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scene: hanging out with your friends.

“Wait, no, you cannot seriously be telling me you like the pink one better.” Koria stared at me like I had just committed a crime.

“I’m telling you, the blue one is objectively better” I said, holding up the two products between us. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

Wonhee immediately started laughing from beside us. “You two have been arguing about this for, like, twenty minutes.”

“Because she’s wrong,” Koria said without hesitation.

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my bag from the chair. “Whatever. Keep buying the ugly one, then.”

The three of us burst out laughing as we started cleaning up Wonhee’s room. Her bed was covered in clothes, skincare products, and random things none of us remembered putting there. We spent the next hour talking about everything from our situationships and relationships to planning out our next hangout, occasionally getting distracted and completely forgetting what we were supposed to be doing.

By the time we finally left, it was already getting late. We walked toward the elevator together, still joking around and talking about what we should do next weekend.

“Okay, but seriously,” Koria said as the elevator doors opened, “next time we’re actually going somewhere instead of sitting in Wonhee’s room for five hours.”

“deal!” I laughed softly.

After saying our goodbyes, I headed home, tired but still smiling from the afternoon. The conversation replayed in my head as I made my way back to the apartment, already looking forward to getting comfortable and relaxing for the rest of the night.

scene: finally getting home.

I unlocked the door with a tired click and stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment, the scent of vanilla and coffee.

The living room was bathed in the amber glow of a floor lamp. Riki was sprawled across the couch, man-spreading with a level of comfort that only comes from owning the space entirely. He was focused on his phone, his thumb scrolling rhythmically. The light from the screen caught the sharp line of his jaw and the pale, blonde strands of his hair that always seemed to fall perfectly over his forehead. He looked relaxed, almost sculptural, and for a second, I just stood there in the entryway, forgetting to take off my shoes, thinking about how unfair it was that he looked that good just sitting still.

He didn't look up immediately, but he knew I was there. He always knew. 

"You're late.." 

he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the floorboards.

He tossed the phone onto the cushion, the device bouncing once before settling. In one fluid, riki was on his feet and crossing the distance between us. He didn't stop until he was flush against me, his chest a solid wall of heat. He slid his arms around my waist, pulling me in with a suddenness that knocked the breath out of me, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. The first kiss on my neck was slow and wet, a lingering press of his plump lips against my skin that sent a sharp jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

"mm... hi, pretty girl" 

he murmured. His voice had dropped into that husky, subterranean register that always made my knees feel like they were made of water.

"hii ki, did you miss mee?"

i tried sounding normal, but my voice sounding small and breathless even to my own ears. I leaned back into him, my head tilting instinctively to give him more room. The friction of his muscular frame against mine was intoxicating; he felt like a radiator in the middle of winter, grounding and overwhelming all at once. He didn't pull away, instead trailing a line of slow, deliberate kisses up toward my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

He pulled back just an inch, just enough to look at me. His dark eyes were hooded, shimmering with a playful sort of hunger that he only ever showed me. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He loved the way my breathing hitched, the way I practically melted into his hold, and he thrived on the subtle tension that had been building between us since the moment I stepped through the door. his hand slithered down below my hip before giving my ass a soft slap, while licking his lips, maintaining eye contact. 

"of course.. i always miss my pretty girl when she’s gone.." 

he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of my hip bone through my clothes, applying just enough pressure to make me gasp. He didn't let go.. instead, he tightened his grip on my waist, pulling me flush against the hard planes of his chest. The air between us felt thick, charged with a familiarity that had evolved over years of friendship into something far more volatile.

He shifted his weight, guiding me forward until his heels hit the edge of the couch. With a low chuckle, he sat down into the soft cushions and pulled me in his lap. i hovering over him.. while he looked at me like he owned the very air I was breathing. He didn't rush it. riki was a master of the slow burn, his gaze drifting from my eyes down to my lips and back again. He reached up, his fingers grazing my jawline with a tenderness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes. 

"Did you miss me, princess?"

I tried to answer, but the words died in my throat as he leaned in, his lips hovering a fraction of an inch above mine. He was teasing me, intentionally leaving that tiny gap of space to make me crave him more. I reached up, my fingers tangling in the soft caramel hair at the nape of his neck and instinctively pulled him closer. The small, needy sound that escaped me only made his smirk widen. He loved it when I stopped pretending to be patient.

"aww” he cooed “beg for it, baby.." 

he murmured, his voice a velvet rasp against my lips. He shifted his hand from my waist to my thigh, his palm warm and heavy as he slowly rubbed circles into my skin. 

“cmon baby, use your words for me..” 

he teased. The sensation was overwhelming... his voice raspy but so deep, a slow heat began forming between my legs. I let out a shaky breath, my eyes fluttering shut. "please, riki.. just kiss me."

riki let out a soft, triumphant purr, the sound vibrating against my lips before he finally closed the distance. It wasn't a tentative kiss.. it was a slow, deep, and messy claim that seemed to swallow the air from the room. His lips were incredibly soft but firm, molding against mine with a hunger that had been simmering all day. He tasted like the sweet tea he’d probably been sipping earlier, and the way he tilted his head to deepen the angle made me feel like I was drowning in the best possible way.

His hand on my thigh didn't stay still.. it migrated upward, his fingers kneading into the soft skin of my hip with a possessive grip that left me breathless. He broke the kiss for a split second, just long enough to whisper 

"good girl" 

against my mouth, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat through my entire body. He knew exactly how much those two words affected me, and he used them like a weapon, timed perfectly to make me feel completely undone.

As the kiss resumed, it became more urgent, more rhythmic. riki’s other hand drifted from my jaw to the small of my back, arching me up toward him until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between us as i straddled him. The weight of my body was a comforting pressure to him, pinning him into the couch while my tongue danced with his in a slow, wet, and deliberate cadence. Every time I tried to pull him even closer, he’d let out a low, guttural moan into my mouth, a sound of pure satisfaction that told me he was enjoying this just as much as I was.

He eventually drifted away from my lips, trailing a path of searing kisses down my jawline and back to the sensitive spot just below my ear. He lingered there, his teeth grazing my skin in a way that made my toes curl. 

"you're so reactivate.."

he murmured, his voice dripping with a playful sort of arrogance. 

"I love how you just fall apart for me." 

I shifted my hips, rubbing against him in a way that made his breath hitch, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like it was stripping me bare.

I started to slowly grind back and forth on his lap.. then he caught my hips, pinning them gently but firmly against his lap so i stopped moving. He wasn't using much force but it was enough to make me not able to move. He looked up at me, his dark eyes shimmering with a mixture of affection and mischief. The way he looked at me.. like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, always made my chest tighten.

"what do you think you’re doing.. hm?" 

i didn’t respond.. i was to caught up in to my desires, so i was slightly embarrassed.

riki noticed my embarrassment, of course he did.. he notices everything.

his lips curling into that signature smirk. He released my wrists only to slide his hand down my side, his palm grazing my ribs before landing heavily on my thigh again. He didn't move his hand away.. instead, he began to rub slow, deliberate circles into my skin, his thumb pressing deep into the muscle. The warmth of his touch was dizzying, and I could feel my body betraying me, arching instinctively toward him.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against mine, his breath warm and steady. 

"you're so needy, angel.."

he teased, his voice dropping an octave. 

"Is that all it takes? just a few kisses and a little bit of praise to make you this desperate f’me?" 

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through my entire frame, and for a second, he just watched me, savoring the way my pupils dilated and my breathing became erratic. He loved the power he had over me, and more importantly, he loved that I let him have it.

The friction and heat of the moment eventually slowed into a heavy, satisfied silence, the kind where the only sound in the room was the synchronized thumping of two hearts trying to find their original rhythm. riki didn’t pull away immediately.. he stayed under me for a long while, his forehead resting against my shoulder, his breathing still a bit ragged. He gave me one last, lingering peck on the tip of my nose.. a sudden shift from the intensity of moments ago to something purely sweet, before he finally rolled off me with a contented sigh. He stretched his arms wide, his muscles rippling under his skin as he let out a long yawn that sounded almost like a purr.

"I think we should watch a movie.. yea?”

he murmured, his voice still thick and husky. He reached over and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, though he didn't get up, instead he draped me over his lap until I was tucked firmly under his arm, my head resting on his chest. The transition was seamless, moving from the electric tension of desire to the warm, domestic comfort that defined our life together.

"what are we watching?" 

I asked, my voice still a little raspy. I shifted, curling my legs up over his lap and nestling deeper into his side.

"Something that doesn't require any brain cells.."

he replied, scrolling through a streaming menu with a lazy flick of his thumb. He paused on a horror movie we had both seen a dozen times, a choice based more on the familiar background noise than the actual plot. As the opening credits rolled, riki shifted his position, sliding his hand back to my thigh, not to tease this time, but just to keep me anchored to him. He began to absentmindedly rub small circles into my skin, a gesture of affection that felt like a silent promise of safety.

The horror movie was less of a cinematic experience and more of a rhythmic backdrop to our shared silence. As the predictable screams filled the room, riki’s hand continued its slow, hypnotic journey across my thigh, his touch grounding me in a way that felt like home. We didn't really talk about the plot.. instead, we drifted into that comfortable, quiet space where words weren't necessary. Every few minutes, he would lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the top of my head, his lips grazing my hair with a tenderness that felt even more intimate than the passion from before.

As the credits began to roll, the amber light of the living room seemed to soften, pulling us deeper into the lull of the late hour. riki shifted, pulling me closer until I was practically on his lap again, my face tucked into the crook of his neck. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his chest rising and falling in a steady pace. He began to murmur something about how tired he was, but he didn't let go. He just held me, his fingers tracing the line of my shoulder with a lightness that felt like a caress.

"cmon.. let's get you to bed, angel." 

he whispered, his voice now a gentle hum rather than a husky rasp. He stood up with a fluid motion, lifting me slightly as he shifted his weight, refusing to let me walk on my own. He guided me toward the bedroom, his arm anchored firmly around my waist as my legs wrapped around his waist. There was no teasing now, no demand for begging or praise.. just a quiet, overwhelming warmth that settled in my stomach. He treated me like something fragile and precious, a stark contrast to the possessive hunger he'd shown on the couch.

Once we reached the bedroom, the cool air of the room hit us, but riki quickly pulled the blanket back, ushering me into the sanctuary of the sheets. He climbed in beside me, the mattress dipping under his muscular frame. He didn't just lie down.. he pulled me back into his orbit, wrapping his arms and legs around me in a protective cocoon, his chin resting atop my head. I could feel the steady thrum of his heart against my back, a rhythmic reminder of the years we'd spent growing up together.

He pressed a final, slow kiss to the nape of my neck.. not one of passion, but one of pure, unadulterated affection. 

"goodnight pretty girl.." 

he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. 

"sleep well.. and make sure to dream of me." 

he let out a soft chuckle.. i felt a small, contented smile pull at my lips as I relaxed completely into him. The tension of the day and the electricity of the evening faded into a peaceful haze, replaced by the scent of his skin and the comforting weight of his embrace.

As the silence of the apartment settled around us, I felt the same sense of security I’d felt since high school, only now it was layered with something deeper, something that felt like a promise. riki tightened his hold for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgement that he wasn't going anywhere, before his breathing slowed into the heavy rhythm of sleep. Wrapped in his warmth, I closed my eyes, drifting off to the sound of my best friend's heartbeat, knowing that tomorrow would start exactly the same way.

“Y-You’re crazy-! Ah-! Wait, wait, not so rough…!” You barely get your words out through your panicked breathing before Riki’s shoving his hips up against you. He bullies his cock into you from behind at such an unforgiving angle. Deep, full thrusts that leave your poor cunt with no choice but to take it, walls stretched open from how thick and long he is, hole fluttering and drooling around him as your consciousness swims and blurs all around the edges.

“So fucking tight… Your body looooooooves this dick, doesn’t it?” There’s such a mocking whiff of glee in every syllable of his words. “She loooooooves it, looooooves gobbling up my cock. So greedy.”

You whimper helplessly. You want to shove your head back down and let his downy pillows swallow up all of your sloppy noises, but tears prick at the corners of your eyes. His grip on your hair is so relentless. 

Thrust. “Fuck- Ah- Riki!” 

Thrust. “You’re- you’re going to break me…!”

Thrust. “We’re not even close like that- There’s no need to be like this-!”

You’re scrambling to keep your sanity. Each snap of his hips has you seeing stars. Fuck, fuck- Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, you’re going to cum at this rate. You don’t know where your inner thoughts end and your audibly mindless babbling begins. You’re flipping all over. Bargaining for mercy, appealing to logic, just crying out like a wounded animal as his cock rubs itself all over your insides. Lewd squelching noises echo around the room. Smack, smack, smack, as if the sounds of your rabid fucking exists just to break you down that much further. 

Shame burns at your face and exposed skin, but the unrelenting knot that’s been mounting inside your stomach burns harder. You hate just how right Riki is, how every demeaning thing he coos at you only proves him correct. 

You love how it feels, even with your brain screaming otherwise. You love the sting and burn of his fat cock shoving your cunt open. You love how he buries himself so deep into you, enough to make it feel like his tip is pressing up against your windpipe. 

“Riki!” You choke out. You’re more or less screaming at this point. Mortification and arousal are one and the same as you sob out his name. Over and over again, the only thing to ground you as Riki grips onto you possessively, making sure the foundation of the dorm and its thin walls quiver from just how good he’s making you feel. 

His command is singular. “Louder.” 

He yanks at your hair again, and your face careens upwards towards the ceiling. You’re leaking all over his cock at this point. Your juices are only making it that much easier for him to fuck into you. Animalistic thrusts, his base instincts wholly taking over with the singular goal of making you gush on his dick. It’s fast and sloppy and rough, and fucking hell—you just know you’re never going to get dick as good as Nishimura Riki’s for the rest of your life.

You’re close to tears. “Riki!”

You don’t think Riki was even your bias. “Riki!”

You don’t think Riki crossed your mind that much before. “Riki!”

You don’t think Riki was someone you cared about when you first got into the group. “Riki!” 

“Now all my hyungs know what I’m doing to you. That the pretty girl they’ve all been eyeing up is getting her pussy fucked out and bred by their youngest.” His words go straight to your cunt. You’re clenching around him for dear life. Your cunt cries out in refusal every time he moves his hips back, as if the two millisecond before he’s drilling back into you is a waste. 

He huffs in triumphant laughter under his breath, “Did that turn you on? You’re close, aren’t you? You’ve been leaking and squeezing me for so long… You keep saying shit like ‘ah, ah, ah, not so rough!’ but you actually like it when I pound into you like this.”

You’re going to lose your mind. You can’t take this anymore, but if you don’t get more of him, you might actually stop breathing. You barely eke out, “I’m gonna- Please- ‘m so close-! Need it so bad, Riki… Feels s’good…!”

“Yeah? So close to what?” He’s not one to give you what you want so easily. If you weren’t so fucked out of your mind, you think you might have thrown something at him for his sheer audacity. But god, right now, with crazy good dick fucking you out like tomorrow doesn’t exist, you’re not above caving. 

“I wanna cum! I wanna cum- wanna cum-,” you slur out, voice ringing out like clear morning bells through the debauched night. “Wanna cum on your cock! Your cock feels so good- Love having sex with you-! Love having sex with your cock- I can’t- I can’t hold on anymore!”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s cracked that devilish grin. The one that’s gotten you acting so stupid to begin with, the one that got you trapped in his bed, the one that has you like putty in his hands.

He practically purrs, “There you go. Now you’re being just as honest as your pussy.”

The next thrust does you in. You nearly fall forward in a silent shriek as your orgasm rips through you. Pure heat claws at your core, and you stiffen, unconsciously clenching up all around him and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Ears blown out and eyes rolling back, you cum shamelessly all over his dick as he empties himself into you. Warmth explodes all inside of you as he fucks you through it until you’re a boneless mess.

When you droop like a wilted flower back onto his sheets, only then does he finally let you bury your head into his pillow. Well, it’s not like you’re actively burying your head in there; you simply don’t have the strength to move elsewhere. Not when you’re still buzzing with the high of your climax, not when he’s sapped your strength so thoroughly, not when your brain has given up on your body completely and all you can do is just lay there and struggle to process everything while Riki leers down at you victoriously, his sticky cum pouring out from between your thighs. 

You really, really can’t stand him. 

You made a mistake. 

Last night wasn’t supposed to escalate like that. 

You have enough self-awareness to come clean and admit that much to yourself. This isn’t just unique to Riki (which… you have quite a bit to debrief about, even if it’s only to yourself again). You’d like to think that you’re more mature than to have your shit rocked this thoroughly and then end up passing out in the bed of said-man-who-rocked-your-shit. 

But you did, and no amount of morning-after regret is going to change the fact that you woke up in Riki’s bed with a disturbingly sore body and a horrifying revelation that you won’t be able to look yourself or him in the face for a while. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, the room still dark and ambiently moody, and the mound breathing rhythmically next to you signals that Riki is still blissfully asleep. 

You take that as your cue to get out of there as fast as you can. Your body whines in protest, but you fight your way through the stiffness in your limbs and the undeniable ache settling in on your lower back and gingerly swing your feet to get up. You move as efficiently as you can, dressing with whatever you can find without trashing the room too much, while doing your absolute best not to disturb Riki. 

You’re not willing to gamble more of your pride to sleep in and stay longer. You’re not one to judge anyone after the position you’ve found yourself in today, but you highly doubt that Riki’s the type of person to wake you up with a kiss, a gentlemanly “good morning,” and send you on your way with an Uber and breakfast in your stomach. You’re not delusional enough to think that you’re anything special, not when he probably has a line of admirers spanning the world’s equator who’d kill to be in your place.

So objectively speaking, you know you shouldn’t linger. But for some reason, you hesitate right in front of his closet. Hand over your heart, you didn’t seduce Riki with the intention of stealing from him. If it was monetary wealth you were after, you’d fuck your way into Jeff Bezos’s will and hire a hitman to take him out. But your hands itch, and if Riki won’t treat you to at least a taxi and breakfast, then you might as well pamper yourself with something to make the aches and time lost worth your while.

His chains? No, that would be too expensive.

His shoes? No, that would be too weird for you to find any use out of.

His designer clothes? No, that would be too obvious.

You scan the room, ears perked and heart pounding for anything that might tip you off to the fact that you might be caught red-handed. But Riki continues snoring, and before your nerves can give out on you, you decide on your target. Like Atalanta scooping up her golden apples, you lurch forward and extend a hand. 

Your fingers curl around his Chrome Hearts beanie, and you slip out of his bedroom while rubbing your knuckles over the soft material. The hallway outside is dark, the rest of the members most likely asleep or cocooned up in their own respective rooms. Your footsteps are muffled as you carefully pad out over the main areas. You quiet your breathing, keep your mind honed, clutch the beanie close to your body like the purloined booty it is as you race towards the front door. Your thoughts are singular.

Get out.

Get out.

Get out.

“...Holy fuck-!”

You almost scream and eat shit when you nearly collide straight with someone. Red-hot panic flashes through you as you lurch forward, tripping over your own feet before barely managing to straighten yourself. Your eyes strain through the murky darkness of the dorm, only to come face-to-face with who you recognize to be a very frazzled Jay. His hair is a mess, and there’s a half-drunk glass of water in his hands, explaining why he’s sneaking around at this hour like you are. 

He blinks in your direction, and you angle your body to hide the beanie you stole. Your heart hammers inside of your chest—th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump—until Jay just settles on giving you a good-natured nod in acknowledgement and shuffling off. You stand there for a few breaths longer, fright still gripping your brain in full force. Only when you’re absolutely certain that you won’t be intercepted again do you bolt and finally succeed in escaping.

You don’t want to think too much about what might have gone wrong. You don’t want to think about how often Riki must hook up with other people for Jay to appear so unphased by your escape walk of shame. You don’t want to think about what might happen if Riki notices that his Chrome Hearts beanie is gone.

You’re not special enough for him to notice. That is your one saving grace, your light at the end of the tunnel, your lifeline in your sea of floundering mistakes. 

If Riki has noticed anything, he doesn’t show it. Days pass, and somehow, your paths end up intertwining. Don’t misunderstand—it’s not like he shows up Disney style with a diamond ring in his hand atop a white horse, but you run into him every now and then over the course of a few months. Some meetings are nothing more than amicable, with him peering over his costly sunglasses and giving you a jerky nod in greeting. 

Others are more intimate, and they end with your thighs smeared with loads of his sticky cum and a sore back for the following few days. You’re growing used to waking up with a dull pain flaring up there from how rough he always gets, but shamefully, you’re growing more used to the terribly addictive pleasure he sicks onto you with wicked delight. It’s escalating to the point that you’re slowly looking forward to each hook-up, desire and heat and want pooling deep in your belly whenever you think about how good the stretch of his thick, veiny cock feels. 

For better or for worse, your kleptomaniac tendencies continue. You don’t steal from him after every hook-up. That would be a rookie move, and the last thing you need to throw a wrench into the situationship you have with Riki would be for him to find out that you’ve been pawing through his closet. You always keep it small but profitable; though, the last part is only in theory since every time you do leave his dorm with his Chrome Hearts in tow, you never end up selling it.

The logical part of you knows that the risk is too high. Knowing your luck, he might end up stumbling across the listing and finding you out, or his company might find out and sue you with their brigade of impenetrable lawyers for artist endangerment or some shit. The emotional part of you is fond of your trophies, and because you feel bad that they’ve started collecting dust in your house, you’ve started to integrate some of the more mundane pieces into your wardrobe.

An earring to spice up your outfit on a night out in town with friends. The beanie that started it all when you’re making a quick trip to the grocery store and don’t feel like making your hair look presentable. Sunglasses for when you’re driving—just because you get a kick out of the thought of expensive designer shades being used for something so mundanely utilitarian. 

You never steal anything ostentatious, and you never wear anything ostentatious. Always something small and plain, with just enough plausible deniability that it could be something you acquired yourself organically. You always do your due diligence to make sure you don’t wear them on days you know for sure that you’ll run into Riki, but every now and then, you run into someone else you don’t expect. Like Jay, who you quickly discover gets up a lot earlier than you expected after continually bumping into him on your walks-of-shame out. 

But then you move onto bigger prizes, although that’s mostly with Riki’s permission. You wake up again with a thick layer of crusties in your eyes, and you spend about thirty seconds rubbing them all out. Your eyes are puffy and your throat is sore, undoubtedly from crying and sobbing and moaning after how much Riki overstimulated you last night, and you hobble out of his bed as if you’re a disintegrating scarecrow. You methodically get dressed, haphazardly yanking on your pants (your underwear has disappeared to god-knows-where with how vigorously he was ripping your clothes off last night) and socks before pausing.

Shit. Your top is nowhere to be found. You scour all around the bed and even take a peek around some of the more isolated nooks and crannies of Riki’s dorm room, but as if they’ve been carried away by a ghost, it’s nowhere to be seen.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You need to put something on and skedaddle. No matter how many times Riki’s fucked you and made you come undone in the worst ways possible, you don’t have it in you to face him the morning afterwards. Even more so knowing that this is when you steal from him. You shuffle around, debating if it’s worth stealing one of his shirts or if you should take a big towel from their bathroom to fashion into a makeshift toga, when Riki groans and shifts.

You stop dead in your tracks. Fucking hell—today genuinely was going to be a day where you weren’t actively going to steal from him. You think you might shit your guts out from the guilt alone, and you freeze right where you are. Breath held, stomach clenched, eyes trembling, you pray that he doesn’t wake up.

But life would never be that kind to you.

“...Mmh?” He mumbles sleepily, pushing himself upwards into a seated position. He blinks a few times groggily, and right when you’re debating on running for it while he’s still not fully conscious, does he recognize you. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs before flopping back down on his bed, “Why’re you in such a hurry to get out?”

You pause, and you gnaw on the inside of your cheek. What the fuck are you even supposed to say to that? Why does he have to be so casual about the fact that you two are so intimate? You hate that your heart flutters, hate that you were caught in such a preventable situation, hate that you even let this whole thing turn into a big ordeal. You should have kept it at one good hook-up and exit with no string attached, and now you don’t even know what the correct thing to do would be.

“I… have things to do,” you offer up. It’s only a partial lie. The thing in question that you need to do is leave, so you can lick your wounds and pretend that you’re not growing a little too comfortable with this arrangement. You muster up your courage, bolstered mostly by the pounding adrenaline in your head. “I can’t find my shirt. Can I take one of yours?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Riki gestures vaguely in the direction of his closet. “’s gonna be pretty cold today, I think. Sunoo-hyung kept ranting yesterday about his skin drying because the weather’s changing up. Take a hoodie or something.”

