” 

Jeno’s irises fall to the right corners of his eyes in brief thought, “More… ice?”

You groan to conceal your amusement and move closer to Jeno, “Goodbye, Jeno. See you again another day!” You gently place your hands to his elbows, spinning him around and out your door.  

“No, wait I—“

“See you!” You wave, leaving Jeno no choice but to actually take his leave. 

Your coworker Jaemin sees the interaction from the front counter, and seeing that there weren’t any gym goers coming into the facility, he waves you over. 

"Everything alright?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly from the computer screen to you.

You glance at his screen and notice a game of minesweeper unfolding. Suppressing a snicker, you retort, "Yeah, same reason as last week." Swiftly, you click on an empty tile on his minesweeper grid, revealing the mine locations.

“I’m trying to help you and you do this,” Jaemin clicks his tongue against his teeth and diverts back to the situation, “It’s not in a creepy way, is it?” 

You give yourself a moment to think everything through, “I’m not sensing anything weird or creepy with it, if I’m being honest. He’s going about it… in a cute way?” 

Jaemin lets out a hysteric laugh and it echoes throughout the gym, “A cute way?” 

"There's no other way to put it," you casually shrug. Leaning against the desk, you absentmindedly flip through the management binders laid out before you.

Jaemin's brows knit, his curiosity piqued. "Cute, how?"

“I don’t know.” You’re lying. You know damn well what you meant. 

Every time Jeno decides to pull one of his ‘stunts’, he’s at your door, eyes all glossy and resembling a hopeful puppy. And when you choose to pretend not to notice him, he doesn't hesitate to clear his throat (rather obnoxiously) or hum out a soft, "anyone home?" even though you're clearly rummaging in your cupboards for more supplies.

Jaemin reads right through your feigned innocence, eyes narrowing, “Sure you don’t.”

“Well, it’s not something I can explain,” you groan, “Just take my word for it.”

“Okay… cute… does that mean you’re enjoying all this?” Jaemin’s eyes wiggle your way and you’re glad that no one’s around to see or hear this. 

You scoff, “Enjoying what?” 

"Come on, Y/N. Let's not play naive," Jaemin smirks, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” Jaemin pats your head like you would a child, which you dodge almost immediately, “Which is honestly disappointing. A guy like Jeno could probably think of something way better but he resorted to something so basic.” 

You glare at Jaemin, your annoyance evident, “I hate that you’re probably right.” Because what else could the reason be? Jeno couldn’t be that concerned for his well-being. And you distinctly recall questioning your other coworker, Xiaojun, about whether Jeno tends to show up frequently on your days off. His response? A shocking no.

“I always am,” Jaemin brushes non-existent dust off of his shoulder, “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” At times like these, you have the memory of a goldfish.

“If you were enjoying it,” Jaemin clarifies, "You did call it cute, and cute usually equals enjoyment."

There were a couple ways you could go about Jaemin’s question. Was he asking if you were reciprocating this attraction Jeno seemingly had for you? Or maybe he wanted to know if you found amusement in the ongoing situation?

Regardless, your cheeks betray you by warming at the question and the thought of your answer sliding off the tip of your tongue.

“I’d be lying if I said no.”

—

It’s no surprise when Jeno shows up to your office two days later with the same smile plastered on his face. 

He’s standing right outside of your office, waiting for you to welcome him in. When you do, he enters the room slowly, greeting you as he moves toward the medical bed situated at the far corner and away from the entrance. 

Jeno watches as you rake through a pile of disorganized supplies, “How are you?” You weren’t in search of anything specific, but you were trying to busy yourself now that Jeno was in the room with no clear purpose. 

“I'm all right," you reply casually, your voice calm. "You?” You quickly glance up at him and almost crumble to your knees. Today, Jeno is sporting a black muscle tee and grey sweatshorts, and though you've never really taken notice of his outfits before, you secretly (and shamefully) remind yourself to start doing so. 

“I’m okay,” Jeno hums, “I was wondering if I could get a heat pack?” 

You take a good look at him and narrow your eyes, “It doesn’t look like you need one.” But regardless, you make your way toward the heat packs sitting in a cupboard by the fridge. You simply wanted to hear what his reason was this time. 

“My quads are really stiff today,” Jeno replies, subtly gesturing to his legs, “I could barely get through leg day with them.” 

“Well, this should work,” you say. You pop the pack and wrap a towel around it, “There you go. See you!” 

“Can I stay here for a bit?” You don’t see the way Jeno pouts. You’re too busy making your way to your box full of miscellaneous things. He presses the pack against the upper side of his thigh, remaining seated on the bed, “I’ll leave when the heat pack is finished.” 

Jaemin’s voice echoes in your head, "Jeno is practically inventing reasons to see you.” And you can now see that it was painfully obvious. 

“Of course,” you say, “Take as long as you need.” 

You move on to organizing the supplies, trying your best not to mind the pair of eyes that were burning holes into the side of your head. 

“So…” Jeno starts, “How was your weekend?” 

“You don’t need to make small talk you know,” you say, pulling out three pairs of medical scissors, “You could take a nap or something.” With your back turned to him, you go to put the tools away, “I don’t mind.”

Jeno swings his legs in the air and slumps, “Yeah, but I—uh—do want to make small talk.” He’s half-assedly holding the heat pack to the side of his thigh, growing annoyed that it wasn’t staying in a specific place. He resorts to pinning it under his thigh. 

“Which I also don’t mind,” you say, biting back a smile, “My weekend was okay… stayed home and relaxed. Nothing super special. You?” 

You stop and turn to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the man who was now leaning back against the wall. The position looks uncomfortable, yet Jeno appears to be content. 

“Similar to yours,” he replies, “Except Hyuck forced me to play a few games online with him. It was fun, actually! But don’t tell him that.” 

You let out a snort. You’re familiar with Donghyuck, recalling how he and Jeno had made a deal that if Jeno managed to bring him to the gym for a few workouts, then he had to play some of his PC games in return. 

“How’s he doing anyways?” You question, “I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

Jeno’s brows furrow for a sliver of a second before they sit back to where they had originally been, “Last leg day killed him, so he’s given up until he recovers.” 

“Ah,” you giggle, “Can’t keep up with you, I’m guessing?” 

Jeno shakes his head, bangs creating a blanket over his eyes. He sweeps them aside, “Not really. I don’t really go hard on leg days. I’m more of a back and biceps type of person.” 

Your eyes defy you as they scan Jeno’s arms. You blame him. His statement was practically an invitation to look at his upper limbs as if you needed some kind of evidence, “I believe you.” It comes out a lot more flirty than you intended and you want to sprint out of the room before you make one more wrong move. 

“O-oh,” Jeno stammers. It was a sight seeing Jeno grow shy, using his hands to hide arms. And although he was hoping to conceal them, the man forgets that doing so only means he had to flex his arms, “Thanks?” 

You’re not sure how to reply, resorting to rummaging through the same box. You find some empty rolls of tape and you toss them in the trash. How do you even go about this conversation? Say ‘you’re welcome’? Weird. Ask him about his routine? No, it wasn’t like you were looking into building your arms. Ask if you could feel his arms? 

Shut up, brain, be fucking for real right now.

“Y/N?” 

“Hm?” You look up and Jeno’s looking back at you expectedly.

“Sorry, I zoned out a little there,” you sheepishly confess, playing with one of the box’s flaps, “Did you say something?” 

“I… uh, nevermind, it doesn’t matter,” Jeno clears his throat, “It was just about—um—something. But it can wait another day.” He smiles and it just about reaches his eyes. 

“Wait, no, tell me,” you frown. 

“It’s…” Jeno’s eyes flicker back and forth, contemplating if he really should go through with his question. He wants to—he really does—but his words fail him, teeth biting at his bottom lip. 

“It’s really nothing, ha-ha!” You watch as his gaze drops to the heat pack suffocating underneath his thigh. He uses the back of his hand to feel it. It’s still very warm, but regardless, he uses it as an excuse. “I’ll just take my leave… Um, I guess I’ll see you around?” Jeno slips off the bed, tossing the pack into the trash before he moves past you. 

“Wait, Jeno…” You make another attempt to stop him, guilt slowly creeping up on you, curiosity accompanying it because you should’ve been listening. 

For once, you wished he stayed just a bit longer. 

—

It’s been almost a week and a half since Jeno last visited your office. 

But who’s counting?

You check once, twice, thrice over your shoulder for Jaemin’s presence, nodding to yourself when you’re sure that your coworker wasn’t there to see the down-bad bullshit you were about to pull. 

Pulling up the gym’s database, you quickly type Jeno’s name into the search bar. While it loads, which feels so so painfully long, your fingers tap against the edge of the desk. You can’t believe you’re doing this.

“Hm.” 

Once Jeno’s profile finally appears on the screen, you follow his row to the Date Last Active column, seeing that he was at the gym this morning, two hours before your shift. 

A low whistle knocks you out of your trance and you jump, almost knocking the keyboard off the desktop. 

“Fucking hell, Jaemin!” You swing at his shoulder at a strength you knew damn well he wouldn’t even feel, “You think you’re funny sneaking up on me like that?” 

“Yes,” Jaemin shrugs, “Misusing the database I see…” His eyes narrow at you, brow raising. Then, he smirks and pokes at your rib, “Stalking your boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” you quickly exit the application and pull up Jaemin’s minesweeper game, “He’s not my boyfriend… Acting like you don’t do the same shit with other gym goers…” 

“I don’t see why you can’t just walk up to him and talk to him,” Jaemin sighs, “He’s still here, you know.” 

“He is?” 

“Awww your eyes lit up!” Jaemin teases, diabolically sticking a finger in your face. 

You threaten him again, which Jaemin completely disregards out of spite.

“But tell me why he’s been coming to the gym more often when you’re not here,” Jaemin, like you, was quite familiar with Jeno’s routines, “Did you do something that would force the poor guy to change his routine all of a sudden? Sometimes he wakes up at ass o’clock to get his workout done.”

Your mind reels back to your last interaction. Playing back each and every second and overanalyzing each and every word that left your mouth that afternoon. Yeah, you probably did but you don’t want to think that you’ve scared Jeno away. 

“I don’t think so?” 

“‘I don’t think so?’” Jaemin mocks, “Writing ‘liar’ on your forehead would be more subtle than whatever the hell that was.” He pauses his game and decides to fix all his attention onto you, “Now spill.”

“I really don’t know, okay?” you groan, “Last time I spoke to him, I zoned out and I missed what he was saying and then he left and he didn’t even choose to repeat it or anything.” 

Jaemin narrows his eyes at you, almost as if he’s lost all hope in his very good friend and coworker, “Y/N, did you not just graduate with a master’s?” 

Your brows meet, “Huh? What do you mean?”

He mutters a dumbass under his breath, which completely flies past your head. “Nothing.” Jaemin smirks subtly, turning away to leave in hopes that you don’t ask any further questions.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Jaemin gets flashbacks to his mom, “Uhhhhhhh, there?” The man points to nowhere in particular before taking off. 

“Na Jaemin!” You call out. Your voice echoes through the gym and you groan, slumping against the desk before accepting defeat—because what did Jaemin mean? Was he calling you stupid or something?