You tiptoe over and open up the closet. The holy grail of Depop resellers stares back at you as you squint through the darkness to mull over your pickings. “A hoodie seems excessive… I just need a t-shirt.”

“Take the fucking hoodie. I don’t need you bitching and moaning about how it’s my fault you caught a cold after going home in nothing but a t-shirt.” A muffled voice retorts from the sheets. “I can always buy another one. Do you fuck broke men on the regular? Why are you acting all prim and proper now?”

You want to roll your eyes. Only he could be this sassy after rearranging your guts. Would it kill him to let go of his whole nonchalant thing and just say that he cares about you enough to want you to stay warm? “I can go fuck said broke men instead,” you huff.

Riki responds with an audible snort. “You wouldn’t. You like my dick too much.”

A flare of embarrassment goes off inside your tight chest, and you physically bite down on your tongue to keep yourself from lashing out anymore. The atmosphere prickles with heated tension, and as much as you love getting your brains fucked out, you don’t think you have it in you to do it back-to-back. Or in what might as well be broad daylight. That feels too wanting, too forward, too everything. 

You need to get out. You run your hands over the hangers and pick one at random. The material is heavy and thick, and when you slip it on, it rests over you like a comforting backhug. 

It smells tantalizingly of him.

You don’t linger too long afterwards, but there’s an odd tug in your chest as you make your usual exit out of the Enhypen dorm. Something about this whole thing is too close to comfort, like a boyfriend sharing his clothes with you instead of you gaslight-gatekeep-girlbossing your way through making his incessant pussy battering worthwhile. You don’t know how to feel about the fact that he’s softening your edges just as much as you’re softening his.

When you walk out, you even give Jay a little greeting as you head out. He gives you a polite greeting back, though today, he stares the slightest bit longer than usual at the sight of you so openly in Riki’s clothes.

You made a mistake.

You knew better than to expect that you could keep your whole thing with Riki entirely under the table. You did everything you could to keep everything under wraps, but if you’re crazy enough to do what you do with him, the people who want to be the one doing what you do with him are even crazier.

It was only a matter of time before people would start finding out. The members were a given, and to an extent, some of the group’s sasaeng fans. You were under the impression that once enough people did find out, the company would serve you some papers and brush you under the rug and that would be it.

NI-KI OF ENHYPEN FINDS A GIRLFRIEND? UNKNOWN FIGURE SPOTTED WEARING MATCHING CLOTHES AND SNEAKING OUT OF KPOP IDOL’S DORM. 

What you did not expect was for a whole news article, complete with pictures, to be the reason why you’re pacing around the Enhypen dorm like a caged animal. Pulse drumming in your ears, limbs twitchy, dread thudding through your veins in a second heartbeat, saying that you’re full blown freaking out would be an understatement. Is there anything you can even do about something like this? About the fact that some anonymous tipper has more or less doxxed you? You had the foresight to immediately get rid of your phone and bolt from your current address the moment you found out, footsteps unconsciously bringing you to where Riki was in vain hopes that he might be able to help navigate this.

So here you are. Stuck in the dorm like a hostage, waiting for Riki to come back home, too scared to peek out the window in case a mob of rabid fans are outside waiting to pelt you with tomatoes. Or the company’s legal team. Both.

Jay, ever the gentleman, keeps you company the best he can. He’s already brewed you a cup of hot tea (which has gone untouched, mostly because if you drink anything, you think you’ll hurl it back up), phoned Riki an ungodly number of times for you (“He’s on his way,” Jay tells you over and over again, “He’s only a few minutes out.”), and tries to feed you something so that you’re not running on sheer adrenaline (which you once more refuse). 

“I know this is a shitty situation, especially for you.” Jay moves to pick up your untouched mug of now-stone cold tea, and he shuffles over to the kitchen to stick in the microwave. You gnaw on your already battered lower lips as he gives you what he probably intends to be a comforting smile. You don’t say anything until the microwave beeps after a while, and Jay returns with your tea.

“I’m scared,” you choke out through strained breathing. “How am I going to live after this? I won’t be able to show my face in public.”

“You’ll have Riki.” Jay takes your trembling hands and maneuvers the warm mug into your grip. The heat spreads against the inside of your palms, and though it’s only for a millisecond, it does make you feel better. Jay beams at you again. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. He’s lucky to have someone like you.”

You tense up at the mention of his name. Your tongue is thick and heavy in your mouth, and you swallow the growing lump that’s made home in your throat. “I… Me and Riki… We’re not like that.”

Jay cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. “Hm? Not like what?”

Good god. Having to spell it out with your own mouth is making you burn so much more with shame. You might as well be rubbing salt on your open wounds. Your nails drag against the hard surface of the mug, and you tear your gaze away from Jay’s earnest eyes.

“We’re not together. Not in a boyfriend-girlfriend way,” you manage out. You can’t help but start to chew on your mouth and lips again, nerves eating away at your burning insides. “We just hook-up like… a lot. That’s all. Really.”

If Jay was supposed to show any real emotion to that, he doesn’t get a chance to. The front door of the dorm flies open with enough force that it might as well have been kicked in, and you’re so strung up that you end up sloshing some tea over your hands. The tea isn’t hot enough to burn you, thankfully, but it’s enough to make Jay’s parental instincts kick in and swipe the mug from you like you’re a toddler that can’t take care of yourself.

Riki comes in, breathless, impeccably pretty face screwed over in worry. His eyes widen when he sees you, and you instinctively lurch forward in his direction, all of your prepped speeches and crash outs and everything going blank once he’s actually here in front of you.

He takes the words right out of your mouth. “We need to talk.”

A hand clamps down on your wrist, and before you can object, he’s yanking you in the direction of his room. You stumble with him, barely keeping up with his urgent footsteps, and a new wave of dread engulfs you as you cross the threshold from dorm to bedroom. It’s something you’ve done countless times, and yet, today feels as if you’re crossing the point of no return.

“Hey, be gentle!” Jay calls out from the common area. Riki pays Jay’s comment no mind and shuts the door behind him. It locks into place with a metallic ‘click,’ and only then are you finally alone with him. Face-to-face, just the two of you, a sobering realization that something that wasn’t supposed to get this far, has in fact, gotten this far. 

You should talk. You need to talk. You have to find the clarity amidst all the topsy-turvy chaos and straighten out your story with Riki before Belift pummels you into anonymity and silence. You should know better than to expect any real gentleness from someone like him. Happy endings don’t come out of mindless sex, and happy endings definitely don’t come to someone who might have gotten this whole thing busted from stealing out of his closet.

“Riki, I-,” you try to start. You don’t get far. You’re half-expecting him to be angry with you, to start screaming and yelling and acting unreasonable, but instead, what you find sends a completely different chill down your spine. 

It has to be your eyes playing tricks on you. 

There’s just no way, no fucking way, that he looks absolutely victorious right now.

Everything ends the exact same way it began.

“Riki, you’re being unreasonable-,” you stutter out as his hands start impatiently yanking at your clothes. You have a half a mind to try and calm him down, work some logic back into him so you can put out the bomb that’s landed squarely in your lap, but it’s so difficult to stay grounded when he’s actively cornering you against his bed and staring down at you as if he’s going to eat you whole. Your mouth goes dry as he shoves you against his bed, and soon enough, you’re performing the same song and dance of shedding your clothes while you half-heartedly argue with him.

His palm cups your clothed cunt. His voice is deep against the shell of your ear. “I saw that you were talking to Jay-hyung. Did you talk to him for a while?”

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap. You stumble over your own words. “H-He was the only one home when I came by. He was just being polite and making sure I’m okay. Riki- Riki, fucking listen to me! There are news articles about us right now- This isn’t the time to have sex!”

He looks at you straight in the eye, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “Everyone else knows we’re fucking now. What are you getting all shy about?”

Your words die out in the back of your throat at that. Riki gives a small huff, and the rest of your clothes are coming off of you like you’re shedding a second skin. You’re all too used to the rhythm of this. The sensation of his cool sheets under your body, the heat of his breath fanning against your neck as his lips bite and kiss and suck, the tight grip of his hands as he gropes at your chest and stomach and hips.

“Riki-,” you whimper out. Need builds up inside of your chest and core. You wish you had the fortitude to keep your thoughts straight and to get your ducks in a row, but with Riki on top of you and making it impossible for you to process anything other than him, you’re a lamb led to the slaughter. “Riki- We- I-”

“What are you so worried about? Your safety?” He licks at your cheek, and you shiver. He captures your lips in an open-mouthed, selfish kiss, and he moans obscenely into your mouth at how sweet you taste. “You have nothing to worry about. You have me.”

“I-,” you force out in between sticky making out, “-I won’t be able to show my face in public! Or get a job! How am I going to support myself?”

Riki stops dead in his tracks. You barely hold back a sigh, wondering if that was the reality check he needed to realize the gravity of the situation. But then he shifts downward, and when he opens his mouth to press a kiss to your chest, he instead bites.

And he bites hard.

You shriek. It can’t be more than a mere second, and yet the sensation of his teeth sinking into the curve of your soft chest emblazons itself into a dark part of your mind. It hurts, hurts so bad—even when being rough, Riki has always made sure to balance the pain with the pleasure. This was something he did to hurt you, to make sure you felt his capability to inflict it onto you, and for some fucking reason, you liked it. Deep down, you fucking liked it.

“You’re not listening to me,” he hisses, “Everyone already knows what we’re doing. Hell—I bet your polite Jay-hyung is piecing it together right now too. I said I’ll take care of you. Everyone thinks we’re together. So why don’t we?”

Getting shot in the head point blank might be less shocking. Your blood runs cold, and any cloudiness in your mind disappears with a snap. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know you heard me.” He pushes up off of you, and your breath catches dangerously when his hands slide down to your hips. He drags your now-soaked panties down, tossing them behind his shoulder. He sits there, taking a second just to admire the sight of your naked body underneath him, quivering with the knowledge that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

There’s the sound of his belt coming undone and the shuffling of fabric as he drops his pants. You hold your breath as he pulls his cock out, the tip swollen and drooling. You want it inside you. You want him to come to his senses. You want him to fuck you like tomorrow doesn’t exist because tomorrow genuinely doesn’t exist for you. You want him to take this more seriously and figure out a more solid plan of action.

He catches you licking your lips. “You want it? Lay back down. I’ll give you the cock you love so much. The cock you’ve more or less ruined yourself over.”

Your face burns, and your stomach twists in on itself. “You don’t need to phrase it like that… I’m trying to be serious.” And yet, you find yourself complying. You sink back down into his bed, mattress against your back. You spread your legs, and it feels like a permanent shiver has made its home in your spine when the cool air hits your dripping slit.

“And you don’t think I’m being serious?” Riki asks. He slots himself in between your legs, the kiss tattoo on his pelvis flashing before your eyes before your thigh obscures it. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

He grips the base of his cock, and he slaps the heavy tip against your swollen clit. The wet sound from the simple action is so obscene, it makes your face burn all over again. Sparks shoot up your core, and you need more. He rubs his cock up and down your slit, moaning as your pussy lips envelop his thick length.

Your pride is the lump in your throat. Your pride is the humiliated tears threatening to well up in the corners of your eyes. Your pride is your hungry cunt betraying you, your juices coating Riki’s cock in an undeniable sheen.

“I know you want it.” He breaks the terse silence first. His cockhead rests right against your entrance, just catching against the tight ring of muscle. He watches you like a wolf stalking its next meal, the ghost of a smile hinging on the corner of his lips as your cunt pulses and shivers, clenching visibly around nothing. “You trust me, don’t you?”

How the fuck are you supposed to answer that? You hesitate, and Riki’s eyes narrow in displeasure.

“Trust me,” he urges, firmer. “Tell me you trust me, and I’ll give it to you. Three words. ‘I trust you,’ and I’ll take care of the whole fucking thing.”

You can’t trust him. You know for a fact you can’t trust him. But what other option do you have? You have no other real support system you can turn to. Belift is out of the question. Your own social circle is probably coming undone from the barrage of doxxing and incessant inquiries from fans and news reporters alike. Jay is patient and kind, but that’s it. He’s an acquaintance that’s being a good Samaritan and nothing else.

You really only have Riki.

Your lips tremble unconsciously. Even though this is a single, isolated moment in time, for some reason, this whole thing suddenly feels like it’s been long overdue, the climax to an exposition that’s been building for a long, long time.

“...I trust you.”

The delight is palpable on his face. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Now all you need to do is turn your brain off, and let me take care of you. I’ll fuck you nice and hard until you can’t even think about anyone other than me. Just trust me.”

He thrusts into you, one sharp motion that has his whole length embedded inside your weeping hole. You arch your back, and aching pain and electric pleasure shoot through your veins like a hit of a drug. It hurts, and it feels good, and true to his word, once he sticks his cock in you, it’s like the world melts away. He barely gives you any time to adjust, immediately pinning you down underneath him so you can’t move and snapping his hips into you. Deep and hard and fast, making sure you feel every inch and ridge so that the mind-numbing pace is all you can register.

“Fuck- so fucking tight-,” he grunts. He’s not even trying to hide that monstrous possessiveness of his anymore. He looks so goddamn pleased with himself, making you cry out and sob and go incoherent just from having him put it in. “See? We’re meant to be. There’s no need for us to go around tiptoeing anymore. All you need to do is just take my dick like you’re meant to. This cunt was made to be ruined by me. You were made to be fucked by me. I’ll make it so that you can’t live without my cock.”

“S-So rough…!” You whimper. Your mind is teetering on nothingness already. The tension building up inside of you is already too much, your body already having been worn out from being stuck in fight-or-flight. Now you’re stuck in fuck-or-fuck, and you somehow keep digging yourself into deeper and deeper graves. 

“Say it,” he demands in between each thrust, “Say that you can’t live without me. Say that you’ll have me forever.”

It’s torture. He’s hitting you in all of the best spots, making you gush around his thick base every time he bottoms out. He’s always manhandled you whenever you came over for his stupid booty calls, but this feels different. There’s genuinely something at stake here, and with Riki determined to escalate your relationship from misconstrued one to a real one, he’s railing into you with a single-minded purpose.

You’ve already promised yourself to him, haven’t you? Long before panic running to his dorm, long before the news article that led to the panic running to his dorm, long before stealing the clothes that led to the news article that led to the panic running to his dorm, he had worked you into his trap. You walked into his arms and gave him your body, and since when has Riki ever willingly let go of something he’s gotten a taste of?

Your sense of responsibility is long gone now. All you care about is the burning in your cunt, the heat that his cock stirs up inside your guts, the insistent and all-consuming need to turn into a mindless slut and live only for him. “I-I can’t live without you! I can’t live without your cock! Please- Riki- Please- I need to be with you!”

“Need to be with me for…?” He trails off mockingly. He gives a particularly sharp thrust, and his cockhead brushes into your G-spot at such a devastating angle that your body nearly convulses. The hot tears have started slipping past your waterline. Scalding rivulets mark your pathetic state.

You moan what he wants to hear most out. Each word is underlined by his thrusts, his pointed thrusts that make you feel like you’re both animals in heat, the world dissolving away into nothing but an amalgamation of limbs and sweat and sex. “I want to be with you- I need to be with you forever! Riki, ‘m so close- I think I’m gonna cum! So close- Please, need to cum on your cock…”

“Yeah? Gonna make a mess all over me? Gonna prove to me that my cock’s the only thing your cunt needs?” The undeniable sloppy sounds of bodies hitting each other punctuate his harsh words. “I know you’re almost there. Just a little more, and I’ll let you cum. See? I told you you could trust me. I told you I’d take care of you.”

You’re going to go mad with desperation. Your body’s at its limit. It’s been at its limit for a while. You only need a little bit more to get where you need to be. He’s stretching you out in all the right places, fucking you just right, making you cry out his name and have your brain melting out your ears with each passing second.

“Anything- Anything, Riki!” You babble out.

He repeats, faux incredulity spiking his voice. “Anything?” 

“Anything!” You reaffirm. You don’t even sound like yourself anymore. You don’t recognize the carnal desperation in your voice, the shameless wanton need that makes you sound all high-pitched and fucked out.

Riki leans in, and you moan again as he kisses you. His tongue slides over yours, all spit and wet and mouths sucking on each other. “Say that you love me. Say that much, and I’ll let you cum as much as you want.”

You’re going to die. You’re going to die in his bed. You’re going to die in his bed from getting railed by him. 

Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing is off the table. Nothing is too much for you to store away as a last reserve. Nothing is to be hidden and stashed away from him, not when he’s demanding your everything to be laid out and claimed as his.

“I love you! I love you!” You cry out, full blown sobbing. “Let me cum- Please! Riki, I love you- Love you so much! I love you, I love you!”

You don’t remember how many times you’ve screamed it out. You just kept saying it over and over, until it satisfied him, until you could feel the knot inside your stomach snap violently and you’re cumming all over his dick. Squirting and making a mess, there’s no way to deny the fact that you’ve just orgasmed on his cock. 

That you’ve just came from telling him that you love him.

But you can’t think. Not with the haze covering your mind, not with your body feeling like jelly now that all the adrenaline and tension has left. Especially not when Riki presses another sickeningly sweet kiss to the crown of your head, and a flicker of heat flares back up inside your belly when you feel him draw his hips back. His cock is still hard, and he isn’t done indulging in you the way he’s wanted for all this time.

“That wasn’t so hard to say, was it?” He whispers. Another kiss to your forehead, and then he’s tucking away the sweaty strands of hair splayed across your face. A strangled cry worms its way out your throat when he gives an experimental thrust.

“I haven’t cum yet,” he murmurs, “But we can fix that. And it’ll be okay since we both know that we love each other now. No matter what happens after, I’ll take care of it all. Yeah?”

Can you even say anything to that? It’s been mistake after mistake for you, each one building up until they all bite their tails and turn into an inextricable Ouroboros to keep you trapped.

No, let’s not lie. This isn’t the result of your mistakes. This whole thing begins and ends with Riki.

He kisses your mouth, solemnly and adoringly and happily. 

“I love you too,” he whispers against your shaking lips, “And we’ll be so, so happy together.”

NI-KI POV

You think you’re so slick.

Riki has known the whole time that you’ve been stealing from him.

Scratch that. Minor correction.

Riki has been letting you steal from him.

It’s difficult for Riki to pinpoint what exactly about you has made him act in a way that is objectively foolish. It’s undeniable that he likes all of you. Everything you’ve shown to him, he’s devoured with relish. It goes beyond a mere infatuation with your body and the insane sex you have with him. It’s in your snark, your blasé attitude, the fact that you treat him like someone his age rather than a perfect idol atop a pedestal. It’s refreshing, and it makes him feel like he wants to be around you all the time.

Would it be such a bad thing to go that extra step, to make sure you can be with him forever? Maybe he’s taken the extreme option instead of the high road, but this is Riki we’re talking about at the end of the day. He’s never, ever been satisfied with doing things halfway. And between losing you entirely or doing whatever he can to tie you down for eternity, he’s picking the latter in a heartbeat. 

When he knows you’re coming over, he’s deliberately strewn about his things. Curiosity pricks at his brain when he imagines what you might take. A beanie he’s expertly placed “casually” in your path. Earrings “haphazardly” scattered about his desk. Sunglasses he tosses right by the door. Easy pickings, like Hippomenes rolling golden apples in front of a fleeing Atalanta.

It’s a slow process, but it’s a definite one for sure. He wants to make it so that everyone misconstrues your relationship with him. So that wherever you go, he’ll follow—his clothes, thoughts of him, his name dangling off of the end of yours. 

He knows he’s succeeded on a seemingly random day. Dance practice is about winding down, and the rest of the members are all doing their separate routines, getting ready to go home. Jungwon is running through what he wants to talk about during his evening live, Jake is pawing through his bag for a change of clothes, Sunghoon and Sunoo are bickering like a married couple over probably nothing again…”

“Hey…,” Jay’s concerned voice breaks through Riki’s meandering thoughts. Riki turns to face him, eyebrow raised in a wordless response. Jay looks a little nervous, and he casts a wide glance around to make sure no one else is observing them.

“Can I talk to you for a second? Nothing super serious.” Jay scratches behind his neck. He gestures towards a back corner, and Riki obediently follows. The two slip away wordlessly, and only once Jay confirms that no one has noticed them going missing does he finally start speaking again.

“I… don’t want to pry. And you have every right to let me know if I’m overstepping,” he starts, sighing deeply through his nose. Riki thinks to himself that Jay looks like an anxious father about to give the birds-and-the-bees talk. Jay swallows and pauses, as if he’s mulling over his next words carefully, “But are you seeing someone? I kept running into a girl from your room, and she’s always wearing your things, and I just… I guess I wanted to say that there’s a bunch of administrative and bureaucratic stuff that comes with dating and being idols and yadda yadda, but I wanted to check in with you as a person. Like… I want you to be happy, Riki. So if you are starting to date, I’m telling you to treat your girlfriend well.”

Seeing someone.

Starting to date.

Girlfriend.

It takes everything in Riki not to crack the biggest grin of his life. Satisfaction blooms in his chest like a gulp of fresh air to a drowning man. How long has he spent, weeks and weeks purposefully arranging his room and luring you into his arms so that he can set things in motion? The countless nights he’s laid awake, wondering if this whole thing was for naught and your addictive presence was meant to be nothing more than a flash in the pan. But this is proof. Tangible, audible, physical proof.

His plan is working. You’ve been seen sneaking out of his room. You’re out and about while wearing his clothes. Jay wholeheartedly believes you to be his girlfriend and is giving him the big brother pep talk.

Riki raises a hand and pats Jay coolly on the back. “You worry too much, hyung. But don’t worry—

—I’ll treat her very, very well.”

riki's a little embarrassed to admit he's #that kind of perverted boyfriend, the kind that gets a little excited when you so much as pull your hair back into a ponytail. if you turn around and catch his heavy gaze, you roll your eyes.

what's out of your line of sight is none of your business. and that includes the lovebites littered across the nape of your neck and backs of your shoulders.

he is, unfortunately, quite vocal when you're going down on him. unfortunate because some of the things he lets out of his mouth leave your ears burning with embarrassment.

“unh, such a perfect, slutty mouth on you, baby,” he pants out, weaving his fingers into your hair. “so good, fuck, no one else gets to have you like this…”

riki keeps his touch gentle the first few times, reassuring, playing with your hair and petting it down while you make him feel good. he gradually gets bolder, as if trying to see what he can get away with.

you finally make it clear to him one time, pulling off and rubbing your cheek against his cock like you can't stay away from it (which isn't too far from the truth… also unfortunately.) “mm, you want to yank me up and down on it? use me like a hole?” your hand jerks him off, slick with your saliva and his pre-cum. you maintain eye contact with him.

this is a free-pass to use your mouth that you later wonder if you actually should have given to him. he goes fucking wild. you're not sure whose mouth is filthier, yours from the loads he keeps filling it up with or his for the fucking things he's saying.

“hungry for it?” he says, mockingly slapping his cock on your cheek, wet and heavy, before guiding it into your mouth. “god, better than any onahole.” you close your eyes, accepting that this is the monster you let loose with your full permission.

the more drool, the better. riki delights in seeing just how wet and messy you can get, even if you have to pull off to cough. you keep your hand fisting it, pre-cum leaking over your fingers. when he leans down with that look in his eyes, you know what's next.

lean back, jaw loose. he spits into your mouth, hitting the middle of your tongue. you nod, eyes fluttering, and swallow.

“wish i could keep you, bring you around with me during schedules,” he groans, sprawled out on the couch, still in his work clothes after a long day. “use your whore mouth whenever i want. isn't that right? you'll take it whenever i want you to?”

as ever, you aren't able to respond with much more than cut-off moans and slick, filthy throat noises.

and when tears leak out of your eyes for the first time, running down your too-full cheeks… he's ashamed to say it gets him even harder.

“fuck… choke on it, yeah, cry for it baby.” his murmur rises from deep in his throat, but it reaches your ears all the same. you close your eyes, blinking out more tears, and he chuckles.

“aww, too much? is it too much, baby? y'can't take it?”

all you can manage is a senseless “mm—!” around his cock. you can't even tell if it's one of assent or dissent.