Not even five minutes pass when you hear Jaemin’s voice boom over the speakers, “Y/N, you’re needed in your office. Y/N, you’re needed in your office.” 

You look over to Jaemin’s office and shoot him a look that could kill. And again, Jaemin ignores your threat, grinning menacingly before he waves cause he knows he’s pissing you off. You’ve never grown used to this man’s attitude, but it doesn’t mean you don’t adore it. 

Logging off the computer, you let out a huff and pad your way past the exercise machines and into your office. And from all that you were expecting, you sure as hell weren’t expecting to find a very worn out Jeno, the hem of his tank sprinkled in faint drops of blood. 

“Jeno?” You don’t even try to mask your worry, fast-walking straight to him before you guide (practically tugging) him to the medical bed, “What happened? Are you okay?” 

An annoying and almost spiteful grin shyly appears on Jeno’s lips before he turns his palms up for you to see. His hands were covered in blisters, some popped and others brand new. They looked extremely painful to even look at.

“Fuck,” you mutter, “Didn’t I say not to overwork yourself that one time?” You turn your back to Jeno and begin gathering all the supplies you need to treat his blisters. You’re rambling under your breath, words unrecognizable from where you’ve sat Jeno down. 

Your heart’s beating out of your chest, mostly because this is the first time you’ve seen Jeno in a while. But to add his injuries on top of that? You’re certainly not sure how you’re keeping composure. 

Meanwhile, Jeno really can’t do much but watch you move from one corner of the room to the other. He wants to get up and help, but by the way an eleven forms in between your brows, he’s reluctant to even say anything. 

It’s funny because despite how aggressive you’re handling all the supplies, the second you make contact with his wrist, your demeanor changes, suddenly shifting to be more gentler. You hold his hands as if you were holding a newborn, delicately rotating them to understand what had to be treated.

“If it hurts, tell me,” you say quietly, “Actually don’t. I’m mad at you right now.” 

Jeno’s head tilts to the side like a confused puppy. Then he finally says, “Mad at me?” 

“Yes,” you grab a sheet of gauze and begin wiping away at Jeno’s palm, dabbing carefully when it comes to the blisters, “I’m mad at you.”

“Why?” 

“This is why you need a break.” You ignore his question, grab new gauze and continue wiping away the new and old blood that’s accumulated in his palms. “Jeno, I know you like it here, but your body needs rest, too.” 

A response sits at the tip of Jeno’s tongue and he’s not sure whether or not he should tell you. The last time he decided to take a step out of his comfort zone, you didn’t even hear him. 

Does he want to try that again? 

You spray his palms with disinfectant before applying some ointment to help them heal faster. At this point, you hadn’t done as much as looked up to make eye contact with the man. 

“But..” Big step. “But this is the only place that I get to see you.”

What the fuck? 

You hope Jeno doesn’t notice the way you freeze for a burning second before you try to play it off by grabbing long bandages. It’s a good thing he can’t see the way your heart is beating erratically—and you’re hoping he doesn’t hear it, too. 

“You can literally see me wherever you want if you just asked,” you say nonchalantly, voice quiet, “But instead you resort to…” You stop yourself from speaking any further, unsure if you would even want Jeno knowing that you had suspicions of him pulling fake injuries out of his ass to make excuses to see you. 

“I’m not even sure if you’d even agree to it,” Jeno confesses, “I like… I really like talking to you but—“ 

“But what?” You slowly begin wrapping the bandage around his wrist, making your way up to his palm. 

Jeno can’t help but whisper, “You don’t seem to like me as much as I wished.” 

You hold back a giggle. Jeno’s always so accidentally cute and he doesn’t even know it. It’s literally pissing you off that a man you’re fake-mad at is doing absolutely nothing to earn your affection, yet here he was, doing just that. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Jeno counters. 

“No, you don’t,” you ping-pong back. The bandage crosses between his fingers and you manage to finish wrapping the bandage around his palm. 

“I do.”

“Did you ask me?” You gulp, because at this point you’re afraid where this conversation was going. 

“Well, do you like me?” 

You move onto his other hand, grabbing another roll of the long bandage. You could feel the atmosphere in the room begin to shift and now you’re beginning to sweat in your light sweater. 

“I do.” 

Jeno clears his throat, “In the way I like you?” You groan. Of course he’d say that. It was a valid follow up question, simply because your answer could very much cover that broad spectrum of like. 

You ask, “How do you like me?” 

Jeno takes a moment to think about his answer, watching as you start replicating your work from his other hand, “I honestly… think it’s obvious how I like you.” “Mmm,” you hum. At this point you’re teasing him on purpose, “How so?” 

“I make myself look like a fool when it comes to you,” Jeno huffs, “Ice? Heat packs? Who am I kidding…” Jeno scoots back in his seat and you follow, practically falling between his knees from the way he’s sitting. “Every time I come here looking for you, that’s when I gain the confidence to finally ask you out… well not always out but maybe for your number or just simply talk to you or something. I wanted to be friends and then more if it went well…” 

Your movements slow, attention failing to even do a decent job at bandaging. 

“But, when I finally reach this room and see you? It’s like I lose all that confidence and it’s stuffed in the bag with the ice you give me,” Jeno explains. “I’m even lucky enough that I can finish my sentences around you…”

You blink at his injured palm and the realization dawns on you. So this was what Jaemin was hinting at, “And that last time… you asked me out and—”

“And you didn’t hear me,” Jeno finishes, “And I couldn’t for the life of me repeat what I asked because my confidence plummeted and then the fear of rejection kicked in.” 

Your hands have since halted, cradling Jeno’s hand as you try to calculate your next move. It’s now clear as day that Jeno has feelings for you, and you’ve slowly been coming to terms with yourself that you care a little too much about Jeno than a normal person should. 

“Ask me now.”

“What?” Jeno practically jumps, startled and confused. 

You drop the bandage roll and lightly tighten your grip around his hand. Looking up, you find that Jeno’s gaze has already been sitting and waiting for your own to meet his. You clarify, “Ask me what you asked then, now. This time, I’m listening.”

The reassurance from you lifts some weight off of Jeno’s shoulders, ones he didn’t know even existed. Then, he fixes his composure, moistens his lips and finally says, “Would you–um–like to go out for dinner with me?”

“My answer then and now are the same,” you smile down at your feet, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze, “I would really love to.”

Eyebrows reaching for his hairline, Jeno’s eyes widened, “Wait, really?” 

“Really,” You nod. And although you try to look anywhere else in the room, Jeno’s eyes capture your eyes once again, holding them there for a few skips of your heartbeat. 

You clear your throat and let out a breathy laugh, “Haha so um… let me just—“ You hastily pick up the bandage roll and return to your work. 

It doesn’t take much longer before you finish, concealing and protecting his injuries under the bandages. “Now that you’ve got me, promise me you won’t overwork yourself like this?” 

“I’ve… got you?” Jeno’s cheeks heat up at your choice of words, the shift between the both of you being so evident now that he’s experiencing a weird case of whiplash. 

“Shut up,” you mumble, “Just promise me. I don’t wanna have to keep worrying about you getting hurt.” 

Jeno laughs, completely enamoured at your own flustered state. 

“Date, huh?”

“Yes.”

He rubs his index finger thoughtfully over his chin before saying, “Go ahead. Take the afternoon off.”

Whew. “Thank you, sir.”

“I hope you won’t go on your date dressed like that.” 

What?

You pause, thinking you misheard, and blink at him, who is now looking at his computer screen like he did not just make that snide remark. You look down at your clothes — baby blue silk blouse and a cream skirt — this is not a bad outfit. Not that you were going to go on your date like this anyway. You asked to leave early so that you could go home and freshen up.

Biting your cheek, you hold back any retort. Instead, you decide to overlook his petulance and offer him a smile as you step back. “I will see you on Monday, sir.”

He does not respond and you march out of his office.

—

The man in front of you — Eric — is underwhelming. You already forgot his last name.

he is definitely not worth you going home early to take a full body shower, shave and put on makeup and a nice dress. One hour into the date at the Italian restaurant, he keeps on talking about some start-up he and his buddies are working on, not bothering to ask you a single question.

As you play with the cherry tomatoes on your plate, occasionally nodding as a pretence of listening, your mind starts to wander. And like most times, they drift to the thought of Choi Seungcheol, your boss.

You have had a crush on him for a few years now. The story is an embarrassing one but you have come to own it over time. Five years ago, when you first joined this company as a junior sales executive, he was the COO. He made a good name for himself and the previous chairman loved him, so it was almost an open secret that he would be the next one to take over. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, with a side of sharp intellect and unapologetic bluntness, gaining everyone's admiration if not support. 

As expected, once the ex chairman resigned two years later, Seungcheol became the CEO. Right away, he needed a secretary and he wanted someone within the company who already knew the ropes. Among the five applicants, you got the job, and right there, your future was decided — working in close quarters with Choi Seungcheol, the handsome, brooding man whom you looked up to immensely. And somewhere between you switching roles and becoming his right hand person, you fell for him. Hard. 

And it was supposed to be a secret. A harmless little crush. Until that one mistake drunk you made. 

You had sent your coworker Minji — who is also one of your best friends since college — a text one night after a team dinner, fangirling about your boss in the most brazen way. The next morning, you woke up to see that you, in fact, did not send the text to Minji but the group chat you were in with all the sales team members. Words spread like wildfire, and on Monday, when you showed up at work (while contemplating on what excuse to make up and quit this job and leave this city; possibly the country) word had already reached Seungcheol. Once in his office, he asked you only two questions. Was it true? You nodded yes. Were your feelings going to affect your work? You vehemently shook your head no. As unbothered as ever, he signed some files, handed them back to you and said that all was good and he would overlook this fumble. 

And so, since then, everyone in the office knows you have heart eyes for your boss. And over time, you have gotten good at acting casual about it. Except, you know, there is nothing casual about it. It has become a disease, the way you yearn for that man, and it was high time you decided to get out of that cycle of torment. 

Which is why you are on this date.

And it isn’t really going well.

Eric is still, somehow, talking about his start-up. With a tight-lipped smile, you interrupt him as your patience stretches thin, “Shall we order dessert?”

—

It is drizzling now. 

Outside the restaurant, you stand and wait for your Uber, which seems to be malfunctioning. For the past ten minutes, it has been looking for a driver, but to no avail.

Eric left a while ago, parting with decency once you said you were not sure this would go anywhere. He agreed, saying he was too focused on his business right now anyway. So, that was that.

As you stand and watch the rain, contemplating your life so far, a familiar voice calls your name. “Secretary ___?” You turn around to see Yoon Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s closest friends and a big name in the business world. You have worked with him a lot on various projects over the past few years and he has almost become your friend as much as he is Seungcheol’s — especially due to his easygoing behavior and charming humour. He is the exact opposite of Seunghceol in terms of personality and attitude, and you sometimes wonder how they are such good friends.

“Good evening, Mr. Yoon.” You smile.

“See, I thought I saw you earlier when I came in.” He says, stepping out of the restaurant and standing next to you. “Were you not here with someone else?”