“you can't? of course you can.” his hand cups your cheek, thumb swiping to catch your tears. “my good girl was made to take it.”

and, of course, when his thighs start tensing up beneath your hands and his grunts get higher until they're more helpless, airy—when he's moaning, sweet and throaty—that firm hand at the back of your head gets even firmer.

riki would dump his cum down your throat every day if he could (and he tries his hardest to get close to that goal). nothing captivates him quite like your furrowed eyebrows, fluttering lashes, obscenely stretched lips stretched around his cock, gagging and drooling as he forces down every drop.

when he finally pulls you off—doesn't even let you pull off yourself—he gathers you up to his mouth immediately. licking his cum out of your mouth. he keeps it on his tongue, too, pulling back for a moment before meeting your lips again to feed it back to you.

even hearing you try to talk afterwards in your weak, raspy voice gets him going again. he'll spare you this time—meaning he'll just rut between your thighs until he cums, warm and sticky in his pants.

and even then, he can't keep his hands to himself. one hand, as ever, finds its way to the crown of your head. he fists your hair, pulls you even closer into him.

“anyone who tries to talk to you… they'll hear it in your voice, yeah?” he groans into the crook of your neck, hips pushing at your ass's curve. “you're mine. all the way down in your throat, i have you.”

╰┈➤ THOSE EYES @webiicam jake had a tough day at work — everyone has their ways of winding down, but jake’s preferred way of relaxing is… interesting.

╰┈➤ RUIN WHAT? @heekiglitterz after crossing the line with your best friend, you finally reunite for a simple date to clarify things only for him to completely snap the second you're alone. (2parts)

╰┈➤ BROTHERS BEST FRIEND JAKE HEADCANONS @bambi-hee

╰┈➤ I WANNA SHOW YOU OFF @soltyshshs on this dark hotel balcony, jake is showing off exactly where you belong..

╰┈➤ CLOSER TO YOU @cutehoons02 spiderman jake! Jake Sim isn't just the sexy next-door neighbor, the captain of the varsity soccer team, and the older brother of your best friend. He’s also the guy who broke your heart at fifteen… and has enjoyed teasing you whenever he can ever since. Too bad that now you live in the same building, you attend the same course, you share the same project at the university and that every cheeky joke, every golden look to hold back every damn random touch makes your knees tremble.

╰┈➤ LOVE INTERRUPTED @nisc0 After a car accident that costed you 3 years worth of memory, you find yourself trying to start a new beginning in a new city with "new" people. Only God knows why would the universe make you cross paths with the cute guy nextdoor.

III. JUNGWON

╰┈➤ NERD WON HEADCANONS @heebunnii

╰┈➤ BIG GIRLS DO CRY @nisc0 a simple joke can trigger Jungwon, resulting in you being bent over the kitchen counter, crying of pleasure, while his cock is deeply stirring inside you, maybe too deep.

╰┈➤ TIL U LOVE ME @beevitae forced into an arranged marriage, you thought your soon to be husband was sharing the same sentiment. little did you know, he has waited for the moment when he gets to take you.

╰┈➤ LESSONS IN ANATOMY @heetaki with your grade on the line, you swallow your pride and ask Jungwon, the one man you can’t stand, for help. but his teaching methods seem to be a bit…unethical.

IV. HEESEUNG - EVAN

╰┈➤ RECONVENE @heesroses twelve hours of wanting you but not being able to have you leaves heeseung with no choice but to fuck you in a restaurant bathroom while the enhypen members can hear everything.

╰┈➤ BOYFRIEND HEE HEADCANONS @liliwolfstar

╰┈➤ WON THE BET, LOST THE LOVE @hotlibido The basketball team follows a tradition of assigning challenges for fun and Heeseung gets a bet to make you fall head over heels in love with him and take your virginity and he succeeds in it. He thought it'd be easy, you'd date him, cry, and break up once the secret comes out, maybe even give him a slap or two.. but what he doesn't know is humans tend to only realise someone's worth when they're gone.

╰┈➤ BREAKING NEWS @vanishdesires spiderman hee The clumsy Spider-Man and a stubborn journalist navigate the woes of a blooming relationship amidst crime investigations.

V. NI-KI

╰┈➤ ABNORMAL @wonsade spiderman ki all of humanity was supposed to forget who nishimura riki was, yet you somehow came out unaffected. too bad you weren't human, he really should've worded that spell better, because you remembered everything.

╰┈➤ KISS A KITTY @matzism in which your boyfriend can’t get enough of what’s between your legs.

╰┈➤ NSFW ALPHABET @seungsoftly

╰┈➤ CARDIO @kikidoul After months of denying him, you ended up going to the gym with your boyfriend: Nishimura Riki, to work out together. Turns out he has a different kind of workout in mind.

╰┈➤ OPEN WIDE @kikidoul After actively dodging years of avoiding going to the dentist, you were dragged to an appointment by your mother, only to be treated by a handsome and attractive Dr. Nishimura Riki. Falling for him was bad enough, but discovering the man wearing a wedding ring was even worse. But hey, what people doesn't know won't hurt them, right?

VI. SUNGHOON

╰┈➤ TO HAVE AND TO HOLD @drkbl00d how you spend the months leading up to your wedding with your soon to be husband.

╰┈➤ UNDER PRESSURE @kissued your (seemingly) vanilla boyfriend discovers ropes after your accidental retweet

VII. SUNOO

╰┈➤SWITCH @kitysugar. in which people, unnecessarily so, enjoy creating false narratives about your relationship, always playing it out to be one of innocence and softness, but kim sunoo is exactly the opposite

╰┈➤ SWEETER THAN REVENGE @hoonstrology the plan: get back at your scum-of-the-earth cheating ex-boyfriend.⠀ the solution: get sunoo to help you make a steaming hot instagram story so your ex realizes what he lost.⠀ the goal was so simple — so how the hell did you end up fucking your best friend instead? 10/10 dom sunoo UGH

╰┈➤ TOUCH @jongst4r your bf doesn’t like physical touch, right?

VIII. JAY

╰┈➤ DUMB N BEAUTIFUL @matzism your boyfriend adores how smart you are, always buried in your studies—he loves it so much he can’t get the thought of fucking you dumb out of his mind

╰┈➤ LOST AND FOUND @dollhoonki some things are harder to hide under one roof. after moving in with your long-time boyfriend, everything seems to be on the come up...except for the fact that you can't find one box, a box full of the toys specifically meant for jay not to find.

╰┈➤ BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT @sa1co Jay doesn't bother with the usual sugar daddy theatrics you're used to. You both know what you signed up for.

“Riki! You're such a pervert,” you rolled your eyes and moved to sit between his legs, “I’m pretty sure you don’t want me going out naked, do you?” you twirled with a strand of your hair, giggling when his eyes darkened.

You crawled closer on your knees, reaching up to fiddle with a strand of his own messy hair. Gently, you lifted your free hand to rub his chest, letting out a breath when he leaned his head back against your hand. 

"You always look so good like this," you whispered, leaning in to press your glossed lips to the corner of his mouth. Carefully, you slid your hand down his chest, nails dragging over the thin fabric of his shirt until you reached the waistband of his black jeans. You pop the button open with practiced ease, tugging the zipper down while your other hand stays buried in his hair.

He was already half-hard when you pulled him out, warm and heavy in your palm. You stroked him slowly, thumb circling the head, spreading the bead of precum that leaked out. His hips twitched, but he stayed still, letting you play with his hair and his cock at the same time.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his lips as you muttered, "I want you to mess me up too."

Riki groaned low in his throat, his hands finally moving to grip your waist. He pulled you into his lap, your pink skirt riding up as you straddled him. The head of his cock pressed against your soaked panties, and he grinded up against you, the friction making you whimper. “Fuck, I love this skirt, so pretty and pink,” he growled, toying with the white bows on the side as he rutted up against you.

"Sit on it," he muttered, voice rough. He hooked his fingers into the side of your panties and yanked them to the side, exposing your dripping pussy. You lifted up slightly, allowing him to line himself up with your entrance before sinking down onto him. Moaning, you tugged at Riki’s hair, burying his face into your neck where he nipped and sucked on the skin there.

Riki's hands slid up under your tiny vest, unhooking your bra as you rode him. “Fuck, my pretty angel,”  he groaned, pulling up your vest until your chest was bare for him. He leaned down, breathing in your scent as he sucked on the top of your boobs. 

You bounced up and down on his dick, the sounds of your wetness and sweat squelching in the room. You let out a loud whimper, leaning to hide your face in Riki’s neck, holding tightly into his hair to ground yourself. 

"I know you can do more, baby," he panted, gripping your hips and slamming you back down onto him. The wet sounds of your pussy taking his cock filled the room, mixing with your moans and his ragged breathing. He hissed as you gave a particularly hard tug on his hair, biting harshly on your neck as a punishment.

Still bouncing, you licked a stripe up his throat, tasting the salt of his skin, before biting down on his jaw. Riki's cock throbbed inside you, and he flips you onto your back without pulling out, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other gripped yur hip hard enough to leave marks.

He pounded into you relentlessly, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. Your outfit was completely disheveled. Skirt bunched up around your waist, vest and bra thrown somewhere, panties stretched to the side.

 "Gonna fill you up so good," he panted against your ear, his thrusting getting sloppier. "Gonna cum so deep in this tight little pussy,baby.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, your walls fluttering around his cock as the coil inside your belly pulled tighter. The sight of his smeared eyeliner, the feeling of his hair between your fingers, the way he fucked you like he owns you—it all pushed you over the edge.

You came hard, back arching off the bed, pussy clenching around him. Riki followed right after, burying himself to your cervix and flooding you with his cum. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper and deeper.

When he finally pulled out, you could feel his cum leaking out of you, dripping down your thighs onto the sheets. Riki collapsed beside you, his hair even more of a mess, his eyeliner completely destroyed. You rolled onto your side and reached up to trace the black smudges around his eyes with your fingertip, “You’re so good at that,” you whisper, voice quiet.

Riki stared at your pretty eyes. He could stare at those all day. Fuck. He was getting hard again.

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, bringing your fingers to his mouth and sucking your index and middle finger, letting you feel the cool metal of his tongue piercing slide against your skin. 

The sensation made your breath hitch. He released your fingers with a wet pop and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. The metal stud drags over your tongue, teasing and insistent, and you fell for it, leaning in closer. 

Riki smirked into the kiss, biting down on your bottom lip as you giggled and sucked on his. “Fuck,” he drawled, tongue sliding welty against yours. You whimpered, arms around his neck while he pushed you down onto your back. His mouth travelled down,sucking on your jaw before he moved back upwards to suck on your tongue.

You pulled away, trying to catch your breath with Riki following your head insistently. Breathing heavily, a string of saliva connected both of your lips, drool coating your chin as you both made eye contact. 

Groaning loudly at your fucked out expression, he slammed his lips back onto yours, tongue sliding deep to the back of your throat as his hands moved down to pull off whatever clothing you still had on. 

Your own hand travelled down, pulling off his jeans completely before sliding back up to tug him closer by his hair. "Baby,” he muttered against your wet lips, “Can we have a round two?" 

Mind clouded by the thought of you and Riki having sex, you nodded, already sliding your hands down his chest, your pretty nails scratching his pale skin.

His hair fell forward into his eyes as he crawled down over your body, palms sliding over your thighs like they were the gates to heaven.

He settled between your legs, looking up at you with those hungry, smudged eyes. The black eyeliner was completely destroyed, smeared across his rosy cheeks. The sight made your pussy clench around nothing.

"Look at this mess," he muttered, smirking as he dragged two fingers through your slick folds. His cum is still leaked out of you, mixing with your own wetness, and he spread it around your clit before leaning in.

The first lick was slow and deliberate. histongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit, the cool metal of his piercing catching on the sensitive bud. You gasped at the sensation, hips twitching, and Riki's hands tightened on your thighs, “Stay still, princess.”

He buried his face between your legs, licking and sucking on your clit as you moaned loudly. The piercing caught against your clit every time he flicked his tongue over it, sending sparks through your body. He sucked your pussy between his lips, the tip of his tongue pressing against the swollen bud, and your fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the black and white strands.

"Fuck, Ki," you moaned, pushing his head down harder between your thighs. He groaned against your pussy, the vibration making your thighs shake, and pushed his tongue inside you. His piercing dragged along your inner walls as he ate you out, practically making out with your pussy as he lapped up the mixture of his cum and your slick.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, chin shiny and wet. "Baby, you taste like fucking heaven," he said, voice rough. Then he dove back in, eating you out with a newly found intensity. 

Riki slid two of his fingers into your hold along with his tongue, scissoring your pussy with quick, jerky movements. 

You arched your back off the bed as he curled his fingers deep inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars. He sucked on your clit harder, rolling his piercing over the bud in tight circles. Your grip on his hair became almost painful as you pushed him deep into your heat. Although he didn’t seem to mind, groaning louder, grinding his hips against the mattress to relieve some of his own stress.

"Gonna make you cum on my tongue," he breathed against you, the words muffled but clear. "Want to feel you shake around me." He pumped his fingers faster, not stopping as he forced you closer and closer to the edge.

Your orgasm hit hard, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you cried out. Riki kept licking you through it, his tongue dragging over your sensitive clit until you were shaking and whimpering. Only then did he pull back, pressing a final kiss to your thigh before crawling up your body again.

His face was a mess, lips swollen and red, chin glistening with your cum, eyeliner running from his sweat. He kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, the piercing clicking against your teeth as he pushed you into the soft plush of the matress.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath before he slid back down between your thighs, his black and white hair brushing against your skin as he settled in again. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, pulling you closer to his mouth.

"Still so fucking wet," he murmured, dragging his tongue through your slick folds in one long stroke. The metal of his piercing caught on your entrance before he pushed it inside, fucking you shallowly with just the tip of his tongue. Your thighs trembled around his head.

He pulled back to suck your folds between his lips, the piercing rolling over the swollen bud in tight circles. He pushed his two fingers back into your pussy, curling against that spot that made your vision brighten and blur. He pumped them steadily while his tongue worked your clit, wet squelching sounds filling the room.

Your fingers found his hair again, tugging hard as he moaned against your entrance. Teasingly, Riki added a third finger, stretching you open while his tongue flicked faster into your tight pussy.

"Riki- fuck-" you whined, back arching as he sucked harder, fingers hitting the spotlight He showed no signs of stopping, tongue working along with his long fingers as your thighs shook deliciously around your head.

He pulled back just enough to let out a broken, “Can you cumin my tongue again?" before he dove back in. His fingers pumped faster, tongue pressing flat against your clit as he dragged his piercing over it. Your orgasm crashed through you, pussy camping down on his fingers while he licked you through it, the wet muscle of his tongue sliding sloppily against your folds.

Your cum flooded out onto his mouth and chin, soaking the bed sheets beneath you as your whole body trembled. “Ki!” you whined loudly, back arching as he kicked up all the remnants on your orgasm.

“Shit, you taste so good,” Riki groaned, pushing up to lay on top of you, your sweaty bodied tangling in the heat of your bedroom.

You looked up at him, pupils blown wide as you spoke, completely spent, “Your eyeliner looks better now, maybe we should do this every time before we go out,” you joked.

Riki smirked, dipping his head down to suck and bite at the skin on your neck, “You know I would never pass up on an opportunity like that, pretty thing,” he responded while licking your jaw, “that sounds like the best way to get ready every morning.”

You hummed, fingers sliding through his hair and scratching his head, “I’m going to get a shower… come with?” you giggled.

He can last almost 4 hours with a single redbull and a cup of coffee but after that, things get a little trickier because drinking too many energized drinks in the same evening gives him tachycardia.

Although his apartment is pretty quiet and his cat doesn’t make much noise—apart from the excessive meowing when he wants food—Riki always wears his earphones when he grades papers. He’ll type, “relaxation music” and click on the first “deep focus” playlist with a zen cover he finds and his mind will slip into a whole different universe. Contrary to what you’d think, he loves these calm moments. Even though sleep comes sparsely after, he’s still gotten a little time to himself, no need to talk to anyone or focus on anything but psych 101.

That should say a lot about the type of person he’s become ever since you came into his life.

Now Riki grades his papers over lunch in the faculty lounge. He’s never rushed though—always as rigorous and exigent—the only problem is that well…now he has a problem with deadlines. Just like everything in life, it has its ups and downs.

Of course he takes more time turning in evaluated papers and of course his students hate him for it. But he also gets to fall asleep inside you every night when the clock strikes 9pm.

Now multiply this by two.

Because Heeseung on the other end, can multitask. He’s already had you on your knees for him while he graded exams and had no trouble whatsoever spotting even the smallest mistakes. By the time he’s usually done, he’s already gotten 2 orgasms out of you, fingers working you open while he scribbles a couple notes in the margins. He’ll chew the cap of his pen while you’re grinding on his thigh in need of affection, giving sharp smacks on your soft ass when you make the chair move in the process.

He’s shameless with it really.

One time he even got cum right there on the sheet in a careless moment. See, you had his cock halfway down your throat, his hand securing your hair in a makeshift ponytail while you practically choked on his length, and all of the sudden—too focused on a lab report to even notice his orgasm building—he threw his head back, his hand came up to hold your head down but too late, you were already coming up for some air, unaware that he was right on the edge. It ended up with Heeseung painting your face in his cum—for a lack of better wording—and also the lab report in the process. You both laughed while he tried to scrub it off with his t-shirt but it wasn’t all that funny anymore when he noticed the suspicious looking stain it had left. You suggested he poured some coffee to sort of cover the thing, but that’s beside the point.

Now that you multiplied this by two, you have a nice little routine which consists of being Nishimura Riki and Lee Heeseung’s little protégé.

You might wonder, how the fuck does a girl end up dating two of her college professors? And frankly, it’s a very interesting question that… you wouldn’t really know how to answer.

Some things are just meant to happen.

And if getting fucked by two successful teachers at the same time was meant to happen, then you have a hunch that the rest of your life is going to be full of surprises.

“Baby come back.”

Heeseung’s voice is rough, muffled by a pillow with his hair draped all over it. He’s lying face down on it with no intention of standing up anytime soon. His hand clasps loosely on your forearm, still too weak from the sleepiness.

“I’m not… going anywhere?” you glance around, frankly disorientated.

It’s 4am and you woke up to the sound of a motorcycle outside, took a moment to cuss out the inconsiderate driver and went back to sleep. Well not before you felt Heeseung’s big hand on your arm, lazily tugging you towards him.

He makes some kind of grunt of acknowledgment, though you don’t really know what he was even talking about or if he was dreaming, because you didn’t even move an inch.

To your right lies a sleeping Riki, shirtless and always faithful to his assigned side of the bed. He’s a bit like that, always neat, everything has to be in the same exact pattern or routine or he’ll get mad, so as long as he has his pillow and can sleep next to the wall, he’s okay.

To your left though, is a very grumpy Heeseung. His hair’s all over the place, sticking up in little spikes on the pillow, he has one hand tucked under his chin and the other seeking your warmth. You wonder for a second if he’s woken up or still dreaming.

“C’mere,” Heeseung groans, pulling you closer with all the strength he can gather—which is close to none, due to his state of exhaustion.

He’s had the toughest day yesterday, classes and conferences from 8 to 8 followed by him having to call the cops because some guy was vandalizing the college’s renowned bulldog statue. In his defense, he was drunk out of his mind and cooperated with the authorities, but it made Heeseung loose a lot of time. A time he could’ve spent between your legs, as he’d hoped all day.

Instead he came home a while after 9pm and immediately fell face down on the couch, not even bothering to take off his clothes. Naturally you did it for him, ever the loving partner, you struggled to get his pants off, fumbling with the zipper but ended up tucking him into bed with a kiss. Riki came in some time after and most likely dragged him to bed, which is why you’re now next to him even though you don’t remember waking him up.

Heeseung pulls you to his side, face finally emerging from the pillow, eyes shut and mouth slightly parted in sleep. He presses his chest to your back and burries his face in your neck, a bit like a cat, fickle and particular.

“Where did you go?” he breathes out against your skin, his arms wrapping around you in the sweetest of embraces.

“What do you mean where did I go? I was right here, never moved.” you softly chuckle, eyes on Riki’s unmoving back.

“Huh, I thought you moved,” Heeseung explains, a little confused.

You blame it on said confusion when his lips start moving against your neck, leaving just the tiniest open mouthed kisses, grazing your skin tenderly. But the second his tongue darts out to taste the salt of your skin, you deduct he’s pretty conscious—if not awake.

“Hee?” you whisper, head thrown back to reveal a little bit of your neck.

The bastard doesn’t answer, just hums against your skin, sloppy kisses tracing a path down to your shoulder. At the sound of his lips parting with your flesh, Riki shifts a little bit in front of you, the lines of his broad back moving. You’re tempted to trace the muscles there, just the way he likes with your sharp nails and all, but you don’t want to wake him up at 4am on a school day.

“You smell so good, how is it possible?” the other man asks, his breath tickling right behind your ear. “is it the perfume we got you? I knew Rik was good at something…fuck.”

The space between the two of you grows pathetically meager as Heeseung presses his whole body to your back, legs tangling with yours under the thick covers, he buries his nose in your hair and inhales like a druggie.

“Fuck, it does. What’s the name again, Rodriguez something…” he punctuates with a brief thrust of his hips on your ass, “We gotta go to the store and buy you some more.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, one hand reaching behind you to stroke his cheek, “Narciso Rodriguez, baby. And the bottle is still full.”

Heeseung nuzzles against your hand, craving your touch, “I don’t care. I want you to have as many as possible cause…fuck—”

The words die on his traitorous tongue when your back arches and your ass presses back against him. By now you’re pretty sure he’s fully conscious though still groggy, his hands snake down to your belly and press on it to bring you even closer. His grey sweats—the ones you absolutely love to see him in—don’t do anything to hide the painfully hard bulge Heeseung’s sporting. Nor does he, really. He’s grinding it against your ass shamelessly, rutting against you in those sleepy little lazy patterns that have you melting in his hands. But the second you let out the tiniest moan, Heeseung puts a hand to your lips, considerate as ever.

“Shh, Riki’s asleep, angel. Can’t wake him up, he’s got lectures to give in a few hours.” he whispers in the shell of your ear.

But the mention of his name—albeit in the lowest voice possible—makes Riki shift to his side, now facing the both of you. He stretches a bit, rubbing his eyes with both fists and when he finally opens his eyes he blinks a few times.

“What time is it?” Riki asks in a rough voice, detangling his legs from the covers.

You feel Heeseung react instantly to the sound of his voice, his entrapped cock twitching and pulsing against your tiny sleep shorts.

It’s one of the things you like the most, how open-minded they both are, how they don’t really care about labels such as ‘gay’ or ‘bi’ they just enjoy things, are free with their sexuality and give you a space free of judgement so you can finally be yourself. You like that they aren’t ashamed to kiss, to be aroused by each other just as much as they are turned on by you, it’s like team work really.

“It’s 4am baby go back to sleep,” you say, reaching to brush a strand of his hair out of his eyes.

Riki nuzzles in your hand, eyes closing with exhaustion, but when he seems to realize how close you are to Heeseung, his eyes snap open.

“Come here, come closer.” he groans, yawning in the middle of his request. His hand wraps around your arm to drag you closer but Heeseung keeps you right there.

“Just go to sleep Rik, you gotta wake up early tomorrow.” he advises, grabbing the man’s hand and yanking it off your wrist before kissing it better.

“Why are you guys awake?” he slurs against the pillow, fighting tiredness.

“No reason,” Heeseung makes a point of kissing the side of your neck and rutting against your ass, “She just smells so good I can’t go back to sleep.”

The sweet words draw a tired moan gasp out of you, which Riki most definitely hears because his hands drag over the pillow as if restraining himself from reaching for you.

“It’s that perfume we got her, fucking insane. Even after a few showers it doesn’t go away.” Heeseung continues, his tongue laving your earlobe.

When Riki doesn’t answer you assume he’s fallen back asleep, you reach for his face, brushing away his hair from his eyes again, making sure he’s comfortable on his pillow. The little sleepy hum he gives makes you smile contentedly, but the next second he’s opening his eyes and looking right at the both of you.

“Are you inside of her?” he raises an eyebrow, your bodies occulted by the thick duvet.

Heeseung’s cock jolts against your ass and he kisses your shoulder, “Nah but I wish.”

The other man lets out a breathy chuckle, propping himself on his elbow, “It looks like it.” he says as he sleepily reaches for the covers and takes them off to reveal your bodies. Once he sees you both still have your clothes on, he gives a borderline disappointed smile and gets closer. Riki grabs a handful of your ass and separates the two of you just enough for him to see the bulge in Heeseung’s sweats.

“Hey, get back here.” Heeseung groans, dragging you back towards him, licking at your nape like it’s a damn three course meal.

But beware, Riki’s faster. He cups your cheeks, pressing them together until your lips are puffed out for his to taste. He gives you a lazy-half asleep kiss while his other hand snakes behind you to cup Heeseung through his pants.

The latter lets out a low groan, hips bucking against his hand, he’s so needy it wouldn’t even surprise you if he were already leaking in his boxers. Now speaking of underwear, Riki’s wearing none, just a pair of black sweatpants that hang too low on his hips and reveal that delicious v-line you adore. You can see his cock slowly harden and you’re taken over by an uncontrollable need to feel him grow in your hand.

Self-indulging, you slip your fingers past his waist band where you’re met with the prodding head of his cock, already slick although he’s not even fully hard.

“Is my baby horny?” he kisses your nose, shifting closer so your hand slips further inside and he can reach Heeseung’s dick better.

You nod avidly, now fully wrapping around his dick and tugging softly at it. You feel it grow heavier against your palm, throbbing with the blood rush and when you give him a squeeze, his hips stutter. “Let me make you come before you have to go to work, mkay?” you tell him, not intending to go back to sleep anyway.

“You can do whatever you wanna do baby, that dick is yours,” his tongue slips in your mouth, hips bucking into your palm hungrily. You love it when he says that because you know he means it, it’s exclusively yours and he’s made it clear you can do whatever you want with it, as long as you share with Heeseung, that is.

No one’s touching you but you feel so full right now, Heeseung’s practically asphyxiating you with how tight he’s clutching your body, and Riki’s practically fucking your mouth right now, just the way he would with his cock. You can feel it everywhere, everytime his tongue drags inside your mouth it’s like he’s doing it between your legs.

Riki’s cock swells in your palm until it’s all warm and hard, his precum oozing out and coating the head. You bring your hand out to spit in it before wrapping it around his dick again, slicking the whole length to ease the glide. At that, he practically melts, lets out a low moan that has you squeezing your thighs and bites your lower lip like he wants to feast on it.

Behind you lies a man so desperate he’s tugging at his pants trying to get them off as quick as possible, his chest mashes out against your back and he sucks and nibbles at your nape in hopes to fuse with you. When he’s finally bare, Heeseung pushes his cock into Riki’s hand but the latter—instead of stroking him—tugs your sleep shorts to the side, effectively exposing your ass and sopping cunt.

“Fuck… you want me to fuck her?” he breathes out, voice shaky as his tip lathers precum on your lower back.

Riki—seeing that Heeseung’s a proper mess—wraps one hand around his cock, giving him one tortuously slow tug and guiding it towards your cunt. “Go ahead, make her feel good.” he orders.

He does just that, he pushes his cock between your thighs in no time, letting out a low groan muffled in your neck as his hips push the fat head up and down between your folds. Your back instantly arches and Heeseung braces himself on the curve of your ribs, fucking between your legs like he would your cunt.

All the while, your fist moves on Riki, slow movements that are often sloppy and messy when Heeseung’s tip nudges your clit, unable to catch up. But it’s not at all less enjoyable for the man whose hips are rutting into your hand, one hand tangled in your hair and tugging.

When he lets go of your lips, Riki’s are connected to yours with a string of saliva. “Gonna take Heeseung’s cock? Mmh?” he whispers tauntingly, fisting your hair and pulling at it the way you like.

“Please, Hee… need it inside,” you beg, moving your hips and squeezing your thighs around his cock that doesn’t seem to wanna slip in.

“I know baby, I know,” he coos, and by the way Riki looks at him, you can tell they’re making eye contact. It’s enthralling, you could probably loose your mind right now with the way they’re eating each other with their gaze.

“Come on, put it in, don’t make her wait any longer,” Riki gets closer to the point where you’re sandwiched between them. “You want it so bad, don’t you baby?”

You nod, wrist twisting the way he likes. His cock throbs agains your palm as he kisses you anew.

Heeseung obediently fists the base of his cock and guides it along your folds, drawing idle circles on your clit, taking all the time in the world to indulge in Riki’s command. But when he sees the state of you—dripping and practically melting—he pushes the tip inside, groaning with the way your walls instantly clamp down on him.

“Fuck… baby give me breathing room,” he moans against your neck, giving a tentative thrust. But you can’t stop, it’s too good that your walls are just repeatedly clenching around him.

Riki smiles, his tongue tracing your bottom lip with a breathy moan. It’s like he’s enjoying this torture, and he proves that when he slips a curious hand between your thighs and holds them open, fingers grazing the bottom side of Heeseung’s cock.

The latter almost bottom’s out, hips chasing both your warmth and Riki’s hand, “Fuck…put it there again. She feels so good—” he mutters incoherently.

The other man indulges, one hand holding your thighs open and the other reaching for his balls to give them a squeeze. Only then does the eldest thrust all the way in, buried so snugly he can’t even breathe anymore, can only feel your walls pulsating and Riki’s hands on his aching cock.

All the air in your lungs evaporates and you’re left a trembling mess between two eager men. The one behind you is just thrusting blindly, too desperate to pick a rhythm, just kissing and biting your neck to muffle his sounds. The one in front is rutting against your palm, practically leaking all over your hand while he reaches—in an intricate position—to pleasure the other.

It’s a mess, you can’t even tell who’s touching who and where, just that you haven’t felt as loved and as full. It’s part of why you love being with two men so much, the parts of them that lack something end up completing each other to give you the most earth shattering sex of all time. It’s complicated to describe but you wouldn’t want anything else in the world than to stay with them like this, loved and cared for, no part of you left untouched.

“F-fuck…she’s so fucking tight I can’t even breathe,” Heeseung practically whimpers, cock throbbing inside of you with every stroke.

Riki’s response is far from indifferent, his hips stutter and he moans into your mouth, grabbing your wrist with the hand that was squeezing Heeseung’s balls and urging you to go faster.

“M-fuck… that’s it—” he groans when he finds the perfect pace.

There goes Heeseung—Riki’s sounds acting like fuel to him—his pace grows more desperate and his hips snap, your ass clapping against his thighs each time he fucks deeper. It feels too good, your legs are shaking as Riki holds them open, and the cock that’s hitting your cervix brings tears to your eyes.

You throw your head back, your hand going faster on Riki’s cock and your walls clench uncontrollably.

“Look at you go, baby.” he praises, lips still on yours, biting and kissing, “drooling all over my lips like some kind of puppy. Is it that good, mmh?”

You moan in response, your g-spot constantly abused as Heeseung drives inside you with force. “So- so good… I can’t.—”

But Riki clicks his tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth and licking away the drool, “Yes you can baby. Hee’s fucking you so good, isn’t he? He’s so deep, look at you taking it like a good girl.”

He presses one hand on your belly, hoping to feel his hyung’s cock through the tender skin. When he feels the smallest bump, he groans and his cock throbs in your hand.

With Riki, it’s not half and half, to put it simply, he’s not half aroused by you and half by Heeseung. He’s completely crazy over you, so the want is just multiplied by two, making him absolutely feral sometimes. Much like a sickness, you both wrap around his lungs until he can’t even breathe, too consumed by his want. It shouldn’t be this deep—after all it’s just sex—but it’s in these moments that you can see the lengths he’s willing to go to show you both how needy he can be.

“I’m so close…f-fuck i’m so close,” Heeseung pants against your ear, teeth nibbling on the lob every now and then. His hips drive messy and sloppy into your cunt until all that can be heard in the room is the wet sounds of your arousal and his combined.

You squeeze around Riki’s cock, thumbing his tip and spreading the incessant flow of precum that comes out. Only then does Heeseung seem to remember he has two hands, and on the brink of his orgasm, he brings one to Riki’s cock, right below yours and starts stroking the part you can’t fit.

“Shit…” the man curses, the two hands on him bringing him to complete madness. He’s close, you can tell by how his abs clench, the delicious lines of his muscles tense over and over and his head throws back against the pillow.

You’re close too, the three of you chasing an orgasm simultaneously.

But Heeseung’s the first to break. He buries his face in your neck, his hand dripping with both your spit and Riki’s precum, both your hands mingling together. In a matter of seconds his cock is throbbing and he’s thrusting a couple times, cursing again and again, not even bothering with proper language.

“I’m gonna come,” he repeats over and over, biting your neck softly, “F-fuck baby, you’re so good to me…”

He’s all incoherent, and so is Riki, loosing himself into the pleasure, hips thrusting into your hands until his thighs tense, his back arches slightly off the bed and he’s unsure where to hold on to, hands hovering in the air.

The moment your sweet walls squeeze his dick, Heeseung spills inside you. Knees nested against yours like matching commas, his dick kicks hard and starts dumping sticky ropes straight into your cunt, each pulse shoving another heavy load deeper until you can feel the heat of it literally pooling and spreading inside you. It just keeps coming, slow and greedy, filling you up until the excess has nowhere left to go and starts leaking out around his shaft in messy trails that slide down your thighs and soak the sheets between your legs.

Riki witnesses it all, and it’s probably the reason for his undoing, or maybe the way your face shifts into a silent cry and your sweet sweet eyes close like you’re taking something too big to handle. He couldn’t say. All he can say is that he’s never felt so good, his own cock is throbbing so hard it hurts, and even when both your hands start to lose their rhythm he keeps fucking up into the slippery tunnel of your fists.

He doesn’t last all that long. One more hard thrust and his hips stutter, dick swelling between both your grips before it kicks and starts spurting. In seconds, hot ropes shoot out across your knuckles and Heeseung’s fingers, coating both of you in thick streaks that just keep coming in messy pulses. It lands on your wrists, drips between your joined hands, some of it even catching on Heeseung’s forearm. Riki’s breath punches out of him in the smallest grunts as another strong jet follows the first, then another, until his cock is just twitching pathetically and dribbling the last of it all over your slick hands.

They know you’re not done, though. So accustomed to your body, they instantly notice your hips moving on Heeseung’s cock, and albeit their exhaustion, they don’t let you down.

Riki takes a beat to catch his breath, grabbing both your hands into the messiest of handholds and he kisses your cum-soaked knuckles along with Heeseung’s.

“Fuck…you were so good baby, so so good,” the latter whispers against your neck, hips twitching with echoes of his orgasm.

The other man gets closer, not bothering with the ruined sheets as he kisses the corners of your mouth, “Let me catch my breath and then i’ll make my princess feel real good, okay?”

He doesn’t even really catch his breath, too entranced by the way your cunt clenches around Hee’s cock. It surely takes a toll on his resolve because in a matter of seconds he’s sitting up.

“Get on your back but don’t pull out,” he tells Heeseung.

He does just that, pulling you on top of him, spreading your legs on either sides of his legs dick still snug inside your sensitive pussy. You can feel the air on your clit, everything driving you crazy, and your thighs squeeze and thrash.

“I know baby, i’m right here,” Riki moves to sit on his knees between your legs, then—gauging the space left on the bed—he lies between both your legs, and you know you’re about to go even crazier.

“Fuck…” you hear Heeseung breathe out, his hips instinctively bucking into your sweet heat.

The moment Riki kisses your cunt, your ears are ringing and you’re clenching desperately. He must notice how that gets you, because you feel his soft chuckle against your clit, his lips closing in on the sensitive bud and sucking.

Heeseung resumes his thrusts—not having softened any bit—he tries to look down and catch a glimpse of the other man between your thighs but he can’t so instead he focuses on your tits, giving them the attention they’ve been missing.

You’re a proper mess, your tits toyed with, your cunt laved by the handsome man between your legs and your g-spot incessantly hit on. Riki’s tongue travels up and down your folds, catching your clit and suctioning just a tad bit before he’s licking his way down to your opening, plunging his tongue inside and feeling you shake. When he hears your moan get higher and he knows he’s getting you right on the edge, he goes even lower.

Delaying your orgasm is fun, and so in the meantime—while you’re whimpering in frustration—Riki slides his tongue down to Heeseung’s cock, emerging every now and then from your cunt. He licks the base, causing Heeseung to go slower just to feel him, and clicks his tongue when he does it.

“Keep going, make her feel good, look at her she’s so desperate,” Riki rasps, pushing your thighs further apart.

When the man below you resumes his thrusts, you whimper, clutching the sheets and anything you can get your hands on—in that case, Riki’s hair. You feel him moan against your cunt when he indulges you again, and it doesn’t take much longer until his tongue brings you to the edge.

“Please, please…” you beg, tugging at his strands.

He gives it all to you, sucking on your clit all the while Heeseung drives into your g-spot and practically rips the orgasm out of you. You’re a mess, dripping all over, crying out as your eyes roll back.

“Come on pretty girl, give it to us,” Heeseung kisses your neck, pinching your nipple.

You’re a goner.

Your cunt seizes up around Heeseung’s cock the second Riki’s tongue scrapes that swollen bundle of nerve just right. Everything inside you spasms in messy contractions that milk his dick while a thick gush of slick floods out around the base, soaking Riki’s mouth and chin. He groans all through it, even as your thighs clamp his head.

The orgasm just keeps chewing through you in uneven waves, cunt twitching and drooling all over both of them until your whole body is just jerking and leaking uselessly.

When Riki comes up, his mouth’s slick and his lips red, he kisses his way up to your neck, not quite laying on top of you but wrapping his arms around you, mindful of his hyung. His hand finds your cunt once again and strokes lightly almost tenderly like he’s trying to soothe it.

“It’s so sensitive isn’t it? Hurts so good?” he coos when he sees you flinch. “I know baby, you did so good for us.”

He kisses the tears on the corner of your eyes and lies back down on his side, gazing at the both of you like he never wants to leave.

Heeseung’s still a little breathless and dazed as he puts you down, wrapping a hand around his base to slip out with a wince. The state of the bed is concerning, but none of you care.

“Look at how much you made him come,” Riki marvels, scooping the cum that drips between your legs and pushing it back inside.

“Gonna go to school like that today, aren’t you? With my cum deep inside of you?” Heeseung kisses your neck, hand joining Riki’s and stroking your folds.

“That’s a good idea actually,” Riki says. “Just gonna have to keep pumping you full all day long.”

That’s was indeed an idea proposed in all seriousness—not that you were convinced of the contrary.

After they both leave to attend their lectures, you slowly get ready for your own, knowing that in a few hours Riki will be standing on the podium explaining cognitive bias in that serious tone of his. You slip in a pair of new panties and search Riki’s apartment for your skirt, knowing it’s the most practical thing to wear today.

You find that Heeseung’s left you a tumbler full of coffee in the kitchen—probably when you were too fucked out to even get out of bed earlier—and you smile to yourself as you pack it in your bag. You feed Riki’s cat and pet it for a while before you decide to leave, bag in hand.

The walk to campus is short and… particularly hard because of how jelly your legs feel. You make it to the lecture hall, knowing by now Riki’s done with his other classes, and you sit next to your friend Minju. (remember the magic inside you)

“Why don’t we go to school together anymore?” she groans the second she sees you, yanking you by the skirt like she always does.

The little miss possessive doesn’t even know about you, Riki and Heeseung. It’s best she doesn’t, really, because she has a habit of revealing secrets without even realizing. You’ve kept it to yourself for months, but at some point you’re going to have to come clean because sneaking out and never sleeping in your dorm isn’t gonna cut it.

“I’m sleeping at my parents’ these days” you explain, taking your laptop out of your laptop. “We can go to school together next week, how’s that?”

You only say that because next week, your boyfriends are out of town for a seminar so you’ll finally sleep at your own place. Riki’s already fought about giving you the keys so you can be comfortable in his apartment but you’ve refused times and times again because you still pay the rent so you want to actually use the dorm.

“Mmh, okay. But I feel like you’re hiding something.” Minju conspires, a little grumpy.

You can’t even reply because the second you hear the door open, your breath cuts short. It’s kind of funny since you saw the guy just this morning, but you still can’t get used to the thrill of seeing him arrive in class and knowing the things you know. Like for example, amongst all the other students present in the lecture hall, you’re the only one who knows how he likes his coffee and how sloppy he likes his blowjobs.

Very sloppy by the way, if anyone cares.

“I hate seeing things I can’t have,” Minju shakes her head, eyes following Riki’s tall figure as he puts his bag down and sets his notes on the lectern.

You rest your chin on your palm, trying to conceal your dreamy eyes by looking at anywhere but him, but you fail the second his eyes meet yours. When he says his usual, “Hello class,” you know it’s directed to you, and only you. He in fact doesn’t really give a fuck if the rest of the class is having a nice morning when he says, “good morning to everyone.” He cares even less if the students had the time to look over the reading because the only thing he does care about is if your legs are still sore from this morning’s fooling around.

It’s so entrancing to know that nobody in this room has any idea of the things this man does to you. Or multiplied by two, really, because somewhere in this same campus, another professor is leading a class full of students who think they can have him. But no one can, only you. And they’ve made sure you know that.

The lecture goes on with a couple more commentary from a very very horny Minju this morning apparently, and while that wouldn’t upset you usually, she’s gushing over your boyfriend so it does a little something to your stomach. Towards the end of the class, you’re 98% focused on your work and the other 2% are dedicated to eye fucking your psych professor while he talks about heuristics.

He’s so hot when he explains the quick mental shortcuts the brain uses to make decisions, all smart and serious in his slacks and crisp white shirt. You want to pounce him, it’s crazy but it’s true, he brings out a side of you you didn’t even know existed. One that’s permanently horny—amongst other things.

When he finally ends his lecture, you and Minju organize your stuff and grab your bags. She asks if you’re going to head to the cafeteria for lunch break and when she sees you make a face, she goes, “Ah, I knew you hated me, it’s okay.”

You kiss her cheek, trying to make up for it. “I’m so sorry, how about we spend the whole afternoon together after? We can even go to Olive Young and get the gloss you want.”

That seems to do it, Minju kisses your cheek back and shrugs dramatically, “Ooookay, whatever. I’ll text you later. Be safe.”

The second she’s gone you hurry down the stairs and watch the last of students walk out of the hall, closing the doors behind them. Riki’s packing up as well, but his eyes are on you, hands working on autopilot to put his notes back in his satchel. When you stop in front of his table, he lifts his chin up inquisitively.

“Yes miss y/n? Any questions?” he smiles.

“Mmh, yeah, I have a question about hindsight bias, you explained it all pretty well but there was one thing I didn’t really understand…” you say, clutching your bag.

Riki’s eyes shamelessly rake up and down your legs and stop where the skirt falls, you watch his throat bob and his veiny hands work on the task at hand. Once he’s done, he swings the satchel on his shoulder and meets your gaze.

“Ah, you know you can always ask me for extra lessons, right?” he replies, a small grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

You shake your head, “I don’t need that, don’t be silly. I’m already your top student, aren’t I?” you look at him through your lashes.

Riki walks around the desk until he’s standing right in front of you, veined arms crossed. “Course you are. You know you’re my hardworking girl.”

The praise does a little something to your daddy-issues rotten brain but you turn it off, focusing on the brilliant man standing before you.

“Aren’t you gonna eat with Minju?” he asks, fighting not to reach for you in public, “please say you aren’t.”

You chuckle, your smile widening a little too much for your liking. That has to be a sign you’re in love, right? If your smile goes that high up your face and your belly does a little weird tingling thing. Suspicious.

“I’m not, why? Had anything in mind?” you question.

Riki gets closer, leaning until he can whisper in your ear, “A thing or two yes. How about we go find Heeseung first?”

You nod, ears burning as he leads you out of the lecture hall, squeezing your waist before he takes the opposite way for more credence in the whole ‘i’m-not-dating-my-professors’ story.

Safe to say Heeseung finds you first. He quickly intercepts you in the hallway when you part ways with Riki. “Could I talk to you for a second, miss y/n.” he says, looking down at you.

He looks all serious and then seconds after he has to put a hand to his mouth to muffle his chuckle. It’s so silly to call you like that because frankly, he’s so used to calling you his good girl that the cordiality is funny.

“Yes?” you answer, unable to contain your smile.

“In private? It’s about a paper you turned in last week.” he continues with the whole professor act.

Best believe a couple minutes after you’re in Heeseung’s office, ass perched on his filing cabinet while Riki puts his satchel down. They both walk closer like hungry animals and Heeseung shuts the blinds, letting only a tiny bit of daylight in.

“So what about that paper? What’s wrong with it?” you ask with a knowing smile, playing with Hee’s stapler or whatever the fuck it’s called, you’re not sure because you’re too focused on destabilizing him.

“Nothing wrong with it baby, you did amazing.” he kisses your forehead, stroking your cheeks, “I don’t even need to give you special treatment cause you’re already so damn smart…”

It’s like he’s obsessed with you the way he inhales in your hair, fingers tangling in it and eyes shutting at the scent. Riki’s on the side, watching the both of you like he always does, observant and a little devoted, his eyes trail down your legs then come back up to your pretty face when Heeseung kisses your lips.

“He’s right. We’re so proud of you, baby.” he breaks the distance and grabs your hips, caressing the skin there. “Our hardworking girl.”

You perk up at his words, the tiniest moan escaping your lips and going straight to Heeseung’s. They both know how the praise gets you, so they always weaponize it because making you happy is their ultimate goal.

“You like it?” Heeseung breaks the kiss, slipping a finger past your lips and into your mouth, “you love it when we say we’re proud of you, don’t you?”

There’s not much left for you to do but nod and sigh around his digit, sucking helplessly like it’s the only thing you know how to do. Riki tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses your temple, looking at his hyung with pleased eyes.

“She does, see how she gets? Bet if I put my hand in her panties right now, she’ll be soaked.” he says, all cocky as he licks your skin.

Your panties are in fact ruined. It’s no surprise with the way they’re toying with you. Riki knows it, he knows when he slips his fingers underneath your skirt, and he’s 100% sure when he finds the sopping fabric of your undies.

“Oh poor baby…left you all soaked this morning, how could I expect you to be dry right now?” Heeseung coos, almsot to himself. He drags his hands up and down your thighs before joining Riki’s. The youngest pulls your panties to the side in one swift motion while the other teases your puffy folds, never actually touching but only brushing.

“Please… I’ve been good haven’t I? I’m so wet, just please—” you beg, your head lolling from side to side.

“Oh I know that’s right,” Riki rasps, fingers brushing Heeseung’s as he slips one digit inside you shallowly.

They work together as per usual, the eldest’s fingers drawing circles on your clit while the youngest’s make their way inside you, knuckles deep and snug.

“You’re dripping all over my hand, messy girl..” Riki notices, though he’s not inconvenienced by it in the slightest.

Not even three minutes in, they flip you around so you’re bending over the filign cabinet. Heeseung’s quick to pull your skirt up and give your ass a small slap, watching it bounce as he gives you fully-clothed backshots for funsies. He’s like that, he does it all day long when you pass by him in the kitchen at the apartment and whether you’re clothed or not. It’s all for jokes, but right now he’s plenty serious about it though.

“Look at that perfect ass,” Heeseung tells Riki, grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing until it turns red. “So fucking soft, and so pretty,” he groans against your ear.

“Yeah she knows she’s gorgeous, don’t you baby?” Riki kisses all over your cheeks, adoring you. But the next second he’s pushing Heeseung away playfully, “My turn though, you already had her this morning.”

You don’t even react, gladly consenting to getting passed around by the two of them, but when Riki’s spreads your ass open and spits right where he knows it’ll trickle down to your cunt, you loose it. You brace yourself on the cabinet, rocking your hips back in forth and whimpering.

“So filthy, look at that she’s all ruined and sticky with your cum,” Riki remarks, spreading your folds with two digits.

Heeseung does look, in fact he even ruts his covered erection against your hip as he glances over. “Poor baby had to walk around with ruined panties,” he cups your face and gives it a little condescending peck.

“We’re gonna make it better, okay?” Riki assures, unzipping his pants and—

There’s a knock on the door.

The whole world crumbles and hell breaks loose, you want to scream at whoever’s behind that door.

“Shit” Heeseung curses, adjusting the awful erection he’s sporting before turning towards the little closet like it’s a habit.

It is a habit, by the way. You know this closet by heart because it’s where you go whenever someone interrupts your precious alone time with your two gorgeous boyfriends.

“Get in the closet baby, we’ll take care of you in a sec, okay?” Heeseung says, kissing your temple and straightening his shirt.

You do just that, and when Riki reaches to close the door on you, he leans in for a quick kiss of his own, “If it weren’t for the rules, everyone would already know you’re ours. You’re not a secret because we want to, you hear me?”

TAGLIST ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱: @waeclr @whymsikl @d0llddeonu @mononnz12 @fuckdbyhoonie @ride-a-enha77 @baskinginvellichor

CHAPTER 1: THE MOVE

The moving truck pulled away from my old apartment at 6:14 a.m., and I stood on the curb in Chicago in the close end of a Midwestern spring, watching my entire life shrink down to a truck's worth of boxes and a single overstuffed suitcase riding shotgun in my car, and thought, not for the first time that week, what have I done.