You nod.

“Date?”

Another nod with an awkward smile.

“Let me guess, it did not go well.”

“Not really.”

He chuckles. “Well, it is good to see you trying.” He sends a playful look your way. “As I have always been saying, you are too good for Seungcheol. I can get past you being his secretary, but his girlfriend? Nah, that guy isn’t worthy of you.”

Yeah, even Jeonghan knows about your crush on his friend. Probably everyone in this field does.

“I am sure Seungcheol would not like hearing you badmouth him.” You tease.

Jeonghan sends a dramatic look of offence your way. “Badmouth? I am stating the facts, ___. And he would agree with me.”

A black Mercedes pulls up in front of you, the driver stepping out to hold the back door open and Jeonghan extends a hand, gesturing you to get in.

“What? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you.” You refuse politely.

“No trouble, ___. Get in. You are not going to find a ride anytime soon.”

You bite your lip, hesitating for a second. “Thank you, Mr. Yoon.”

“When are you going to stop calling me that? I told you, Jeonghan is fine.”

Maybe it is the wine in your blood that enables you to say, “Alright, thank you for the ride, Jeonghan.”

He smiles, closing the door behind you.

—

“How was the date?” Seungcheol asks without sparing a look at you as you set down his morning coffee on his desk while he flips through the pages of a report.

You pause. “It was…okay.”

His eyes stray from the documents briefly, taking a quick look at your face before returning to the report. “Seems it was unworthy of the afternoon you took off.”

You look around his office helplessly, uncomfortable at his sudden questioning. It seems like he is picking on you on purpose. You decide it will be better to divert the conversation, “I met Jeonghan at the restaurant.” You cringe at how you accidentally refer to his friend by his first name. 

Your words finally make your boss drop his work and regard you with full attention. “Jeonghan?”

“Erm, Mr. Yoon, I mean.” You avoid his eyes. “He was kind enough to offer me a ride home, since it was raining and all.” You need to stop blabbering. Seungcheol stares at you silently for too long a moment, his intense eyes focused on you as if he is decoding something.

“I see.” He murmurs after a while.

A beat of silence.

“Well then, I will prepare for the meeting.” You awkwardly bow while stepping back, eager to rid yourself of the growing tension in the air. With his usual expressionless face, Seungcheol’s eyes follow you until you are out the door.

—

The meeting today is, in fact, with Jeonghan. This weekend, his gallery is holding an art exhibition, sponsored by Seungcheol’s company, with him as the keynote speaker. Today’s meeting is to cross-check if everything is in place and for last-minute adjustments. 

“Where is my dear friend?” Jeonghan asks as he takes a seat in the meeting room. You take a seat on the opposite side of the table while a junior employee distributes the printouts across the table. 

“He will be here soon, Mr. Yoon. He told me to go ahead and start the meeting.” You smile. Jeonghan drums his fingers on the desk. “I thought we agreed you’d call me Jeonghan.”

You pause, looking around, briefly meeting the eyes of Jeonghan’s secretary as well as the employee arranging the desk. “At work it may not be the most appropriate.” You explain.

He sighs dramatically. “You know, sometimes, I feel like you are becoming quite like Seungcheol.”

You look at him, wide eyed. “My god, what do you mean?”

He throws his head back and laughs, “The idea is distressing, no?” 

“Your face is distressing.” A voice says quietly but unamusedly and you turn back to see Seungcheol stepping into the meeting room, with his usual air of boredom. Taking the seat next to you, he murmurs, “Why don’t you stop flirting with my secretary and optimize the work hours?”

“Someone is extra grumpy today.” Jeonghan teases with a knowing grin. Ignoring him, Seungcheol says to the junior employee, “Mina, can you pull up the slides?”

The rest of the meeting is productive as the four of you finalize all the details and map out the entire event. As the discussion rolls to an end, and your boss is getting up from his seat, Jeonghan says, “___, I would like to have you as a translator for the exhibition day.”

Surprised, you blink at him. Next to you, Seungcheol, who just got up from his chair, stills. Jeonghan continues, “You know, there will be a lot of French guests and I would love it if you were my translator. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

“Just hire a translator,” Seungcheol says dryly. 

“Oh come on,” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a baby. ___ has helped us out with translations before. I need someone I am familiar with and someone who is smart and charming.” He turns to you. “You have no problem with it, right?”

“Uh,” you glance at your boss, who is staring at his friend with narrowed eyes. “No, I don’t mind.” You are supposed to be there anyway, as a representative on Sungcheol’s end. So getting paid separately to be there does not hurt. Besides, you have always loved meeting new people.

“It is settled then,” Jeonghan smiles, clasping his hands. “I promise to return her to you, Cheollie. Stop glaring at me like that.”

“Whatever,” your boss murmurs and marches out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a loud thud. You cringe, before looking at Jeonghan, “I’m sorry. I have no idea why he has been behaving weirdly for the past few days.”

A mysterious smile kisses his lips, “I think I know why.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He turns to his secretary, “Could you please email the contacts of the French guests to ___.”

—

The exhibition starts at 2 pm, but you arrive at Jeonghan’s gallery by 1 pm. Jeonghan’s secretary, Chan, gives you the tour, showing you around the space and the paintings being exhibited while his boss finishes a meeting. Just before the exhibition is about to start, Jeonghan finds you.

“Hey, ___. Sorry, my meeting took longer than expected.”

You smile. “No trouble. Chan was a very helpful guide.”

“That’s good to hear.” He replies before glancing down the length of your body. “You look stunning, by the way.”

Flattered, you glance down at the length of your baby pink dress before giving him a smile. “Thank you. You look great as well.”