The offer from XO Medical Center had come out of nowhere, three months earlier… an orthopedic attending position in Los Angeles, better pay, a genuinely excellent surgical program, and, if I was being honest with myself, an ocean and two time zones of distance from a residency program that had chewed me up for six straight years and a breakup I still wasn't sure I'd fully recovered from. When the recruiter had called, I'd said yes before I let myself think too hard about it, which was, in looking back at it, either the bravest or the most reckless decision I'd made in a decade. Possibly both.

The drive took three days. I'd mapped it out with the kind of manic precision I usually reserved for surgical planning… Chicago to St. Louis, St. Louis to Amarillo, Amarillo through the desert and into California, watching the landscape change through the windshield. Flat cornfields gave way to red rock and endless highway, and somewhere around the Arizona border the temperature climbed high enough that I had to keep the AC running full blast just to think straight.

I cried exactly once, outside a gas station, for no reason I could fully articulate… not sad, exactly, just overwhelmed, the specific dizziness of realizing that nobody in the next state over knew my name, that I was about to become the "new attending" for the second time in six years, and that this time there was no attending physician to hide behind, no more training wheels. I was the one signing off on charts now. I was the one whose name would be on the surgery.

Los Angeles announced itself the way it always seemed to in movies… traffic first, a slow crawl of brake lights stretching for miles before the skyline even came into view, palm trees lining the freeway looking strangely delicate against a sky so blindingly clear it almost hurt to look at. My new apartment was a one bedroom in a beige stucco building fifteen minutes from the hospital, small enough that half my boxes were still stacked against the living room wall a week after I moved in, but it had a balcony that caught the sunset every evening, and some stubborn, hopeful part of me decided to take that as a sign.

"You're insane," my sister told me over the phone, the night before my first shift, while I sat on my bare mattress surrounded by unopened boxes labeled KITCHEN and BEDROOM in my own frantic handwriting. "You don't know a single person out there."

"I know that."

"You hate change."

"I'm aware."

"So why'd you do it?"

I thought about that for a long moment, staring out at the strange, warm dark outside my window, streetlights and palm fronds and the distant hush of a freeway that never really went quiet. "Because I needed to find out who I am when nobody already has an opinion about it," I said finally. "Does that make sense?"

"No," she said, "but I love you anyway. Go kill it tomorrow."

I didn't sleep well that night… too hot, too unfamiliar, the ceiling fan clicking in a rhythm I hadn't learned yet… and I lay awake running through everything I knew about XO Medical Center, a Level 1 trauma center, a surgical program with a strong reputation, a chief of orthopedics named Dr. Kim who'd sounded brisk and no nonsense on our one phone interview. I didn't know anyone there. I didn't know the freeways, the good coffee shops, which grocery store had decent produce, or exactly where downtown ended and the hospital's neighborhood began.

I definitely didn't know that in less than twelve hours I'd be standing in a surgeons' lounge, staring at a stranger's hands like they'd personally done something to offend me.

But that was still twelve hours away. For now, there was just the dark, and the unfamiliar hum of a city I'd chosen sight unseen, and the quiet, stubborn hope that three thousand miles could actually be enough distance to become someone new.

I got up before my alarm, made coffee in a kitchen that still smelled like fresh paint, and drove to XO Medical Center with the windows down and the radio on, telling myself, the entire way there, that I had absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

I was, it turned out, spectacularly wrong about that. Just not for any of the reasons I'd expected.

CHAPTER 2: NEW BLOOD

The hospital rose up out of the LA skyline like something built specifically to be photographed… glass and pale stone, a sweep of palm trees along the circular drive, valet attendants directing a steady stream of cars even at seven in the morning. I parked in the employee garage, badge freshly laminated and still smelling faintly of plastic, and made my way up to the surgical floor with my heart going a little too fast for someone who had, in theory, done this exact kind of first day once already in her life.

The first thing I learned about XO Medical Center was that the coffee in the surgeons' lounge was criminal and nobody had done a single thing about it in what looked like a decade, despite being located in a city that apparently had four handcrafted coffee shops on every block.

The second thing I learned was Jake Sim, and I learned it before I even had a face to put to the name.

"Did Dr. Sim say good morning to you yet?" a nurse was saying, somewhere just around the corner from the lounge, her voice pitched low but nowhere near low enough. "I nearly dropped a chart."

"Please. I heard he smiled at Deb in radiology and she had to sit down."

"I would also have to sit down."

I rolled my eyes internally, badge still crooked, orientation packet tucked under one arm. Six years of residency had taught me exactly what this sounded like… some overconfident, sharp jawed attending who'd learned early that charm got him out of things competence should have to earn, coasting on cheekbones while everyone around him rearranged their whole morning for a smile. I'd met the type a dozen times over. I did not need to meet it again on day one.

I hadn't even made it to the vending machine before I heard him… not saw him, heard him, that low, easy laugh carrying down the hall like he owned the acoustics of the entire building. I turned the corner into the lounge with my badge still crooked on my scrub top, ORTHOPEDIC SURGERY printed under a photo that made me look like I'd been startled awake, and there he was, leaning against the counter like it had been built specifically to hold him up, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, sleeves of his scrub top rolled to show forearms that had clearly never met a day of doubt in their life. Outside the window behind him, the sun was already blinding off the parking structure, and somehow he looked like he belonged in it… tan, unhurried, entirely too comfortable for seven in the morning.

Three nurses were laughing at something he'd said. He wasn't even trying that hard. That was somehow worse.

"New meat," he said, when he spotted me. Not unkindly. Just… observational, like he was registering something for later.

"Excuse me?"

"You've got that look. First day. Trying to figure out if the coffee machine hates you personally." He nodded toward it. "It does. Don't trust it. This is LA, there's a decent espresso cart on the ground floor if you can survive the walk down."

"Thanks for the warning," I said, and went to pour myself a cup anyway, mostly out of spite, and possibly because I wasn't ready to walk back out of a room he was standing in.

He watched me do it, arms crossed, amusement written all over his face like he already knew how this was going to go. Up close I could see he had this way of tilting his head, registiring me, like every conversation was a diagnosis he hadn't finished making yet.

"Orthopedics," he said, reading my badge without asking permission. "Bone doctor. You're the new attending everyone's been talking about. Transferred in from Chicago, right?"

"News travels fast."

"This hospital runs on gossip. You'll learn." He held out his hand. "Jake. Neuro. Brain doctor, if we're doing the nickname thing."

The slight Australian lilt in his voice caught me off guard… broader vowels, softened at the edges. I shook it, and that was the first time I noticed them… his hands. Slim, long fingered, the kind of hands you'd expect on someone who played piano or did something delicate for a living, which I supposed he did, technically, if you counted people's brains as delicate. Veins ran visible along the backs of them, up under his rolled sleeves, and I found myself looking a half second too long before I caught myself and looked back up at his face instead.

He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed. His mouth curved, and he bit down briefly on his lower lip in a way that felt entirely too deliberate for a first meeting.

"Something wrong with my hand?" he asked.

"No," I said, too fast. "Just didn't expect a surgeon to have such… dramatic veins."

"Dramatic veins," he repeated, delighted, like I'd handed him a gift. "I'm going to remember you said that."

"Please don't."

"Too late." He pushed off the counter, and as he passed me he reached up and dragged a hand back through his hair… that same gesture I'd apparently be seeing a lot of, I'd learn later, an absent tell, something he did when he was thinking or stalling or just existing… and said over his shoulder, "Welcome to XO Medical. Welcome to LA, technically, if this is your first week. Try not to fall in love with anyone in the first month. Statistically it happens more here than anywhere else… something about the sunshine making everyone reckless."

"I'll take my chances," I called after him.

One of the nurses… Jasmine, I'd learn her name was later that day… caught my eye with an expression that was somewhere between pity and amusement. "That's Dr. Sim," she said, like it explained everything.

"Got that impression."

"He's not usually that friendly on a first meeting. You must have impressed him."

"I insulted his coffee opinions and stared at his hands," I said. "Not exactly a strategy."

"With Jake," she said, already walking away, "that basically is one."

I didn't think much more about it, not then. I had a full afternoon of chart reviews and an orientation packet the size of a phone book and exactly zero interest in whatever reputation apparently trailed Jake Sim through these halls like cologne. I'd moved three thousand miles for this job, left behind everything familiar for a fresh start in a city that still felt like a movie set half the time. I had one goal, and it wasn't him.

Still. Walking to my new office, sunlight slanting gold through the windows in a way Chicago's never quite managed, I caught myself flexing my own hand once, like I was trying to remember what his had felt like against mine.

I told myself it meant nothing. First days made people weird. That was all.

CHAPTER 3: FORCED PROXIMITY 

I made it exactly four days before fate, or more accurately the surgical scheduling algorithm, decided to test me.

Those four days had, at least, given me time to find my footing… a decent grocery store two blocks from my apartment, a running route along a stretch of sidewalk shaded by jacaranda trees that dropped purple blossoms across the pavement every morning like the city was putting on a show just for me, a coffee shop near the hospital with a barista who'd already learned my order. LA was starting, in small and unexpected ways, to feel less like a place I was visiting and more like a place I might actually live.

"You're on the Romano case," Dr. Kim told me, sliding a chart across her desk like it was a routine thing and not a small disaster. "T12 fracture with cord involvement, complicated by a mass we need imaged and possibly resected before you can even get near the vertebra. You'll be working with neuro."

"Which neuro?"

"Sim."

Of course. Of course it was Sim.

"Problem?" she asked, when I didn't say anything right away.

"No," I said. "No problem."

There wasn't, really. I was an adult. I was a professional. I had done six years of training around plenty of overconfident men in scrubs and survived every single one of them. Jake Sim was just going to be another name on another chart, another set of hands I had to coordinate with in an OR for six, maybe seven hours… or more.

Hands. I really needed to stop thinking about his hands.

He was already in the scrub room when I got there the morning of the surgery, elbow deep in suds, sleeves pushed up past his elbows, humming something under his breath that I didn't recognize… something with a beat, the kind of song that belonged on a car radio with the windows down. He glanced sideways when I came in and did a visible double take.

"New Blood," he said. "You're on my case."

"It's not your case. It's our patient."

"Sure, sure." He was smiling in that lazy way again, water running down his forearms. "You nervous?"

"About a T12 fracture? No."

"About working with me."

"Should I be?"

He considered that like it was a genuinely interesting question, head tilting, and then said, "Depends how easily you get distracted." The Australian flow a little more noticeable when he was amused.

"I don't."

"We'll see."

I scrubbed in next to him, elbow to elbow, both of us going through the same practiced motions… the brushes, the iodine, the careful choreography every surgeon learns before they're allowed to touch a human body for a living. It should have been nothing. It should have been exactly as clinical as it always was.

Except his hand brushed mine, reaching for the same faucet at the same moment, and something about the accidental contact… skin on wet skin, brief and meaningless… made my whole arm go warm in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the water temperature.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

"It's fine."

"You went red."

"I did not."

"You did. It's cute."

"Do you flirt with everyone you operate with, or am I special?"

"Bit of both," he said cheerfully, and shouldered the door to the OR open before I could figure out how to respond to that.

The surgery itself, to my genuine surprise, was where Jake Sim stopped being infuriating and started being… good. Actually good. He worked with a precision that didn't match the loose, lazy way he carried himself outside an OR, his hands, the ones I kept catching myself watching, moved with total certainty around the mass pressing on Mrs. Romano's spinal cord, careful and economical and startlingly gentle for someone built like he was.

"Talk to me," he said at one point, not looking up from the microscope, and I realized he meant it generally… an old habit, probably, of narrating a case out loud to keep the room calibrated to him.

"Go ahead."

"Clean margins. I think we can close here and let you do your thing." He glanced up, eyes bright behind his loupes. "Your turn, Dr. New Blood."

"I have a name, you know."

"I know. I like the nickname better."

I rolled my eyes and stepped in as he stepped back, and for the next three hours it was just the fracture and the hardware and the long, focused silence surgeries demand, and somewhere in there I stopped being aware of him as Jake Sim, hospital fuckboy and started being aware of him as someone who was simply very good at his job and standing close enough that I could feel the heat off his arm when he leaned over to check my alignment on the imaging.

"Nice work," he said, when we finally closed. It didn't sound like flattery. It sounded like he meant it.

"You too," I admitted.

"See? We make a good team." He stripped his gloves off with a snap, and… there it was again…dragged a hand back through his hair, damp now with sweat, dark strands falling right back into place like they always did. "You should let me buy you a coffee. A better one than the lounge poison. I know a place near the beach, it's a bit of a drive but it's worth it."

"I think I'll pass."

"Your loss," he said, entirely unbothered, and left me standing there trying very hard not to watch him go.

It didn't work.

CHAPTER 4: REPUTATION

By the end of my second week, I had heard approximately four different, elaborate, and only partially overlapping stories of Jake Sim's love life.

I hadn't asked for any of them.

"He dated an ER attending for like three months last year," said Jasmine, over a truly awful cafeteria salad, the kind that made me miss the Midwest's total lack of claim about vegetables. "Then a rep from the surgical device company. Then I think there was a producer he met at some industry party… this is LA, everyone's dating someone in entertainment eventually… but that one might be a rumor."

"He's not a bad guy," added Sunoo, one of the residents, around a mouthful of fries. "He's just… allergic to anything that looks like it's going somewhere. The second it gets serious he's gone. Very charming about it, though. Nobody even hates him for it. It's honestly kind of impressive."

"Charming exit strategy," I said. "Great. Very reassuring information for a coworker to have."

"Why, you interested?" Jasmine asked, entirely too delighted by the idea.

"Absolutely not."

"You're blushing."

"I am not blushing, I am mildly annoyed that this is apparently the primary topic of conversation in this hospital."

Which was true. It was also true that I spent that entire evening's chart review with my mind drifting, unhelpfully, back to the feel of his hand brushing mine at the sink, the particular way his forearm had flexed as he'd angled the retractor, the veins running down the back of his hand into long fingers that had held a human spinal cord's covering with more gentleness than I'd expected from someone with that reputation.

I told myself it was clinical curiosity. Surgeons noticed hands. It was an occupational hazard.

I did not believe myself even a little.

I ran into him… actually ran into him, physically, my shoulder catching his chest as I came around a corner too fast with an armful of charts… outside the radiology suite around eleven that night.

"Whoa." He caught my elbow to steady me, and let go a half second slower than strictly necessary. "Somebody's in a hurry."

"Post op check. Sorry."

"You're here late."

"So are you."

"I like the quiet. Best time to be in this building, honestly… no admin, no noise, just the hum of the bright lights and whatever left of the day." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying me in that unhurried way he had, like he had nowhere else to be and no interest in being anywhere else. "Heard you're settling in. People like you already. Sunoo says you're terrifyingly skilled."

"High praise from Sunoo."

"He doesn't say it about many people." A pause, and then, almost no reason, "Heard you've heard about me too."

I didn't pretend not to know what he meant. "The reputation, you mean."

"The reputation," he agreed, unbothered, like we were discussing the weather. "What'd they tell you? The ER attending? The device rep? The producer? I feel like there's a rotating cast at this point."

"Something like that."

"It's mostly true," he said, with a shrug that was almost disarming in its honesty. "I'm not going to pretend it isn't. I like people. I like dating. I don't like the part where it stops being fun and starts being… " he made a vague gesture, "… a project. So I leave before that happens. Saves everyone the trouble."

"That's a very tidy way of avoiding commitment."

"It's efficient," he said, and something flickered behind his eyes, quick and gone, that made me think maybe it wasn't quite as tidy for him as he made it sound. "Anyway. You didn't ask, I just figured you'd rather hear it from me than the fourth hand version."

"Thanks for the transparency."

"I'm a very transparent guy." He pushed off the wall, close enough now that I had to tip my head back slightly to keep looking at him, and I was abruptly, uncomfortably aware of how good he smelled, some mix of antiseptic and something warmer underneath it… sun warmed skin, maybe, or the particular smell LA seemed to leave on everyone eventually.

"Confidence is a requirement in this job, I've noticed," I said, mostly to have something to say that wasn't about how close he was standing.

"Definitely a requirement," he agreed. "Helps in other areas too, if the rumors are to be believed."

"I wouldn't know. I don't listen to rumors."

"Sure you don't." His mouth curved. "You've got ink on your hand, by the way."

I looked down. I did, a streak of blue pen along the side of my palm from filling out charts too fast. When I looked back up he was watching my hand instead of my face, and for one long, strange second neither of us said anything.

"Goodnight, Jake," I said, finally, and made myself walk past him toward the elevator.

"Night, New Blood," he called after me, and I could hear the smile in it without even turning around.

Outside, the parking structure was warm even at that hour, the sky over the city that strange, orange tinted dark that never quite went fully black, and I sat in my car for a full minute before starting the engine, hand pressed briefly against the wheel, trying to talk myself down from something I didn't have a name for yet.

I did not think about his hands again that night.

I thought about them extensively.

CHAPTER 5: FIRST IMPRESSIONS, RECONSIDERED 

I'd made a habit, in that first month, of keeping a running mental list titled, more or less, Reasons Jake Sim Is Not My Problem, and by week three the list had started developing some inconvenient holes in it.

The first hole appeared during a Monday morning trauma conference, of all places… a dry, hour long meeting where attendings reviewed complications from the previous week, usually the least romantic setting imaginable for anything resembling a report. Jake was presenting a case that had gone sideways, a bleed that had been harder to control than expected, and instead of doing what I'd half expected… deflecting, minimizing, charming his way past the hard questions the way he seemed to charm his way past everything else… he stood at the front of the room and walked the entire department through exactly what had gone wrong, what he'd do differently, and where he thought the system itself had failed the patient before he'd even gotten involved.

"I should have called for backup twenty minutes earlier than I did," he said, plainly, in front of people whose respect he clearly cared about. "That's on me. I got tunnel vision on managing it solo instead of recognizing I needed another set of hands."

Dr. Kim, notoriously hard to impress, actually nodded along, murmured something to the surgeon next to her that looked approving. I sat there in the back row revising my mental list downward by one significant point, watching a man who apparently had no trouble at all being honest about his mistakes in front of a room full of colleagues, even as everyone in that same hospital seemed convinced he couldn't be honest about anything that mattered to him personally.

The second hole appeared two days later, in the hospital's tiny meditation room… a space I hadn't even known existed until a nurse pointed it out to me after a particularly brutal shift, tucked behind the chapel, meant for exactly the kind of five minute mental reset healthcare workers rarely gave themselves permission to take. I ducked in there hoping for solitude and found Jake already sitting cross legged on the floor, eyes closed, phone face down beside him, looking nothing at all like the easy, performative version of himself that held court in the surgeons' lounge every morning.

"Sorry," I said, already backing out. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You're not interrupting." He cracked one eye open. "This room's not exactly hard to share. Come sit, if you want. Or don't. No pressure either way."

I sat, mostly out of curiosity, and we didn't talk for several minutes, just breathed in the small, quiet room together, and it was, unexpectedly, one of the more peaceful five minutes I'd had since arriving in the city.

"I come here after hard cases," he admitted, eventually, still not quite looking at me. "Nobody knows that. Well. Now you know that."

"Why tell me?"

He considered the question like it deserved an actual answer, rather than a deflection. "I don't know. You don't seem like the type to use it against me."

"I'm not."

"I figured," he said, and something in the way he said it… simple, undefended, nothing at all like his usual exterior… made the third and largest hole in my mental list open up all at once, and I found myself, walking out of that meditation room ten minutes later, reluctantly admitting that Jake Sim might, in fact, already be my problem, whether either of us was ready to admit it yet or not.

CHAPTER 6: SETTLING IN

By my sixth week, Los Angeles had stopped feeling like a place I was borrowing and started, in small, unglamorous increments, to feel like mine.

I'd found a farmers market two blocks from my apartment that ran every Sunday morning, tables of stone fruit and strange citrus varieties I'd never seen back in Chicago, and I'd taken to walking there before my shifts on the days I was lucky enough to have a slow morning, coffee in hand, sun already warm by eight a.m. in a way that still felt like a small miracle every single time. Jasmine had started dragging me to a taco truck near her apartment on Fridays, insisting my culinary education was "criminally incomplete," and Sunoo had, with great attention, added me to the group chat the residents used to complain about attendings, which I understood to be some kind of honor even though half the complaints, lately, were apparently about me.

"You're strict," he told me, entirely without spite, over lunch one Thursday. "In a good way. But strict."

"I had a chief resident who used to make us re-suture things at two in the morning if the spacing was off by a millimeter. I'm basically a saint by comparison."

"That explains a lot," Jasmine said, and passed me a napkin, because apparently I still hadn't mastered eating a taco with any dignity.

Work, too, had started to settle into something like rhythm. I knew the good scrub techs from the ones who cut corners, knew which resident to trust with a complicated closure and which one needed extra supervision, knew, with the particular unspoken fluency that only comes from repetition, the exact rhythm of Jake Sim's voice across an OR when a case was going well versus when it wasn't.

That was the part I hadn't expected… how quickly he'd become a fixed point in my new life, not because I'd chosen it, exactly, but because the hospital kept putting us together, complex case after complex case, until working alongside him had simply become one more thing I knew how to do without thinking too hard about it. Or that was the story I told myself, anyway, on the days it was easier to believe.

We had a good case together that week… a motorcycle accident, complicated but survivable, the kind of surgery that left both of us satisfied rather than dried out… and afterward, in the elevator, he leaned against the wall with his eyes closed for a second, exhaustion written plain across his face in a way the hallway swagger usually hid.

"Long week," I said.

"Long month," he corrected, cracking one eye open. "You get used to it. Eventually. Mostly."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"Not really, no." A tired half smile. "How's the apartment? You settling in okay? Chicago girl surviving the culture shock?"

"Better than I expected. There's a farmers market near me. And a taco truck Jasmine's very committed to. I think I might actually stay."

"Good," he said, and something in the way he said it… simple, direct, none of the usual performance… caught me off guard enough that I didn't have a response ready by the time the elevator doors opened.

He was easy to talk to, I was slowly, reluctantly discovering, when neither of us was actively bickering about a case or dancing around whatever this tension between us actually was. Easy in a way that had nothing to do with the reputation trailing him through every hallway, and everything to do with the fact that underneath all of it, he was simply good company… quick, a little self deprecating, genuinely curious about the answers when he asked me a question instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.

I noticed that, and filed it away carefully, next to all the other things about Jake Sim I was doing my best not to notice.

CHAPTER 7: THE LONG CASE

The Kombu case was, by every objective measure, the hardest thing either of us had worked on since I'd started at XO Medical… a sixteen year old competitive swimmer with a spinal injury from a diving accident, a family in the waiting room too frightened to eat or sleep, and a surgical plan that required Jake and me to essentially co-lead for the better part of two weeks, coordinating imaging, staging two separate procedures, and checking in on the same patient morning and night like she was the only thing either of us had to think about.

It should have been exhausting, and in a way it was, but there was something about being trusted with something that mattered that much, together, that changed the shape of whatever was happening between us in a way neither of us fully acknowledged out loud yet.

"She's scared," I told him, the night before the first procedure, both of us reviewing imaging in his office long after everyone else had gone home, the desk lamp the only light in the room, the city outside the window gone dark except for a scatter of lit windows in the buildings across the street. "She keeps asking if she'll swim again. I don't know how to answer that honestly without taking away the only thing keeping her going right now."

"You don't have to have the perfect answer," Jake said, not looking up from the scan he was studying, one hand absently rubbing the back of his neck, the other tracing a line along the images with a finger, veins standing out along the back of his hand in the low light in a way I noticed and, for once, didn't bother pretending I hadn't. "You just have to be honest that you're going to fight for the best possible outcome, and let her hold onto hope in whatever shape she needs it to be. Kids are more resilient than we usually give them credit for. So are their parents, most of the time."

"You're good at this. The people part. Not just the surgery part."

"Don't tell anyone," he said, with a tired half smile. "Ruins the reputation."

We worked side by side for the better part of two weeks after that, and something about the ongoing proximity… long nights, shared exhaustion, the particular intimacy of trusting someone completely with a case that mattered this much… did more to weaken the careful professional distance between us than any single dramatic moment could have. By the time Sana Kombu came out of her second surgery with full sensation intact and a genuinely excellent prognosis, both of us standing in the scrub room afterward too tired out to do anything but lean against opposite counters and grin at each other like idiots, something fundamental had shifted between us that neither of us had a name for yet.

"We did that," Jake said, quietly, disbelief and pride tangled together in his voice.

"We did," I agreed, and for a moment, just a moment, neither of us bothered pretending the space between us was purely professional.

Her mother cried in the hallway afterward, thanked us both with a hug that neither of us was quite prepared for, and it was Jake who teared up first, quickly wiping it away and blaming allergies in a way that fooled absolutely no one, and I filed that away too, next to everything else about him I was failing spectacularly to keep at arm's length.

CHAPTER 8: ALMOST

The call came in at 2 a.m. on a Thursday, multi vehicle collision on the 10, one patient with a compound femur fracture and a subdural hematoma that meant neuro and ortho were both getting paged at the same ungodly hour, both of us summoned into the same trauma bay like the hospital had personally decided to keep testing whatever this was.

There was no time to think about anything except the patient. That was the thing about trauma… it burned away everything irrelevant, left only the essential, sharp focus of keeping someone alive. Jake worked fast and clean, calling out numbers to his resident, and I worked fast and clean beside him, and for two hours we didn't so much as make eye contact, too busy being surgeons to be anything else.

It was after… once the patient was stable, wheeled up to the ICU with a neurosurgical hold and an ortho consult scheduled for the morning… that the adrenaline caught up with both of us at once, in the empty hallway outside the trauma bay, three in the morning, the whole floor gone quiet and strange around us, the city lights visible through the window at the end of the corridor, spread out and glittering like something out of a postcard nobody in that hallway had the capacity to appreciate.

"That was close," Jake said, dragging his mask down, hand going automatically back through his hair, which was damp with sweat and standing up in places. "Another twenty minutes and we lose that bleed control."

"You did good work in there."

"So did you." He was leaning against the wall across from me, chest still rising fast, eyes bright with the particular high that came after a save like that. "You always this calm during a code?"

"I don't really have another setting."

"I noticed." He was looking at me the way he had that first day… registering, except this time it didn't feel clinical at all. "You're kind of terrifying, you know that? In a good way."

"I'll take it."

He pushed off the wall, and crossed the distance between us before I fully registered it, close enough now that I had to look up, close enough that I could see the fine lines of exhaustion under his eyes and the way his jaw was still tight with leftover adrenaline. My back found the wall behind me without me quite deciding to move there.

"Jake—"

"I know," he said, low, and he braced one hand on the wall beside my head… that hand, I couldn't help but notice, veins standing out along the back of it under the bright light, fingers spread against the paint an inch from my hair… and didn't move any closer, like he was waiting for permission he wasn't sure he wanted to ask for out loud. "I know what this looks like." He said, low, the Australian in his voice thickening slightly with the leftover adrenaline.

"What does it look like?"

"Like a bad idea," he said, and there was something almost regretful in it, self aware in a way I hadn't expected from him. His other hand came up, not quite touching my jaw, hovering there like he hadn't decided yet. "You've heard the reputation. You'd be smart to stay far away from me."

"Probably," I agreed. My heart was doing something ridiculous, fast and stupid, entirely disproportionate to the fact that he still hadn't touched me.

"Probably," he repeated, and huffed something that was almost a laugh, almost pained. His thumb finally grazed my jaw, feather light, and I felt it everywhere. "You should tell me to back off."

"Back off, Jake."

"Right." He didn't move. Neither did I. For one long, suspended second the whole hallway seemed to narrow down to the space between us, his breath and mine, the low hum of the overhead lights, the specific, electric awareness of exactly how close his mouth was to mine.

Then a door banged open somewhere down the corridor, a nurse's voice calling for someone, ordinary hospital noise crashing back in, and he stepped back like he'd been burned, hand dropping from the wall, that easy, careless smile sliding back into place like a mask clicking shut.

"Get some sleep, New Blood," he said, already walking backward toward the elevators, and if his voice was rougher than usual, neither of us mentioned it. "Big day tomorrow."

I stood there in the empty hallway for a long moment after he'd gone, hand pressed briefly to my own jaw where his thumb had been, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person, the city lights still glittering, indifferent, through the window at the end of the hall.

It didn't work particularly well.

CHAPTER 9: CROSSING THE LINE

It caught up with us three nights later, over something that shouldn't have mattered nearly as much as it did.

The Romano post-op notes had come back with a delayed recovery timeline, and Jake insisted the surgical plan had been sound, that the setback was unrelated, and I insisted he'd rushed a consult he should have slowed down for, and the argument followed us out of the conference room and down two flights of stairs and into his office, door swinging shut behind us harder than either of us intended, voices too sharp for the hour, for the empty hallway outside, for anything except each other. Both of us were running on too little sleep and too much espresso from the cart downstairs, thinned out from a week of overlapping night shifts, the kind of exhaustion that strips away whatever polite distance usually keeps two people from saying exactly what they mean.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," I said, and the words came out sharper than I meant, more heat behind them than the actual disagreement warranted.

"Like what? Like I'm allowed to have an opinion about my own consult?"

"Like I don't know what I'm doing."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

He crossed the small office in two steps, close enough that I had to tip my chin up, close enough that the argument seemed to run out of air between one breath and the next, replaced by something with far more heat behind it than either of us had planned on that particular Tuesday.

His eyes were dark, searching, jaw tight under the bright light that somehow made everything feel sharper, more exposed. The desk lamp was still on from earlier chart review, casting a warm pool across the scattered papers and the half empty coffee cups neither of us had bothered to throw away.

For a second neither of us moved. Then his hand came up… those long, veined fingers I had been trying not to notice for days, for weeks, since that first morning in the lounge… and curled around the side of my neck. Thumb pressing just under my jaw like he was checking a pulse that was already racing. The contact was deliberate. Claimed. His palm was warm, slightly hard at the base of the fingers from the way he held tools for hours, and the veins stood out along the back of his hand in the low light like something drawn there on purpose.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and rough, the Australian accent slipping through more than usual. Not quite a question. Almost a dare.

I didn’t.

I grabbed the front of his scrub top instead and pulled him down.

The kiss was messy from the start… teeth, heat, no finesse, the kind of collision that felt less like wanting and more like finally giving in to something that had been clawing at both of us since the scrub room a week ago. He made a low sound against my mouth, something halfway between a groan and a curse, and backed me into the edge of his desk hard enough that papers slid and a pen clattered to the floor. His hands were everywhere at once, one still at my throat, the other sliding under the hem of my scrub top, palm hot against bare skin. I felt the drag of those veins, the strength in his fingers as they spread out over my ribs, and something low in my stomach clenched so hard I had to bite back a sound.

“Jesus,” he muttered against my mouth, already shoving the fabric higher. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Every single day. Looking at me like that across the table in conference. Across the OR. Like you’re daring me to do something about it.”

“Good,” I managed, breathless, and yanked at the drawstring of his scrub pants with zero patience. The knot gave. My hand slipped inside before either of us could think better of it.

He was already hard, hot against my palm, and the way his hips jerked forward told me he was just as wound tight as I was. His forehead dropped to mine for half a second, breath ragged, the tip of his nose brushing mine. Then he kissed me again like he was trying to prove a point, or maybe trying to erase the last week of careful, professional distance that had only made everything worse.

Scrub tops came off in a tangle of fabric and impatience. Mine first… yanked over my head and discarded somewhere near the chair. His followed a second later, and I got my first real look at him without the loose blue fabric in the way, lean muscle, a faint scar near his collarbone, the same veins running up the insides of his forearms and disappearing under the skin of his shoulders. His mouth dragged down my throat, teeth scraping, while those hands… God, those hands… pushed my sports bra up and out of the way so he could cup my breasts, thumbs sweeping over my nipples until I arched into him with a sharp inhale. He looked almost dazed when he pulled back just enough to look at me, pupils blown, dark hair falling into his eyes, lips already reddened from the kiss.

“Still want me to stop?” he asked, voice wrecked.

“If you stop I will actually kill you.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He spun me around, bent me over the desk with one firm hand between my shoulder blades, the other already shoving my scrub pants and underwear down just far enough. The edge of the wood bit into my hips. Cool air hit the backs of my thighs. I heard the soft sound of him spitting into his palm, felt the slick press of his fingers between my legs… two of them, no hesitation, pushing into me deep and curling while the pad of his thumb found my clit like he’d mapped it in advance. I bit down on my own forearm to keep from making noise that would carry into the hallway.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverent, working his fingers in and out with a precision that felt entirely unfair given how frantic the rest of this was. “You’re soaked. How long have you been like this?”

“Since the scrub room,” I admitted, voice muffled against my arm. “Since your hand brushed mine and you looked at me like… like you already knew.”

He pulled his fingers free and replaced them with the blunt head of his cock before I could finish the sentence. One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt, both of us freezing for a second at the sudden, overwhelming stretch of it. His forehead dropped between my shoulder blades. One of those veined hands braced against the desk beside my hip, the other gripping my waist hard enough that I knew I’d find faint marks later. The contrast of the cool wood under my palms and the heat of him inside me made my head spin.

“Okay?” he asked, voice strained, like it was costing him something not to move.

“Move,” I ordered.

He did.

It was frantic… almost angry at first, the way we’d been arguing only minutes earlier bleeding straight into the way he fucked me. Hard, deep strokes that shoved me forward against the desk with every snap of his hips. The only sounds were the wet slide of skin, the soft thud of the desk against the wall, and the broken, bitten off noises neither of us could fully keep quiet. His free hand slid around to the front of me, two long fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles that made my thighs shake. I could feel every ridge of those veins against my skin when he gripped harder, could feel the flex of tendon in his wrist as he held me steady.

“Look at you,” he muttered against the back of my neck, voice low and almost amazed even through the roughness. “Taking me like this. In my office. Like you were made for it. Like you’ve been thinking about this every time I walked past you in the hallway.”

I reached back blindly, found his wrist… felt the tendons and veins under my fingertips… and held on. He groaned like the contact alone was too much and drove into me harder, the rhythm turning punishing, perfect. The tension that had been coiling between us for days finally snapped. I came with a choked sound against my forearm, walls clenching around him, vision going white at the edges. He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, relentless, until the oversensitivity edged into something almost too much, and then he pulled out, spun me around, and lifted me onto the edge of the desk like I weighed nothing.

My scrub pants were still tangled around one ankle. His were shoved down just far enough. He stepped between my thighs, guided himself back in with one hand… those fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, veins standing out, the sight of it enough to make another pulse of heat roll through me… and thrust home again. This angle was deeper. Different. I locked my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, one hand fisted in his hair, the other braced behind me on the desk for leverage. He kissed me again, messy and open mouthed, while his hips snapped forward in a rhythm that felt less like anger now and more like need, pure and unfiltered.

“Been thinking about this,” he admitted against my mouth, the words coming out between thrusts. “Your hands. The way you look at mine. The way you went red that first day. Drove me fucking crazy.”

“Shut up,” I breathed, but there was no heat left in it, only the sound of someone who had stopped pretending.

He laughed once… short, breathless… and then his hand slid between us again, those long fingers finding my clit with the same precision he used under a microscope. The double stimulation was too much. I came a second time with my face pressed into the side of his neck, tasting skin and the faint remaining antiseptic that never fully left either of us after a long shift. He followed a handful of thrusts later, burying himself deep and spilling into me with a broken curse against my shoulder, hips stuttering through it, one hand still braced on the desk like he didn’t quite trust his legs to hold him up.

For a long moment the only sound in the office was both of us trying to remember how to breathe.

He pulled out carefully. Neither of us moved right away. My legs were still loosely around him. His forehead was still resting against my temple. The desk was a disaster of scattered charts and coffee rings and the faint scent of sex mixing with the usual hospital smell of antiseptic and old coffee. Somewhere down the hall a cart rattled past, ordinary and distant, a reminder that the rest of the world was still turning while the two of us sat half naked and wrecked in a locked office that suddenly felt too small for what had just happened.

Eventually he stepped back, pulled his scrub pants up with a wince, and helped me down from the desk. We dressed in silence that wasn’t quite awkward and wasn’t quite comfortable either… just full. My sports bra was twisted. His scrub top was inside out until he noticed and fixed it with a quiet, self conscious huff of laughter. I found my scrub top under the chair and pulled it on, the fabric still warm from where it had been discarded. Neither of us looked fully presentable. His hair was a complete disaster. My lips felt swollen. There was a faint red mark on the side of my neck where his mouth had been.

We ended up on the floor somehow… backs against the front of the desk, shoulders almost touching, both of us staring up at the ceiling like it owed us an explanation. The city glittered through the window beyond the blinds, indifferent. My heart was still going too fast. So was his, if the rise and fall of his chest was any indication.

“Well,” Jake said finally, breaking the silence, voice rough in a way I’d never heard it before. “That happened.”

“That happened,” I agreed. My own voice sounded unfamiliar. Used.

“For the record,” he said, turning his head to look at me, hair a disaster, that half smile back but softer somehow, less shield to it than usual, “I regret nothing.”

“Me neither.” I meant it, and that was the terrifying part. The part I wasn’t ready to look at directly. The way my body still hummed with the aftershocks. The way I could still feel the shape of his hands on my hips, the press of those veins against my skin. The way the argument felt like it had happened a lifetime ago instead of twenty minutes.

“So.” He propped himself up a little higher against the desk, and even now I caught myself glancing at his hand where it was braced against the floor, veins standing out along the back of it, and hated myself a little for it. “What do we call this?”

“A mistake?”

“A really good mistake.”

I huffed something that was almost a laugh. The sound felt strange in the quiet office. “We work together. Every day. In surgeries, Jake. Complicated ones. Cases that matter.”

“I’m aware.”

“So this can’t…” I gestured between us, the motion vague and a little helpless, “… become a thing. A real thing. We can’t afford that. Not here. Not with everything else.”

“Obviously not,” he agreed, too quickly, and there was something in his eyes I didn’t examine too closely. Something that flickered and then smoothed over. “I don’t do real things. You know that. Everybody knows that.”

“Right.”

“So.” He said it carefully, like he was building the sentence one brick at a time, testing the weight of each word before he set it down. “This is just… this. No expectations. No feelings. Just two adults blowing off a truly absurd amount of professional tension whenever we both feel like it. Whenever the week gets too long and the coffee is too bad and we need somewhere to put all of it that isn’t another argument in a conference room.”

“Friends with benefits,” I said. The phrase felt both ridiculous and necessary. A clean box to put this in. Something with edges.

“Friends with benefits,” he agreed, and held out his hand like we were sealing a business deal, which… absurdly, giddily… made me laugh for real. The sound cracked something open in the quiet, made the whole thing feel almost manageable for half a second.

I shook it. His hand was warm, and larger than mine, and I held on maybe a beat too long before I let go. The veins under my fingers. The remaining heat. The way his thumb brushed once across my knuckles like an accident that wasn’t.

“No feelings,” I said again, mostly for my own benefit. A reminder. A boundary drawn in the air between us while both of us were still half dressed and glowing and entirely too aware of each other’s bodies.

“No feelings,” he echoed, and if his voice caught slightly on the second word, neither of us was willing to admit we noticed. Neither of us looked at the other when we said it. We both kept our eyes on the ceiling, or the window, or the mess of papers still scattered across the floor. Anywhere else.

Outside his office window, the city went on glittering, indifferent, all the way to the dark line of the ocean neither of us could see from here but both of us knew was out there somewhere, wide and patient and entirely unconcerned with whatever two exhausted surgeons had just agreed to at one in the morning. The agreement hung in the air between us… half joking, half a little too serious… while the desk lamp hummed and the distant sound of the night shift carried faintly through the closed door.

Neither of us moved to leave right away.

CHAPTER 10: FALLOUT AND RULES

I woke up the next morning with the distinct, sinking sensation of having done something I couldn't take back.

Not that I wanted to take it back, exactly. That was the problem.

I saw him at morning rounds, and for one horrible second neither of us knew how to look at the other… and then he just grinned, easy as anything, like nothing at all had happened, and said, "Morning, Dr. New Blood. Sleep well?"

"Fine," I said, too fast, and Jasmine shot me a look that suggested my poker face needed serious work.

"You're doing that blushing thing again," she murmured, once Jake had moved further down the hall.

"I am not."

"Your ears are red."

"It's cold in here."

"It's July. In LA. It is never cold in here."

I ignored her, mostly because I didn't have a good answer, and buried myself in charts for the rest of the morning, determined to be a completely normal, professional colleague to Jake Sim for the rest of my life.

It lasted until lunch, when I found him in the stairwell between floors three and four… a spot, I'd learn, that nobody used, tucked away from the main traffic, with a narrow window at the top that let in a slice of hard California light… clearly waiting for me.

"So," he said. "We should probably talk logistics."

"Logistics."

"Rules. Ground rules. If we're doing this." He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, and there was something almost businesslike about the way he said it, like he'd had this conversation before and knew exactly how to structure it. "Rule one, nobody at work finds out. This stays between us."

"Obviously."

"Rule two, it doesn't interfere with the job. If we're in an OR together, we're colleagues. Full stop."

"Agreed."

"Rule three…" he paused, and for just a second the easy confidence flickered, something more careful underneath it, "… no feelings. If either of us starts catching feelings, we call it off. No hard feelings, no drama. Just… done."

"That seems fair," I said, even though something in my chest twisted slightly at the phrase no hard feelings, like it was already anticipating a version of this that ended badly.

"Good." He held out his hand again, that same absurd business deal gesture from the night before, and I took it, and this time neither of us pretended the handshake wasn't lasting a beat too long. "Partners in crime."

"Don't say it like that, it sounds unpleasant."

"Everything sounds unpleasant in a hospital stairwell at one in the afternoon," he said, and let go of my hand slowly, fingers trailing against my palm in a way that felt entirely too deliberate for someone who'd just laid out three careful rules about keeping this simple.

I went back to rounds that afternoon with my hand still faintly warm from his, and caught myself, twice, staring at the backs of his hands across the nurses' station while he charted… the veins, the long fingers, the absent way he tapped his pen against the counter while he read… before I forced myself to look away both times.

Rule three, I reminded myself. No feelings.

It felt, even then, like a promise I wasn't entirely sure I could keep, and that night, driving home with the windows down and the last of the sunset burning orange over the hills, I found myself thinking that three thousand miles hadn't done nearly as much to change me as I'd hoped it would. I was still, apparently, exactly the kind of person who made things complicated the second she told herself she wouldn't.

CHAPTER 11: LEARNING HIS RHYTHM 

The rules held, more or less, for the first week and a half… a fact I found almost funny, in hindsight, given how quickly they'd unravel after that. We were careful. We were professional. We were, in the particular way of two people trying very hard to prove something to themselves, almost aggressively normal with each other in front of anyone who might be watching.

Off the clock, though… in the narrow, unmonitored hours after a shift, in the handful of times our schedules happened to line up for a coffee that was seemingly just two colleagues being friendly… I started learning things about him I hadn't expected to want to know.

He drove a car far too nice for someone who claimed not to care about appearances, a fact he was defensive about in a way that made it clear he cared quite a bit. He ran most mornings before his shift, along the same stretch of beach path, rain or shine, an old habit from college he said he'd never managed to break even when residency made it borderline impossible. He was, despite the reputation, a genuinely terrible cook… I discovered this on an evening he'd insisted on making dinner at his place, purely as friends, he'd said, both of us apparently choosing to believe that fiction for the length of one meal, and watched him nearly set off the smoke alarm attempting something that was supposed to be risotto.

He also, I learned that same week, texted like a man with no punctuation budget whatsoever.

"rough one today," he sent, around midnight, no capital letters, no context.

"you good?" I typed back.

"better now that you're texting me back instead of ignoring me at the nurses station like earlier"

"I was charting. Not ignoring you."

"sure. anyway. thinking about that risotto disaster. still owe you a dinner that doesnt set off an alarm"

"Low bar. I'm free Thursday."

"its a date," he sent, and then, a beat later, "not a date date. friends date. whatever we're calling this"

"Sure, Jake."

"dont sure Jake me. go to sleep dr new blood"

I put the phone down smiling in a way I had no good excuse for, and told myself, not for the first time, that texting like a functioning adult with proper capitalization was clearly too much to ask of a neurosurgeon.

"In my defense," he said, waving a dish towel at the ceiling to clear the smoke, "the recipe lied to me."

"The recipe did not lie to you. You forgot to stir it for twenty minutes."

"Details."

We ended up ordering Thai food instead, sitting on his kitchen floor because it was somehow funnier than moving to the actual table, and it was easy… dangerously, comfortably easy… in a way that made the careful rules we'd built feel increasingly beside the point.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, halfway through a container of pad see ew, in a tone that made me put my chopsticks down.

"Sure."

"Why'd you really leave Chicago? Everyone assumes it's just the job offer, better pay, whatever, and maybe that's true. But you get this look sometimes. Like you're running from something."

I considered lying, or deflecting, the way I usually did when the question came up. Something about the low light in his kitchen, the ease of the evening, made me tell the truth instead. "There was someone. In Chicago. We were together most of residency. It ended badly… not dramatically, just… badly, in that quiet way where you both know it's over long before anyone says it out loud. I think I took this job partly because it let me leave before I had to watch it die any slower than it already was."

"Leaving first," he said, quietly, something unreadable crossing his face. "I get that."

"Yeah," I said. "I figured you might."

Neither of us said anything else about it, but something had shifted, some careful boundary redrawn without either of us announcing it, and by the time I left that night… later than I'd meant to, both of us lingering at his door in a way that had nothing to do with the food… the rules felt considerably less sturdy than they had eleven days earlier.

CHAPTER 12: THE CLOSET

The supply closet on the fourth floor smelled like antiseptic and cardboard, and it was, statistically, the worst possible place two attendings could be caught doing anything other than counting inventory. Which was exactly why it worked.

It had been eleven days since the rules. Eleven days of charged glances across nurses' stations, of his hand "accidentally" grazing mine at the coffee machine, of a tension that had started to feel less like professional friction and more like something wound so tight it was bound to snap. It snapped on a Tuesday, after a case that ran four hours long and left both of us tired and irritable and entirely too aware of each other across the scrub sink, the afternoon sun slanting hard and gold through the hallway windows the way it only did in this city, turning the whole floor faintly amber.

"You've got that look," he murmured, catching my wrist as I passed him in the hallway outside radiology, tugging me half a step sideways into the shadow of the supply closet door before either of us had said a single word about it.

"What look?"

"The one that means you're thinking about the stairwell." His voice had dropped, low and rough, and when I didn't argue he pushed the door open and pulled me in after him.

The door clicked shut behind us. The space was narrow… metal shelves stacked with gauze, saline bags, sterile trays, the faint chemical bite of cleaning solution under everything. One flickering bright panel overhead. Barely enough room for two people who weren’t trying very hard to keep their distance. Jake’s back hit the shelves with a soft rattle of boxes. His hand…those long, veined fingers I had spent eleven days trying not to watch… was still wrapped around my wrist, thumb pressing into the inside of it like he needed the contact more than the restraint.

For half a second we just looked at each other, breathing hard, the four hour case still humming under both our skins. Then the last of the careful professional distance shredded.

I shoved him harder into the shelves. He laughed once, sharp and low, and dragged me in by the front of my scrub top. The kiss was nothing like the frantic, almost angry collision in his office. This one was hungrier. Familiar. The kind that said we already knew how this ended and were still choosing it anyway. His mouth was hot, open, tasting faintly of the terrible lounge coffee he’d been nursing between cases. One of those veined hands slid up into my hair, gripping just tight enough to tip my head back, the other found my hip and hauled me flush against him so I could feel exactly how little eleven days of rules had done to calm either of us down.

“Clothes stay on,” I muttered against his mouth, already yanking at the drawstring of his scrub pants with zero patience. “We have rounds in twenty minutes.”

“Then you’d better be quiet,” he said, voice wrecked, and bit the side of my throat hard enough that I had to muffle the sound against his shoulder.

His hands were everywhere at once… yanking my scrub bottoms down just far enough, bracing one palm against the metal shelf beside my head so the whole unit rattled, gripping my hip hard enough that I knew I’d feel the shape of those fingers later. The veins stood out along the backs of them under the bad bright light, tendons flexing as he shoved the fabric down my thighs. I got his pants open the same way, impatient, messy, the elastic catching for a second before I shoved it out of the way. Neither of us bothered with underwear any further than necessary. The whole point was speed. The whole point was that we couldn’t wait until the end of the shift, until some private place with a lock that actually meant something.

He spun us so my back hit the shelves this time. Boxes shifted. Something plastic clattered to the floor. His hand… God, that hand… slid between my legs without warning, two long fingers pushing into me like he already knew I’d be ready for him. I was. The week of charged looks and accidental brushes and carefully not looking had left me wound so tight that the first curl of those fingers made my knees threaten to give out. He made a low, satisfied sound against my mouth and worked them deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit in short, precise circles while his other hand stayed braced on the shelf above my head, veins standing out in sharp relief under the skin.

“Eleven days,” he muttered, almost accusatory. “You’ve been walking around looking at me like that for eleven days and then pretending you’re not.”