He fixes the lapels of his maroon suit with a dramatic gesture. “Thanks, this is a custom piece from Italy. By the way, when is your boss going to grace us with his presence? He does know that he has to be here by 4 for his speech, right?”

“He said he would be here in time.” You give Jeonghan a tight smile. “He had a few meetings in the morning.”

“And let me guess, he is brooding.”

“Yeah, the warehouse shift has been a challenge.”

“Mhm, I think that’s not all.”

“What?” You blink. Before he can reply, Chan calls his name. With a reassuring smile and a soft squeeze on your shoulder, Jeonghan takes his leave.

Thus starts the event. You greet the guests and show them around the gallery, chatting and socializing all the way through while keeping an eye out to make sure everything is going as planned. Despite your worries, Seungcheol shows up on time — 15 minutes before his speech. After the viewing, the crowd moves to the auditorium for the panel discussion, where Seungcheol delivers his speech, along with a few other guests. You have some food, observe the scene, and help the staff with anything they need before finally, the exhibition officially rolls to an end.

To your surprise, Seungcheol stayed the entire time. You had expected him to march out the moment he was done with his formalities but he stayed the entire length of the artist’s discussion panel, hovering around, never quite coming to you or addressing you, puzzling you.

Why was he acting like a stranger?

Just as you are contemplating his behavior with a glass of champagne in your hand, Jeonghan appears. “Thank you so much for your help today, ___. You were amazing.”

You grin. “You are too kind. And it was my pleasure. This is a really good exhibition.”

“Thank you, I am glad you enjoyed it.” He winks playfully. A cameraman walks past you and Jeonghan flags him, asking for a photo of the two of you. You pose next to him, flashing a big smile for the camera. Just as you are recovering from the blinding flash, you see Seungcheol heading towards you.

He is dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit today and all afternoon, you have tried your best not to let yourself drool over him. It does not work right now, as with the jacket off, you can see the muscles of his bicep bulge underneath the white shirt and momentarily, your mind blanks.

“Ugh, there comes Mister Sourpants.” Jeonghan murmurs. Seungcheol comes to a halt in front of you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he looks at his friend. “Great work on not botching the show.” He says unimpressively. Jeonghan laughs, slinging an arm over his shoulder, “You underestimate me, my friend. But thanks for showing up and not badmouthing me on stage. I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“I was looking at the pictures.” Your boss responds indifferently.

“Well, since you are all still here, let's go grab dinner together.” Jeoghan offers.

“No thanks, I am going back to the office.” Seungcheol removes his friend’s arm from his shoulder. When Jeonghan looks at you expectantly, you say, “I would love to, but not today. I have to go to the office too, as I left my charger. My battery is about to die. I have some work to finish up as well.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, “Ever the workaholics. Come on, people, work hours are over!”

“Let’s have dinner on Friday night, perhaps?” You look at Seungcheol for confirmation but he seems busy with his phone, dialling his driver’s number. As he presses the phone against his ear, you notice something and your hands instinctively reach out to fix his crooked tie, before smoothening the hem of his vest. You have done it multiple times before — for meetings and press conferences — as Seungcheol’s tie always seems to rest in a crooked manner. 

As you finish fixing it and he hangs up the call, your eyes lock with his and a shiver runs down your spine. In a split second, the air seems to be full of tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife and hot enough to ignite a fire in your belly.

Fuck. You look away and retract your hands, trying to act as normal as possible. “Your tie was crooked.” You murmur.

“Thanks.” Seungcheol’s voice is quiet.

Jeonghan looks at the two of you with a growing smile of mischief. “Well,” he looks pointedly between the two of you, clasping his hands, “I will let you kids get back to work for today. Thanks again for your help, ___.”

“My pleasure.” You smile, suddenly embarrassed to meet his eyes. With a harsh pat on the back and a suggestive wiggle of his brows, Jenghan says goodbye to Seungcheol, grinning like a Cheshire cat. With his friend gone, Seungcheol wastes no time, marching towards the exit, “Let us get going.”

—

It is suffocating inside the car.

Even with the AC on full blast, it feels like a thousand degrees in here with zero ventilation. The earlier tense moment between the two of you seems to linger, now even more amplified than before in this enclosed space. 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to think of something to talk about but coming up with nothing. You don’t trust yourself to speak right now, so you try your very best to look out the window and pretend there is no one sitting next to you. After a while, when doing that gets tough, you pull out your iPad and start sorting through your work. 

Just then, Seungcheol speaks. “You seem to have gotten really close with Jeonghan.”

Oh boy. There seems to be an edge to his voice and you are unsure how to reply or what to reply. An awkward laugh floats past your lips. “I mean, he is easy to get along with, you know.”

“Mhmm.” Even the Sahara is not as dry as his tone.

You glance at him, waiting to hear something else. For a brief second, you let yourself be distracted by his gorgeous face — the couple of stray strands of hair on his forehead calling your name, making your hand itch to put them back in place.

Though if it were up to you, you would mess up his hair. And his clothes. And his back—

“From now on, don’t help him out.” He turns to look at you. “He might be my friend but business is still business and you are my employee.”

“Uh, okay.” You whisper. Your boss looks back out the window, and you interpret that as the conversation being over. You return to your work, but for some reason, the numbers and the letters on screen make no sense to you.

A moment later, you whisper, “Did I do something to upset you?”

Seungcheol turns his head slowly to regard you with a quizzical look. A sudden rush of emotions swirls within you, and for a scary moment, you think you might cry. With a deep, calming breath, you meet his eyes and try to flash your usual professional smile. “If you are displeased with my work or anything I have done, I hope you will let me know.”