“You’re one to talk,” I managed, breathless, hips rolling into his hand. “You nearly broke the coffee machine this morning just to stand next to me.”

He laughed again… short, dark… and pulled his fingers free. A second later he was pushing into me in one hard thrust, the stretch sudden and perfect and almost too much in the cramped space. My head tipped back against a box of sterile gloves. His forehead dropped to mine. Both of us froze for a beat, adjusting, the only sound our breathing and the distant overhead page for some consult three floors down.

Then he started moving.

It was rushed and a little rough, almost angry energy under the hunger… short, sharp snaps of his hips that shoved me back into the shelves with every thrust. The metal creaked. My scrub top was shoved up under my arms; his was still mostly on, just rucked up enough that I could feel the heat of his stomach against mine. Clothes barely off. The addiction phase in real time. The first clear proof that the “whenever we both feel like it” clause was going to get both of us into serious trouble if we kept letting it win during working hours.

His hand braced harder against the shelf beside my head. I watched it… couldn’t help it… the flex of tendon, the prominent veins running down the back of it and disappearing under the edge of his rolled sleeve, the way his fingers tightened every time I clenched around him. His other hand gripped my hip, thumb digging in, holding me steady while he fucked me like we had three minutes instead of twenty before someone needed something from this closet. The friction was perfect and imperfect at the same time, too dry at first, then slick, the angle just short of ideal until he hitched my thigh higher against his hip and the next thrust punched a sound out of me that I had to bite down on his shoulder to contain.

“Quiet,” he reminded me, voice strained, but he was grinning against my neck like the risk was half the point. “You want the whole floor knowing what Dr. New Blood sounds like when she’s getting—”

I clapped a hand over his mouth. He licked my palm. I nearly came right there.

The pace stayed frantic. No slow build. No time for it. Just the wet sound of him moving inside me, the rattle of shelves, the occasional soft thud of a box shifting overhead. Sweat prickled at the small of my back. His hair was already a disaster from where my hands kept sliding into it. Every time those veined fingers flexed against the metal or dug harder into my hip I felt another pulse of heat roll through me, ridiculous and specific and entirely his fault. I had spent eleven days telling myself the office had been a one time pressure valve. Standing here with my pants around my thighs and his cock buried in me while a code blue was probably being called somewhere downstairs proved how badly I’d been lying.

He shifted the hand on my hip lower, thumb finding my clit, rubbing in tight, mean little circles timed to the snap of his hips. That was all it took. The orgasm hit hard and fast, almost mean in its intensity, forcing me to bury my face in the side of his neck so the sound wouldn’t carry. He followed half a dozen thrusts later, burying himself deep and coming with a bitten off curse against my temple, hips stuttering, the hand braced on the shelf going white-knuckled for a second before the tension bled out of him.

For a few long seconds neither of us moved. Just breathing. The bright light flickered. Somewhere outside the door a cart rattled past and kept going. My legs felt unreliable. His forehead was still pressed to mine, eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheeks.

Then the absurdity of it caught up with both of us at once.

I started laughing first… quiet, breathless, slightly hysterical. He followed a second later, the sound muffled against my shoulder, shoulders shaking. We stayed like that for another few seconds, half dressed and wrecked and trying not to make enough noise to get ourselves permanently banned from the fourth floor, until the laughter faded into something softer and more dangerous, the quiet awareness that this had not felt like a one off. That eleven days had been too long. That the rules were already developing cracks neither of us was ready to look at directly.

Afterward, we stood there for a second, both of us struggling to look remotely presentable. My scrub top was inside out. His hair was an absolute disaster from where my hands had been in it. I yanked my pants back up, wincing at the residual slickness between my thighs, and tried to smooth my hair into something that didn’t scream “just had sex in a supply closet.” Jake was doing the same thing with less success, dragging one of those veined hands back through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to fix it, which only made it worse. The veins stood out along the back of his hand under the bad light. I looked away before I could get caught staring again.

“We are going to get fired,” I said, straightening my badge with hands that weren’t quite steady.

“Worth it,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. The grin was lazy and satisfied and entirely too charming for a man who had just fucked an orthopedic attending against a shelf of sterile saline. “You’ve got…” he gestured vaguely at my neck, “…a mark. You might want to deal with that before rounds.”

I clapped a hand over the side of my throat and felt the tender spot where his mouth had been. “You’re the worst.”

“You didn’t seem to mind five minutes ago.”

I shoved his shoulder. He caught my hand before I could pull it back… brief and easy, thumb brushing over my knuckles once, the contact lingering half a second longer than strictly necessary… before he let go and slipped out the door first, whistling something under his breath like a man who had not just had sex in a supply closet on a Tuesday afternoon. The door swung shut behind him. I gave it ninety seconds, heart still going too fast, trying to get my breathing back under control and my expression into something that wouldn’t make Jasmine take one look at me and know exactly what I’d been doing.

When I finally stepped out into the hallway the light felt too bright. The floor was still the same floor. The afternoon sun was still gold through the windows. A nurse walked past with a chart and didn’t give me a second glance. I adjusted my badge again, ignored the faint ache between my legs, and told myself this was exactly what we’d agreed on.

No feelings. Just this.

I almost believed it.

CHAPTER 13: CREEPING SOFTNESS

It was a Thursday, quiet by hospital standards, when I first noticed the crack.

We'd been assigned a joint case… an elderly patient with a spinal tumor pressing on nerve roots that also needed a hip revision, complicated enough to require both of us and simple enough that neither of us was under the kind of stress that usually meant we ended up somewhere private within the hour. Just a normal case. Just work.

Mrs. Sloane was seventy eight, sharp as anything despite the pain that had brought her in, and scared in the particular, dignified way older patients sometimes were… trying very hard not to show it, hands twisting in her lap while she waited for us to explain what came next. She'd lived in the same house in Boyle Heights for fifty years, she told us, raised four kids there, and she wasn't about to let a tumor take away her ability to walk to church on Sundays.

Jake crouched down next to her wheelchair instead of standing over her, which I noticed, and took her hand… that hand, I couldn't help but notice, the veins on the back of it standing out as he wrapped his fingers gently around her much smaller, more fragile ones… and talked her through the surgery in plain, unhurried language, no slang, no rush, answering every single one of her questions like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

"You're going to be just fine," he told her, at the end. "I promise you that."

"You surgeons always say that."

"I mean it, though." And the thing was, he did. I could hear it.

Later, in the elevator, I caught myself watching him again… not the reputation, not the easy charm he wore in the halls like a shield, but this, the quiet, unshowy kindness he didn't seem to think anyone was watching for.

"What?" he asked, catching me looking.

"Nothing. You were good with her."

He shrugged, suddenly a little self conscious in a way I hadn't seen from him before. "She reminds me of my grandmother. Different neighborhood, same stubbornness. She used to threaten to walk out of physical therapy if the nurses didn't let her keep her rosary in her lap during sessions."

"You have a grandmother?"

"Everyone has a grandmother, that's generally how it works."

"I mean… I didn't picture you as someone with, like, a family. Sentimental attachments. A childhood."

"I'm full of surprises," he said, but there was something almost soft in it, and when the elevator doors opened he let his hand brush against mine on the way out, just barely, just enough that I noticed.

I noticed too much, lately. That was becoming the whole problem.

That night I found myself lying awake, annoyed at myself in a way I couldn't quite name, replaying the particular gentleness of his hand around Mrs. Sloane's, the unguarded way he'd said I mean it, though. I told myself it didn't mean anything. People could be good at their jobs and still be exactly as uncomplicated as they claimed to be.

I almost believed that too.

CHAPTER 14: OFF THE CLOCK

Days off had always felt, back in Chicago, like something to survive rather than enjoy… a brief gap between shifts I usually spent asleep or dreading the next stretch of call. In LA, somewhere around month three, I started noticing they'd quietly become something else entirely.

Jake had a rare Saturday off that lined up with one of mine, an alignment of schedules rare enough that Jasmine had actually gasped audibly when she saw it on the shared calendar, and he showed up at my apartment at nine in the morning with sunglasses, two coffees, and an expression that suggested he had Plans, capital P.

"Where are we going?"

"Hiking."

"You want to take a neurosurgeon and an orthopedic surgeon hiking. On our one shared day off. Have you met either of us?"

"I've met exactly one of us intimately," he said, entirely too pleased with the joke, "and I think she could use a day that doesn't involve a hospital. Trust me."

The trail he picked wound up into the hills above the city, dry bushes and the occasional lizard skittering off the path, the whole valley spreading out below us as we climbed… hazy and vast and, from that height, almost impossibly beautiful, the ocean a thin silver line at the far edge of everything.

"Okay," I admitted, somewhere near the top, breathing hard, sweat soaked and entirely unglamorous in a way that felt oddly freeing after months of curated hospital composure. "This was a good idea."

"I have those occasionally."

"Rarely."

"Wound me," he said, dropping down onto a flat rock at the overlook, patting the space beside him. I sat, close enough that our shoulders touched, and we stayed there for a long while, not talking much, just looking out over the city that had become, without my quite noticing the transition, something closer to home than anywhere I'd lived in years.

"Can I tell you something," he said, eventually, not quite looking at me, "that I haven't told anyone else here?"

"Always."

"I almost didn't take the job at XO Medical. Had an offer in Seattle too, better research opportunities, honestly a smarter career move on paper. I picked LA because the program was stronger, and my dad’s health scare a few years earlier had already made me realise I couldn’t keep putting everything off until later." He glanced sideways at me, something careful and unguarded in his expression. "Lately I've stopped wondering that quite so much."

I didn't say anything clever back. I just leaned my head against his shoulder, watched a hawk circle lazily over the ridge below us, and let the moment sit there, unhurried, uncomplicated by anything except two people who had somehow found their way to the same overlook, on the same rare day off, in a city neither of us had originally expected to call home.

We hiked back down as the light started going gold in the late afternoon, tired and sunburnt and easy with each other in a way that had nothing to do with the rules we'd built and everything to do with whatever we were quietly, carefully becoming instead, one ordinary Saturday at a time.

CHAPTER 15: QUIET UNDERSTANDING

There was a rhythm to the weeks that followed Mrs. Sloane's surgery, one I hadn't noticed forming until I was already deep inside it… a private language of glances across the nurses' station, of coffee orders remembered without being asked, of a text late at night that was nothing more than "you up?" and somehow meant everything.

We'd started spending time together that had nothing to do with the arrangement, technically, though the line between "just hanging out" and "definitely still sleeping together" had gotten blurry enough that neither of us bothered pretending there was a meaningful distinction anymore. He took me to a hole in the wall noodle place in Koreatown he swore was better than anywhere with a Michelin star, and it was, and we spent two hours arguing about whether that was a controversial opinion or just obviously true. I dragged him to a Sunday farmers market, and he bought an embarrassing quantity of fruit and then complained, with a straight face, that I'd corrupted him.

"You're supposed to be the fun one," I told him. "The player. The reputation. And instead you're standing here debating peach varietals with a farmer named Gerald."

"Gerald's opinions are extremely well informed," Jake said, entirely serious, and paid Gerald for four more peaches he clearly did not need.

It was on one of those ordinary, unremarkable Sundays, walking back to his car with our arms full of produce, that he told me about his father… carefully, like it cost him something, the way people talk about things they've decided are safe to say but haven't quite finished deciding.

"He had a stroke when I was fourteen," he said, not quite looking at me. "Back home in Australia. Bad one… he's fine now, mostly… some lingering weakness on his left side, nothing that stops him doing much of anything, but I remember the waiting room. I remember watching my mom fall apart in slow motion for about a year afterward, and thinking, even at fourteen, that I never wanted to feel that helpless. That's part of why I went into medicine. And probably part of why I do… the other thing. The leaving first thing. You get good at spotting the moment before it gets bad enough to actually hurt."

I didn't say anything clever. I just reached over and took his hand, the one with the veins, laced my fingers through his, and let the silence sit there instead of trying to fill it with something that would only cheapen what he'd just handed me.

"Thank you for telling me that," I said, eventually.

"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat, some of the old, easy performance sliding back over his face, though not quite all the way. "Don't get used to it. I don't usually do the sharing thing."

"I noticed."

"You're a bad influence."

"You bought four extra peaches from a man named Gerald. I think the damage is already done."

He laughed at that, real and unguarded, and squeezed my hand once before letting go to unlock the car, and I stood there for a second in the parking lot, sun warm on my shoulders, feeling something settle into place in my chest that I wasn't ready to examine too closely yet… something that had very little to do with the careful, tidy arrangement we'd agreed to in a hospital stairwell months ago, and everything to do with the particular, terrifying comfort of being let in.

CHAPTER 16: SLOW HANDS

The on call lounge, this time… a stretch of empty overnight hours between a discharge and a consult, the kind of silence that happens maybe once a week if you're lucky, when the whole floor goes quiet and the only sound is the hum of vending machines down the hall and, faintly, through the window, the endless white noise of the 10 freeway running toward the coast.

"You've been staring at me for twenty minutes," Jake said, not looking up from the chart he was pretending to read, sprawled across one of the ratty couches like he owned it.

"I have not."

"You have. I can feel it." He glanced up then, and whatever expression was on my face made his own shift… that lazy, knowing smile sliding into something a little more focused. "Come here, then, if you're just going to stare."

I stayed where I was for another second, mostly out of principle. Then I crossed the small room and stopped in front of the couch. He didn’t sit up. He just looked at me, head tipped back against the cushion, eyes dark in the low light, and waited.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said, already knowing it wouldn’t change anything.

“Most of our best ideas are.” He reached out with one of those hands… slow, deliberate, the veins standing out as his fingers curled around the back of my thigh and tugged me forward until I had to brace a knee on the cushion beside his hip. “Door’s locked. Hall’s empty. We’ve got at least forty minutes before anyone pages. Unless you’re suddenly feeling virtuous.”

“I’m feeling like we’re going to get caught and I will blame you.”

“I’ll take the heat.” His other hand came up, equally slow, and traced the edge of my scrub top where it had ridden up slightly at my waist. The touch was light. Teasing. Nothing like the frantic yanking in the supply closet or the almost angry urgency of the office. This was different. Measured. Like he had decided to take his time simply because he could. “You’re thinking too loud. Sit down before someone walks past and sees you hovering like you’re about to commit a crime.”

I swung my other leg over and settled into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The couch protested with a tired creak. His hands immediately settled on my thighs, thumbs stroking idle arcs over the fabric of my scrubs, and I felt the heat of his palms even through the material. He was already half hard under me. I rolled my hips once, experimental, and watched his mouth part on a quiet inhale.

“Playful tonight,” he murmured, eyes dropping to where my hands rested against his chest. “That’s new.”

“Maybe I’m learning.”

“Maybe I like it.”

He sat up enough to kiss me, and this kiss was different too… slower, deeper, with a thread of laughter under it when I nipped his lower lip and he made a soft, surprised sound. One of his hands slid up my back under the scrub top, palm flat and warm against my spine. The other stayed on my thigh, fingers flexing, the veins along the back of it catching the dim light every time he shifted. I reached down and caught that wrist, turning it so I could watch the play of tendon and vein under the skin while I kissed him again. He went still for a second. Then he smiled against my mouth.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, voice low.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at my hands like they’re the main event.” He didn’t pull away. Instead he opened his fingers slowly under my grip, almost showing off, letting me see the way the veins stood out when he flexed. “I could be offended. Or I could use it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet.”

He used it.

His hands moved with deliberate care after that… sliding under my top, mapping the line of my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the sports bra until I made a soft, impatient sound. He took his time pushing the fabric up, watching my face the whole while, like he was registering every reaction. When he finally got the bra out of the way and closed his mouth over one nipple, the hand not supporting my back came up and cupped the other breast, fingers slow and intentional, the pad of his thumb circling in lazy patterns that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with the fact that he knew exactly what the sight of those hands did to me.

I threaded my fingers into his hair and held on. The lounge was quiet except for our breathing and the distant freeway hum. Every so often a soft laugh slipped out of one of us… when I got the drawstring of his scrub pants undone on the first try and he raised an eyebrow like I’d been practicing, when he tried to shove my pants down and they caught on my shoe and we both had to stop and wrestle with the fabric, breathless and grinning, when I finally got a hand around him and he dropped his forehead to my shoulder with a muttered, “Christ, give a man a warning.”

It stayed playful even as it deepened. Less frantic than the closet. More deliberate than the office. We were learning each other in small increments… the way he liked a firmer grip, the way I shivered when he dragged his teeth lightly over the hinge of my jaw, the way both of us went quiet and focused when he finally guided himself into me and the stretch pulled a soft, shared sound out of both our throats.

He didn’t rush. He held my hips steady with both hands… those veined, elegant hands splayed wide over my skin, thumbs pressing into the crease of my thighs… and let me set the pace at first. Slow rolls of my hips. The quiet creak of the couch. His eyes half lidded, watching me like he had all the time in the world and no intention of wasting any of it looking anywhere else. When I leaned forward to brace my hands on the back of the couch, he took the opportunity to drag one palm slowly up my side, over my breast, along my collarbone, until his fingers rested lightly against the side of my throat. The touch was possessive without being rough. Intimate in a way that made the “no feelings” rule feel thinner than usual.

“You’re staring again,” he said, voice rough but threaded with amusement.

“Your hands are right there. It’s hard not to.”

“Mm.” He flexed his fingers against my throat on purpose, slow, the veins standing out as he did it, and watched my reaction with open satisfaction. “Interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I kissed him to shut him up. He smiled into it. Then he took over the rhythm, lifting into me in deeper, steadier strokes that made the couch shift under us. One hand stayed at my throat, light and deliberate; the other slid between us so his fingers could find my clit and work it in the same unhurried circles he’d been using all night. The double sensation built slower than before but hit harder when it finally hit my peak… a long, rolling orgasm that left me trembling against him, face pressed into the side of his neck, breathing hard. He followed a minute later, hips stuttering, a low sound punched out of him that he muffled against my shoulder. His hands never stopped touching me through it… stroking down my back, gripping my hip, fingers threading briefly through mine like he needed the contact even after.

We stayed like that for a while afterward, still joined, still breathing each other in. The lounge felt even quieter than before. My scrub top was shoved up under my arms. His was halfway off one shoulder. Neither of us moved to fix it right away.

Eventually I shifted. He helped me ease off him with careful hands, both of us wincing at the sensitivity, and we ended up side by side on the narrow couch, legs tangled, clothes still mostly askew. He reached over and dragged his fingers idly along my arm… slow, tracing the line of muscle and tendon the same way I always stared at his. The satisfaction on his face was impossible to miss.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” I accused him, still catching my breath, watching those fingers move.

“Doing what?”

“The hands thing. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself, lacing his fingers loosely through mine and holding my hand up to inspect it like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. The veins along the back of his hand stood out under the low light. He turned our joined hands slightly so I could see them better. “I just have naturally elegant hands. Can’t help it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“Sure,” he said, grinning, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles that was far too soft for something that was supposed to be strictly physical, strictly no feelings, strictly just this… and I let him, because some small, stubborn part of me had stopped pretending, at least to myself, that I minded.

Outside the window the freeway kept up its distant white noise. The vending machine hummed. Somewhere down the hall a door closed and footsteps faded. Neither of us moved to unlock the lounge door just yet. His thumb kept moving slowly over the back of my hand, absent and familiar, and for a few more minutes we sat there in the quiet, half dressed and still catching our breath, letting the comfort of it settle around us like something we hadn’t planned on and weren’t ready to name.

CHAPTER 17: CRACKS

The hospital gala was, by united agreement, the worst night of the year… black tie, forced small talk, a silent auction nobody actually wanted to bid on, held this year in a hotel ballroom downtown with a wall of windows overlooking the lit up grid of the city… but attendance was mandatory for attendings, so there I was, in a dress I'd bought specifically for this and would probably never wear again, nursing a glass of mediocre wine and watching Jake Sim get cornered by a cardiology fellow named Giselle who had, according to hospital legend, been trying to get his attention since her first week.

It shouldn't have bothered me. We weren't anything. We'd agreed on that very specifically, with a handshake, like idiots.

It bothered me anyway.

She had her hand on his arm, laughing at something he'd said, and he was doing that thing he did… the easy smile, the head tilt, the full, undivided attention that made whoever he was talking to feel like the only person in the room… and I found myself gripping my wine glass hard enough that I had to consciously loosen my fingers before I broke the stem.

"You okay?" Jasmine asked, following my line of sight, and then, slowly, a grin spreading across her face. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"You're jealous."

"I am not jealous. I don't care what Jake Sim does at a party."

"Your face says otherwise."

"My face is doing nothing."

"Your face," Jasmine said, delighted, "is doing quite a lot."

I made myself look away, made myself focus on the auction table, on anything else, and it was almost ten minutes later, standing near the terrace doors trying to cool off in every sense of the word… the night air outside warm and dry, smelling faintly of flowers from somewhere down the block… that Jake found me.

"You disappeared," he said.

"I'm right here."

"You know what I mean." He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite place, something searching underneath the usual easy charm. "You looked like you wanted to throw your drink at Giselle."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did. For the record, nothing happened. She's nice. Not my type."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. We're not… this isn't that kind of thing." The words came out sharper than I meant them to, and I watched something flicker across his face, quick and complicated, before he smoothed it back into neutral.

"Right," he said. "No feelings. I remember the rules."

"Good."

"Good," he agreed, and there was a beat of silence between us that felt heavier than it should have, both of us looking anywhere but at each other, the city spread out gold and endless below the terrace, and I hated… genuinely hated… how much it had cost me to say something so obviously untrue.

CHAPTER 18: AFTER THE GALA

I didn't sleep well the night of the gala, replaying the terrace conversation on a loop until it wore a groove into my thoughts… this isn't that kind of thing, my own voice, sharp and defensive and, worst of all, obviously untrue even to me as I'd said it.

Jake texted the next morning, earlier than usual, "you okay? you left kind of fast last night."

I stared at the message for a long time before answering. "Fine. Just tired."

"liar," he sent back, and then, a minute later, "want to talk about it? no pressure. just offering."

I didn't answer right away. I sat on my balcony instead, coffee going cold, watching the marine layer burn off over the hills the way it did most mornings that time of year, grey giving way slowly to a hard, bright blue, and thought about what I actually wanted to say versus what was safe to say, and how those two things had stopped lining up somewhere in the last several weeks without my permission.

"Can we get coffee before my shift," I typed, finally. "Actual talking. Not the parking lot kind."

He was waiting for me at the little place near the hospital when I got there, two coffees already ordered, mine exactly the way I liked it, which he'd apparently learned without me ever telling him directly.

"So," he said, once we were sitting. "Talk to me."

"I don't actually know what I want to say. That's the honest answer." I turned my cup slowly on the table, not quite looking at him. "Last night, watching you with Giselle… I know it's not fair, I know we agreed this isn't that kind of thing, but it bothered me. A lot. More than it should have, if we're really just… what we said we were."

He was quiet for a moment, turning his own cup, and I watched his jaw work like he was choosing his next words carefully. "It bothered me too. Watching you decide you weren't allowed to be bothered by it, I mean. I could see you doing the math, trying to talk yourself out of caring."

"Yeah."

"I don't know what to do with that either," he admitted. "The rules made sense, back in that stairwell. Clean. Simple. No one gets hurt. But I don't think either of us actually believes it's staying that simple anymore, and I don't know if saying that out loud makes it better or considerably worse."

"Probably worse," I said, with a small, unsteady laugh. "But maybe also true."

"Maybe also true," he agreed, and reached across the table, not quite taking my hand, just resting his fingers lightly over mine, testing the waters. I let him. Neither of us said anything else about it… not yet, not fully, both of us clearly still circling something neither of us was ready to name outright… but something had shifted in that quiet coffee shop that morning, some careful boundary redrawn a second time, closer now than it had been even after the noodle place, even after the peaches, and I drove to work that day with his fingerprints still warm against the back of my hand, wondering how much longer either of us could keep pretending the rules were holding.

CHAPTER 19: HIS PENTHOUSE

He texted me two days later, "case files at my place, need a second opinion before tomorrow's consult. bring wine, I have terrible taste in it and need judgment."

It was, apparently, work. That was the story we were both telling ourselves when I typed his address into my phone and found myself driving up into the hills above the city, turning higher and higher until the lights of LA spread out below in every direction, a carpet of gold stretching all the way to a dark seam on the horizon that I'd learn, later, was the ocean.

"Nice place," I said, when he let me in… a sleek high rise penthouse, floor to ceiling windows on three sides, the kind of view that made my breath catch a little despite myself.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I pictured you living somewhere with, like, one couch and a lot of takeout containers."

"I'm full of surprises," he said again, the same line from weeks ago, and poured us both a glass of the wine I'd brought while spreading the case files across his kitchen island like this really was just work.