Seungcheol is mute and slightly wide-eyed, almost like he is scared of you. The silence stretches on like chewing gum, and he looks like he is about to say something, but the car halts, and you waste no time getting out.

A quiet and suffocating elevator ride later, you step into your floor, with Seungcheol leading the way. The office is now empty and quiet, save for your footsteps, which halt in front of your desk as you set your things down. Seungcheol continues his way towards his personal office, but stops at his door. Turning his head back, he says, “Can you come into my office for a second?” His voice is not commanding, and he almost sounds unsure.

Confused, you stare at him for a second as he stands at his door, eyes fixed on you expectantly. Quickly plugging your phone in, you walk towards the double doors, stepping through the one he was holding open.

The second you are inside, Seungcheol locks the door shut behind you. You only get a second to process that you are pressed against the door with Seungcheol’s body dangerously close to yours and keeping you trapped, before a hand cups your jaw and tilts your head up.

“I can’t pretend anymore.” He whispers so low, you almost miss it. 

“What?” You croak, your heart galloping like a racehorse, your knees are suddenly weak. What the fuck is going on? Are you dreaming?

His eyes meet yours before he utters very quietly, “I can’t pretend that I don’t care for you. I care much, much more than a boss should care for his secretary.”

“I…I don’t…” You mumble, heart racing in your ribcage, brain functioning on overdrive to make sense of what is happening. 

“I am going to kiss you now, ___.” He warns. Then, Seungcheol is kissing you. 

Warm, soft and delightful, you forget to breathe for a long second, your heart swooning, ready to burst. Almost unconsciously, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close, molding your body with his. His large arms wrap around your back and your waist, pressing you flush against him, and you swear it is the best feeling in the world.

When you part, Seungcheol looks at you with glistening eyes, warm like a summer afternoon and for a second, you get lost in them. The kiss lingers on your lips, making you bite your lower lip. Like yours, your boss’s lips too, are swollen and just as he leans his face towards you again, you stop him, pressing your hands flat on his chest.

“Wait. Stop.” You say, voice too loud amongst the stillness.

Seungcheol pauses, eyes flashing with worry.

“Are you drunk, Mr. Choi?”

“What?”

“This cannot happen if you are drunk.” You take a deep, shuddering breath. “I… I cannot be your plaything. You know very well that I like you — I have been for a while and I’m trying to make sense of why you are suddenly doing this. I…I cannot—” you are suddenly choked with emotion, your gaze falling on the floor.

“___.” He says your name with a tenderness unlike ever before. “Look at me.”

You cannot bring yourself to, fighting to keep the tears at bay. With a finger below your chin, he tilts your face up to meet his eyes. “I am not playing with you. I am doing what I should have done long ago.”

“What?”

“I like you, ___. A lot. And I have liked you for a while. I just did not realize it,” He sighs, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. “Well, I actually did…I think. I just did not want to give in to it, I suppose, with the dynamic we have and all.” His pauses, looking back at you. “I know this is pathetic, especially with the way I have been behaving for the past few weeks, but I cannot pretend anymore. I hate seeing you go on those dates. I hate seeing you be friendly with Jeonghan. I want to do those things with you. I want to be with you.”

Breathless, you gape at him, still struggling to believe that all of this is real.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

“I took you for granted.” He continues. “I got so used to your presence around me that I thought I would have you forever, forgetting that you could eventually move and find someone else, not only getting over me but leaving this job altogether.”

“So what, this is a ploy to keep me working here forever?” An awkward laugh comes from your mouth. Seungcheol keeps looking at you with a somber expression, a quiet storm brewing in his eyes.

“I mean it, ___. I want you. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours.” He says quietly.

Wow. You must have died and gone to heaven.

Realizing that there is not much left to say, you inhale a steady breath, remove the gap between the two of you with a few quick steps, wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. Seungcheol wastes no time, wrapping his arms around you, meeting your lips with an equal fervor and the passion of a starving man. Lips connected, bodies in embrace, he guides you through the office, stopping in front of his desk and pushing you against it.

Catching his breath, he swiftly takes off his jacket and your fingers reach out to undo the buttons of his vest, shaking with hazy desire. He helps in taking off your dress, undoing the ribbon on the back and pulling down the zipper before tugging it down with one strong move. Left only in your bra and panties — which do not match by the way — you cringe in embarrassment while trying to combat the sheer amount of desire flowing through your veins. Seungcheol, unbothered, gets down on his knees, face to face with your pussy.

“Oh my god, what are you doing?” You squeak. The response is him taking off your panties with a tug so harsh that the lace on the edges rips.

“Seungcheol!”

“That’s right. That’s how you call me from now on. And that is the only word I want to hear from you now.” He commands with a burning fire in his eyes as he grabs your thighs, putting them over his shoulder and then gets to work. 

Shit.

His tongue laps at your core and the first touch has you falling back on his desk, pushing down the stack of files and stationery on the floor. His tongue works at your core mercilessly, switching between playing with your folds and sucking your clit while you writhe in his grasp that is iron clad. With each flick of his tongue, your moans rise, and then he inserts one finger, which very quickly turns into two, and you think might die from the pleasure.

"Fuck!" You cry, body twisting and turning on his desk, desperate to get away from his touch but wanting it simultaneously. It is maddening —whatever that is happening, and you feel your high building, too quick, too strong.

"I cannot...Seungcheol...I think— I think—"

His response is muffled and you can only hope its a positive one as you feel the tremors run through your body, sitting right at the edge of an orgasm. His tongue moves like he has known your body for years, and with one strong flick on your clit, you go off, falling head first into an abyss of pleasure, all your nerves on fire.

As you lie flat on his desk, body still trembling from the orgasm, Seungcheol smothers kisses on your belly, slowly going up towards your chest and then your neck, biting and sucking your skin however he likes. You have bearely had a couple of minutes to recover, but heat starts pooling in your belly all over again, your hands coming up to wrap themselves around him, soft sighs parting from your lips as he kisses your jawbone, soft and sweet.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers in your ears. With a thousand butterflies fluttering in your stomach, you turn your head to capture his lips in a kiss.

Then, he stands up, discards all the remaining clothes from his body and makes himself comfortable between your legs. You prop yourself on your elbows, taking a good look at his chiseled body and his flushed cock, which stands tall and angry, pointing at you.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” Your boss hums, stroking his length, before hooking an arm underneath your thigh and yanking you closer to the edge of the table, your pussy a mere inch or so away from his cock.

“I am so sorry, sir,” you smile suggestively and Seunghcheol exhales a rough breath.

“You better keep screaming that when I pound this pussy.” His eyes shine with determination. You bite your lip, giving him a cheeky smile and watch as he inches his cock near your pussy. You take in a deep breath as he pushes his cock inside you, tantalizingly slowly, making sure you feel every inch and your nerves are on fire. With a moan, you fall back on the table, eyes falling shut with the way he fills you up over and over again.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol hisses, his voice throaty as he goes all the way in, and you swear you feel him in your stomach. With a loud cry, you cling onto his body, nails digging into his back and your toes curling at each thrust. He builds a pace, pushing in and out of you in steady movements. Your brain feels like mush as you fail to utter anything, your mouth simply hanging open to let out breathy pants as you close your eyes and feel every ridge of his cock move in and out of you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters underneath his breath, eyes set on you so intensely, you feel a shiver run down your back. “Seungcheol…” his name parts from your lips like a prayer. Another mutter of curse from him before he stops his movements and yanks your ass upwards. The new angle makes his length curve inside you and you start seeing stars.

“Oh my god,” you hiss, eyes squeezed shut. The back of your thighs rests over Seungcheol’s, your legs wrapped around his waist, and your hands clutching his arms as he starts to pick up pace. With each thrust, the force increases, the tip of his cock hitting your most sensitive spot, low groans falling from his lips to match your breathy moans. 

“Shit...I want to cum...please,” your whisper mindlessly, the words scattered between whines of pleasure. “You want to come?” He taunts, leaning closer to look at your face. “Beg me. Say sir, please let me cum.”

Oh god. 

The need to find your release only intensifies at his words. You are so close you can almost taste the blissful release, and as you utter the next words, you wonder what other hidden kinks you have. “Sir, please let me come.” You beg, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer to you. The man squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a low groan, his pace increasing.

“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me,’’ he hisses in your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Please, sir.” You whisper, doe-eyed and drunk on his cock. “Oh baby,” he murmurs, before leaning in to seize your lips in a bruising kiss. With one hand, he keeps a firm hold on your jaw while the other reaches below to touch your clit as he wastes no time rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pads of his finger, all the while continuing to thrust inside you earnestly.

“Seungcheol!” With a loud cry you part your lips from his, your entire body jolting at his touch.

Your reaction makes him smirk as he chases his own high, not far away from finishing inside you. Standing up, he slows he pace ever so slightly, making sure to put all his body weight in each thrust as he places your clit between his thumb and index finger, giving you a particularly harsh rub followed by a pinch.

You are catapulted over the edge. Your vision goes white, your entire sweat-coated body twitching on his desk from the intensity of the orgasm. It only amplifies as you feel Seungcheol spill inside you, his warm release filling you up while float as high as the clouds, pure bliss overtaking your senses. 

Once you have caught your breath and managed to gather your senses, you realize you lie on top of Seungcheol on the office floor, your bodies pressed together, riddled with exhaustion and sweat. For a moment, you say nothing, just feeling Seungcheol’s chest go up and down with every breath he takes.

“I can’t believe we just did that. In the office.” You whisper, almost like someone would hear you. Seungcheol shifts underneath you, helping you rest your head on his arm. “Me too but about time I acted on my desires.”

Shy but intrigued, you look at him, “Have you been wanting to do this for a while?”

“Fuck you on my desk?” He asks bluntly, making your face heat up. “God yes. You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that.”

A small burst of laughter parts from your lips, delighted at his confession. Snuggling closer to him, you start tracing your index finger aimlessly over his chest. “We are going to be a nightmare for HR.”

“Fuck them. I am the CEO.”

His response makes you smile. “You are serious about this, aren’t you?” Seungcheol’s hand reaches out to cup your cheek, tilting your face upwards to look at him. “If you still have any doubts in your heart, you need to let them go because I am dead serious. You are mine.”

His words reignite the fire in your belly. And the way your lipstick marks are branded all over his face does not quite help either. Still, you decide on teasing him with a pout, “Was that supposed to be a confession? At least buy me some flow—”

You are cut off with another ruthless kiss. His tongue passionately makes its way into your mouth, meeting yours that is equally wanton. You claw at his chest, a soft moan escaping your lips as you feel him growing hard again.

“Fuck,” he almost yanks himself free from your lips. “Let me get you home before we start round two here.” Your delighted laughter rings in the air as the two of you get dressed.

Next morning, when you wake up in Seungcheol’s bed, a bouquet of a hundred roses sits at the foot of the bed, with a note saying:

Can I be your boyfriend?

For a bonus epilogue, click here! This work will also be cross-posted on my AO3.

© startlightxsvt 2026 | All Rights Reserved. Do not copy, translate, adapt, or repurpose any of my works.

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.”