It was, for about forty five minutes. We went through the imaging, argued about approach angles, actually got something useful done… his balcony door cracked open enough to let in the sound of the city below, distant and constant, sirens and traffic and somewhere, faintly, music from a rooftop party a few buildings over… and then somewhere between his second glass of wine and the particular way the city lights caught the side of his face, the work fell away entirely, and neither of us reached for the files again.

He was leaning against the island, hip cocked, one of those long fingered hands wrapped loosely around the stem of his glass. The veins stood out along the back of it under the warm overhead light. I had been watching them more than the scans for the last ten minutes and we both knew it.

“You’re not looking at the imaging anymore,” he said, quiet.

“Neither are you.”

He set the glass down. The sound was soft against the marble. Then he crossed the small distance between us, slow enough that I could have stepped back if I wanted to. I didn’t. His hand came up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering at the side of my neck, and the touch was nothing like the hurried grabs in the supply closet or the frantic urgency of the office. This was unhurried. Exploratory. Like he had decided the rest of the night belonged to whatever this was turning into and he intended to take his time mapping it.

“Stay,” he said. Not a question. Not quite a command either. Just the word, low, while his thumb traced the line of my jaw.

I answered by reaching for the front of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss that started soft and deepened the second his mouth opened under mine. He made a quiet sound… surprised, pleased… and walked me backward until my hips met the edge of the island. The case files scattered. Neither of us cared. His hands settled at my waist, then slid up under the hem of my sweater, palms warm against bare skin, fingers spreading wide like he wanted to feel as much of me as possible at once. I felt every ridge of those veins, every flex of tendon, and something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with lust alone.

We undressed each other slowly. No frantic yanking. No race against a locked door or a ticking clock. He peeled my sweater off and dropped it somewhere near the stools. I worked the buttons of his shirt one by one, watching the way the fabric parted to reveal the lean lines of his chest, the faint scar near his collarbone I’d noticed before but never had time to touch properly. When the shirt was gone I traced the path of a vein from the inside of his wrist up the underside of his forearm with one fingertip, slow, deliberate, and felt him shiver under the contact.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured, but there was no tease in it this time. Just something softer. Almost wondering.

“I know.”

He kissed me deeper for that, hands sliding around to the small of my back, then lower, lifting me easily onto the island so he could step between my thighs. The marble was cool under me. His mouth was hot. He took his time with my bra, unhooking it with a patience that felt almost submissive, then bent to map the newly exposed skin with lips and tongue while those hands held my hips steady. Every so often he would lift one hand and rest it against my sternum or the side of my throat, fingers spread out, veins standing out, and leave it there just long enough for me to look down and get caught in the sight of it before he moved again.

By the time we made it to the bedroom the city lights had fully claimed the windows, turning the room into a soft gold and shadow box. He laid me down on the bed like he had all night and intended to use every minute of it. Sheets cool against my back. His weight settling over me, careful, deliberate. We kissed for a long time like that… slow, deep, learning the exact angle that made the other person make those quiet, involuntary sounds. His hands never stopped moving. Tracing the line of my collarbone. Sliding down my arms until our fingers laced. Pressing my wrists gently into the mattress for a moment just so I could feel the strength in them, the heat, the steady pulse under the thin skin where the veins ran closest to the surface.

When he finally pushed into me it was with the same unhurried care. One long, slow thrust that left both of us breathing hard against each other’s mouths. He stayed still for a second, forehead pressed to mine, giving us both time to adjust to the fullness, the intimacy of it. Then he started to move… deep, steady strokes that had nothing in common with the rushed, half clothed collisions of the hospital. This was thorough. Exploratory. Tender in a way that caught me off guard every time his hips rolled just right or his hand slid between us to touch me with those precise, elegant fingers.

I couldn’t stop watching his hands. One braced beside my head, veins standing out as he held his weight. The other roaming… cupping my breast, sliding down to grip my thigh and hitch it higher around his hip, fingers spreading over the curve of my ass to pull me into each thrust. At one point he lifted that hand and turned it so the back of it faced me, flexing slowly, deliberately, while he kept moving inside me, and the private, unspoken joke of it… the way he was showing off because he knew exactly what it did to me… made something warm and dangerous bloom behind my ribs.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” I whispered, breathless.

“Maybe.” His mouth curved. He brought the hand to my lips and let me press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the strongest vein, while he watched. “Maybe I just like the way you look at them.”

The night stretched. We changed positions without urgency… me on top for a while so I could brace my hands on his chest and watch the way his fingers dug into my thighs, him behind me later, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other spread out over my lower stomach so I could look down and see those veins against my skin while he moved. There was laughter when we nearly rolled off the edge of the bed. There were long stretches of quiet where the only sounds were breathing and the soft shift of sheets and the distant city. At one point he pulled out just to kiss his way down my body and take his time with his mouth, those hands holding my thighs open, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the sensitive skin while I came apart under him for the second time. When he finally pushed back into me after that I was oversensitive and shaking and he went even slower, almost gentle, until the third orgasm pulled a broken sound out of me and he followed with a low groan against my throat, hips stuttering, hands gripping me like he needed the anchor.

Afterward we didn’t move. Not right away. Not the way we usually did… the quick untangling, the half joking reminders about rules, the careful putting back together of clothes and distance. We stayed tangled in his sheets, limbs heavy, skin cooling in the air from the cracked balcony door. His head rested on my shoulder. One of his hands lay open on my stomach, fingers relaxed, the veins soft and unguarded in the low light. I covered it with my own without thinking, tracing the line of one vein with my fingertip the way I had earlier, slower now, almost meditative.

Neither of us made a move to get up or get dressed even after it was clearly over. That was new. The quiet acknowledgment of it sat between us heavier than any of the orgasms had.

I must have dozed. When I woke the early morning light was just starting to come through the windows, the whole city hazy gold below like it was still deciding whether to wake up too. I lay there for a long moment just watching him sleep… which was, itself, a problem, because I hadn’t meant to stay long enough to watch him sleep, hadn’t meant for any of this to feel like something you stayed for.

His hand was resting on the pillow between us, slack and unguarded in sleep, and I found myself reaching out before I’d really decided to, tracing one finger lightly along the vein running down the back of it, over his knuckles, memorizing the shape of it like it mattered.

“You’re doing the hand thing again,” he mumbled, without opening his eyes, voice rough with sleep, and I snatched my hand back like I’d been caught doing something far worse than I had.

“I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine.” He cracked one eye open, mouth curving into something soft and unguarded, nothing like his usual performance of easy charm. “I like it.”

“This is the part where you tell me I have to leave before your maid comes or whatever rich people say.”

“I don’t have a maid,” he said, and reached for my hand himself this time, lacing his fingers through mine, thumb moving slowly over my knuckles. “And you don’t have to leave. If you don’t want to.”

Neither of us said anything else for a long moment. It felt, lying there in the quiet morning light with his hand wrapped around mine, less like the beginning of a rule being broken and more like the very last chance either of us had to notice it happening at all… and choose, right then, to look away instead.

I looked away.

“I should get to rounds,” I said, and made myself get up.

He didn’t argue. But when I glanced back at the door, he was watching me with an expression I didn’t have a name for yet, and wouldn’t, for a while longer still.

CHAPTER 20: AFTERGLOW DENIAL

I spent the entire next day pretending that morning hadn't happened, which was, in hindsight, a spectacularly stupid strategy, given that I worked in the same building as the person it hadn't happened with, and had to see him at rounds, at the nurses' station, in the cafeteria line, approximately every forty minutes.

"You're avoiding me," Jake said, catching up to me outside the elevator, hands in his pockets, that easy smile a half degree less certain than usual.

"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."

"You've walked past me three times without making eye contact."

"I've had a lot of charts."

"Right," he said, and didn't push it, which was somehow worse than if he had.

That night, at home, I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea going cold in my hands, the city lights just starting to come on below, a plane crossing low overhead on its way into LAX, and made myself actually think about it… really think about it, instead of the frantic, registering not thinking I'd been doing all day.

I liked his hands. That part I'd known for weeks, could laugh about, could file under harmless observation. But it wasn't just his hands anymore, and I could admit that now, alone, where no one could see my face do whatever it was doing.

I liked the way he crouched down to Mrs. Sloane's wheelchair instead of standing over her. I liked the surprised, unguarded way he laughed when I actually landed a joke instead of just being polite about it. I liked the quiet, focused version of him in an OR that nobody outside the surgical staff ever saw, and I liked, far too much, the soft, sleep rough voice that had told me I don't have a maid, and you don't have to leave like it was the easiest thing in the world to say.

This was not what friends with benefits was supposed to feel like.

"You are being an idiot," I told myself, out loud, to my empty apartment, and the apartment did not disagree, and somewhere below, faint and constant, the freeway hummed on, indifferent to the fact that I had apparently moved three thousand miles just to make exactly the same mistakes I could have made at home.

The problem… the real problem, the one I didn't want to look at directly… was that Jake Sim did not do feelings. Everyone had told me that, repeatedly, since my very first day. He left before things got serious. He had a rotating cast of almosts and near misses and nobody who'd made it past three months. Whatever this was between us, it was a countdown clock, and I had apparently, somehow, forgotten to keep track of the time.

Better, I told myself, to end this on my own terms, before it ended on his. Better to protect myself now than to find out later exactly how efficient his exit really was.

I just didn't do anything about it yet. Not yet.

CHAPTER 21: QUIET

It was almost 3 a.m., a long, brutal shift behind both of us, when I found him in the on-call bedroom on the third floor… not looking for anything in particular, just too dried out to sleep and too tired to go home, and he was already there, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed with his head in his hands, looking more worn down than I'd ever seen him.

"Rough one?" I asked, from the doorway.

"Lost a patient." He didn't look up. "Kid. Nineteen. Nothing anybody could've done, the bleed was too far gone before he even got to us, but…" he exhaled, hard, "… still sucks. His mom was in the waiting room. I had to be the one to tell her."

I didn't say anything clever. I just crossed the room and sat down next to him, close enough that our shoulders touched, and after a moment he leaned into it, into me, in a way that felt different from anything we'd done before… quieter, heavier, less about heat and more about needing to not be alone with it.

The on-call bedroom was small and dim, the single overhead light left off, only the thin strip of hallway glow leaking under the door and the faint blue of the exit sign outside the window. The bed was narrow, the mattress thin enough that I could feel the metal frame under it when I shifted. The air smelled like laundry detergent and the faint residual antiseptic that clung to both of us no matter how many times we scrubbed. Somewhere down the corridor a monitor beeped once and then went quiet again. The whole floor felt suspended, the kind of late night hospital quiet that only exists between disasters.

Jake’s shoulder was warm against mine. He didn’t speak for a long time. I didn’t either. I just sat there and let the weight of him settle, the slow rise and fall of his breathing eventually matching mine. When he finally moved it was only to turn his head, forehead resting briefly against the side of my neck, breath warm through the fabric of my scrub top.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“I know.”

He didn’t pull away. After another stretch of silence his hand found mine on the mattress between us. Those long fingers, the ones I had spent months trying not to stare at, closed around mine carefully, like he was afraid of asking for too much. The veins along the back of his hand stood out in the low light. I traced one of them with my thumb without thinking, slow, and felt him shudder once, almost imperceptibly.

That was all it took. Not heat. Not the usual sharp pull that had driven us into supply closets and locked offices. Just the quiet, mutual recognition that neither of us wanted to be alone with the shape of the night we had just survived.

I turned toward him. He met me halfway. The first kiss was soft, almost tentative, nothing like the ones that had come before. His mouth opened under mine with a quiet sound that was more relief than desire. One of those veined hands came up to the side of my face, palm warm, thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw like he was checking that I was still real. I felt every ridge of tendon and vein against my skin and something in my chest tightened hard enough that I had to breathe carefully around it.

We undressed each other slowly. No yanking. No race against time. He peeled my scrub top over my head and set it aside like it mattered where it landed. I worked the hem of his shirt up, careful of the way his shoulders tensed and then eased when my palms settled against bare skin. The faint scar near his collarbone caught the dim light. I pressed my mouth to it without thinking and felt him exhale, long and shaky, into my hair.

When we were down to nothing he pulled me with him as he lay back on the narrow bed, shifting until I was straddling his hips, the mattress dipping under our combined weight. His hands settled on my thighs, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the skin, and I could feel how hard he already was beneath me, but there was no urgency in the way he held me. Just presence. Just the steady pressure of his palms saying stay.

I guided him into me myself, sinking down carefully, both of us going still for a long moment once he was fully seated. The stretch was familiar and still somehow new in this light, in this silence. His hands slid up my sides, settling at my waist, fingers spreading wide so I could feel every vein, every careful flex of tendon as he held me. I braced my palms on his chest and began to move, slow rolls of my hips that had nothing frantic in them. The bed creaked softly. Somewhere outside a cart rattled past and kept going.

He watched me the whole time. Not the usual half lidded, hungry look. Something quieter. His eyes tracked the way my breath hitched when he shifted the angle slightly, the way my fingers curled against his skin when his thumb found the crease of my thigh and pressed. One of those elegant hands left my hip and traveled up, palm flat over my sternum, resting there like he was feeling the beat of my heart through bone and muscle. The veins stood out along the back of it under the thin light. I covered that hand with my own and held it there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you.”

He didn’t deny it. He just lifted his head enough to kiss me again, slower this time, deeper, while his other hand stayed firm at my hip, guiding the rhythm without forcing it. Every thrust was measured. Every withdrawal left a space that felt almost unbearable until he filled it again. The desperation was still there, but it was inverted… less about needing to come and more about needing to stay connected, to keep the other person close enough that the grief and the exhaustion and the particular loneliness.

I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on either side of his head, and the change in angle made both of us inhale sharply. His hands slid up my back, one settling between my shoulder blades, the other lower, fingers splayed over the curve of my ass, pulling me into each slow roll of his hips. I could feel the flex of every tendon in his wrist when he held me tighter. I could feel the heat of his palm and the slight tremor that hadn’t left him since I’d found him on the edge of the bed.

Time stretched. The only sounds were our breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the distant white noise of the hospital at three in the morning. When he finally slid one hand between us it was with the same careful precision he used under a microscope, two long fingers finding my clit and working it in unhurried circles timed to the deep, steady thrusts of his hips. The orgasm built slowly, almost reluctantly, like my body wasn’t sure it was allowed to feel something this close to good after the night we’d had. When it finally broke it was quiet… just a long, shuddering exhale against his neck, my body clenching around him in waves that left me trembling. He followed a handful of thrusts later, burying himself deep and coming with a low, broken sound that he muffled against my shoulder, both hands gripping me like anchors.

We stayed like that for a long time afterward, still joined, still breathing each other in. The narrow bed left almost no room for anything except the two of us tangled together. His head rested against my collarbone. My fingers moved slowly through his hair, damp at the temples from the long shift and whatever had just passed between us. One of his hands lay open on my hip, fingers relaxed, the veins soft and unguarded in the low light. I traced one of them with a fingertip, the same mindless gesture I’d been doing for months, and felt him go very still under me.

“Hey,” he said, quietly, after a long silence, voice muffled against my skin. “Thank you. For… this. Staying.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. I don’t usually…” he stopped, and I felt him go very still against me, like he’d caught himself right at the edge of something. “I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

“Jake—”

“I—” he started, and then stopped again, sharp, like he’d bitten the word back before it could finish leaving his mouth, and when he pulled back to look at me his easy smile was already sliding back into place, a shield going back up brick by brick right in front of me. “I mean, obviously, you’re a great listener. Very professional bedside manner.”

“Very funny.”

“I try.” He rolled onto his back, putting a few careful inches of distance between us that hadn’t been there a minute ago, staring up at the ceiling instead of at me. “We should get some sleep. Big surgery tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said, and told myself I hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t felt the shape of an unfinished sentence hanging in the air between us, heavy as anything either of us had said out loud.

Neither of us slept much, in the end.

CHAPTER 22: THE SPIRAL

I started pulling back after that night, in small ways at first… declining a coffee, finding reasons to leave a room a few minutes before he did, keeping our interactions strictly, carefully professional whenever we were somewhere other people could see us.

It wasn't that I didn't want him. That was almost the whole problem… I wanted him in ways that had stopped being simple weeks ago, and every small withdrawal cost me something I didn't want to examine too closely.

Jake noticed. Of course he noticed.

"You've been weird," he said, catching me alone in the supply room… the same one, though neither of us mentioned that… arms crossed, watching me with an intensity that felt entirely too perceptive for comfort.

"I haven't been weird."

"You have. You've been avoiding me for like a week and a half."

"I've been busy."

"That's the same excuse from before." He stepped closer, and I made myself hold my ground even though every instinct told me to put more distance between us, not less. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. This is exactly what we agreed on. No feelings, remember? I'm just…being careful. Making sure it stays that way."

Something shifted in his expression, quick and sharp, there and gone. "Careful," he repeated.

"Yes."

"Right." He didn't sound like he believed me, and honestly, neither did I, but he didn't push it further, just studied me for one more long moment before he said, quieter, "You know you can talk to me. About anything. Not just…" he gestured vaguely, "…this."

"I know."

I didn't talk to him. I kept pulling back instead, and the strange thing was, the more I pulled back, the more intense he got in return… showing up at my office with coffee I hadn't asked for, finding excuses to walk with me to my car after a late shift through a parking structure that still felt too big and too unfamiliar most nights, watching me across the OR with an unreadable focus that had nothing to do with the patient on the table.

I called my sister that week, sat out on the balcony with the phone pressed to my ear while the sun went down over the hills, and almost told her everything before I lost my nerve halfway through and just said the job was going well, the city was starting to feel like home, everything was fine.

"You sound tired," she said.

"I am tired."

"That's not what I meant."

It never was, with her. But I let her think it was, because the alternative meant saying out loud what I still wasn't ready to admit… that pulling back from Jake felt less like protecting myself and more like slowly starving something that had, somewhere along the way, become necessary.

It felt, increasingly, like two people circling the same drain from opposite directions, both too scared to say the thing that would either save them or pull them under for good.

CHAPTER 23: THE FIGHT

The fight, when it finally came, wasn't about us at all… not directly, anyway… which somehow made it worse.

It started over a patient, a young mother with a difficult presentation that fell into the gray area between our two specialties, and it escalated the way things had started escalating between us lately, every professional disagreement carrying twice the weight it should have because neither of us could quite separate the argument from everything else we weren't saying.

"You're being reckless," I told him, in the hallway outside the OR, loud enough that a passing nurse actually flinched. "You want to push for surgery today, and her numbers don't support that timeline."

"Her numbers support exactly what I'm saying, if you'd actually look at the full picture instead of just the ortho half of it."

"I am looking at the full picture. That's the job."

"Is it?" Something sharp came into his voice, something that had nothing to do with the patient chart between us. "Because it feels like lately you're only willing to look at the parts of things that are easy to look at. The parts that don't require actually committing to anything."

The words landed harder than either of us expected, and I watched something flicker across his face… regret, maybe, or surprise at himself for saying it… but it was too late to take back.

"That's not fair," I said, quieter now, and angrier for it.

"Maybe not. But you asked me to stop pretending I don't have an opinion, and that's my opinion. You keep one foot out the door with everything. The job, this thing between us, all of it. Like you're still waiting for the moment it's smart to leave."

"Says the man with an entire reputation built around exactly that."

It was a low blow, and I knew it the second it left my mouth, watched it land somewhere real, watched his jaw go tight and his eyes go carefully, deliberately blank in a way that told me I'd hurt him more than the argument technically deserved.

"Right," he said, after a beat, voice gone flat. "Good talk."

He walked away before I could take it back, and I stood there in the hallway feeling sick with myself, the patient's chart still in my hands, the actual medical disagreement… which, on reflection, we'd both had valid points about… completely swallowed by the much larger, much scarier thing neither of us had managed to say honestly yet.

We didn't speak again that shift, moved through the rest of the day in careful, professional silence, and it was that silence, more than the argument itself, that finally cracked something open in both of us later that night, once the adrenaline had worn off and all that was left was the plain, unbearable fact of how much the fight had actually cost.

CHAPTER 24: NOT LEAVING

He showed up at my apartment just after midnight, three days after a surgery that had gone about as badly as a surgery could go without losing the patient… a young mother, complications nobody had predicted, hours in the OR that had left both of us hollowed out in different ways… and one truly brutal argument in the hallway outside recovery that had ended with me saying something sharp about his reputation, about how easy it must be to leave before things got hard, and him going pale and silent in a way that told me I'd hit somewhere real.

I hadn't expected him to come. I'd gone home that night furious with myself for saying it, furious with him for making me care enough to want to hurt him, and I'd been sitting on my couch in the dark for almost an hour, still in my scrubs, when the buzzer went off downstairs.

I opened the door and he was just standing there, hair a mess, jacket still half on, having clearly driven straight from the hospital without stopping anywhere in between, looking at me like he'd run the whole way over even though I knew for a fact he'd driven a very nice car.

"You were right," he said, before I could say anything at all. "About the leaving thing. I do it because it's easier. Because if I leave first, it never gets the chance to actually hurt."

"Jake—"

"I don't want to leave," he said, quieter now, and something in his voice cracked right down the middle. "I don't know what to do with that, but I don't want to leave. Not this time. Not you."

The words hung in the dark entryway between us. My apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant freeway. He looked wrecked… eyes red rimmed, jaw tight, the collar of his scrub top still damp at the edges from the long shift neither of us had properly ended. I should have told him to go home. I should have reminded him of the rules, of the stairwell handshake, of every careful boundary we had built to keep this from becoming exactly what it was becoming.

Instead I stepped forward, grabbed the front of his jacket, and pulled him inside.

The door shut hard behind him. For a second we just stood there in the near dark, breathing the same air, the argument and the near miss and the three days of silence still raw between us. Then his hands came up… those long, veined, impossibly familiar hands… and framed my face like he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t hold on. His thumbs brushed the hinges of my jaw. The veins stood out along the backs of his hands under the thin spill of streetlight coming through the blinds. I covered one of them with my own, pressing his palm harder against my cheek, and felt the fine tremble running through his fingers.

“I’m still mad at you,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m still mad at myself.”

“I know that too.”

He kissed me like the admission had unlocked something. Not careful. Not teasing. Desperate and possessive and edged with the same fear that had been living under both our ribs since the hallway fight. I kissed him back the same way, fingers fisting in his jacket, then shoving it off his shoulders so it hit the floor with a soft thud. His scrub top followed. Mine after that. We left a trail of clothes between the door and the bedroom that neither of us would care about until morning… shoes kicked off, pants shoved down and abandoned, the quiet urgency of two people who had spent three days trying not to need this and failing completely.

By the time we reached the bed he had me backed against the edge of it, mouth at my throat, one hand already sliding between my legs like he needed proof I still wanted him as badly as he wanted me. I was already wet. The discovery pulled a rough sound out of him that vibrated against my skin. He pushed two fingers into me without warning, deep and sure, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit while his other hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. I watched those fingers work… the flex of tendon, the prominent veins, the way his wrist rotated with every curl… and the sight of it alone nearly undid me.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and rough. When I did, his eyes were almost black in the dark. “I meant it. I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not…”

I cut him off with another kiss because the rest of that sentence was too dangerous, too close to the thing neither of us had said out loud yet. He groaned into my mouth and walked me backward until we both went down onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. The sheets were cool. His skin was hot. He settled between my thighs and pushed into me in one long, relentless thrust that punched the air out of both our lungs.

It was nothing like the playful lounge or the unhurried penthouse. This was raw. Intense. The kind of sex that felt like an argument and an apology and a confession all at once. He fucked me hard and deep, one hand braced beside my head so I could see every vein standing out along the back of it, the other gripping my thigh and hitching it higher around his hip so he could get deeper still. Every thrust felt possessive. Every roll of his hips felt like he was trying to write something permanent into my body. I met him stroke for stroke, nails digging into his shoulders, heels locked at the small of his back, chasing the same desperate edge.

“You don’t get to say shit like that and then walk away,” I managed between broken breaths. “You don’t get to make me care and then…”

“I’m not walking away.” His forehead dropped to mine. His rhythm stuttered, then drove harder. “Feel that? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words and the angle and the relentless pressure of his body against mine pushed me over. The orgasm hit hard and sudden, ripping a sound out of me that I muffled against his shoulder. He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, relentless, until the oversensitivity edged into something almost too much, and then he pulled out just long enough to flip me onto my stomach, drag my hips up, and push back into me from behind. One of those veined hands splayed between my shoulder blades, holding me down. The other reached around to work my clit in tight, mean circles while he took me even deeper.

I came again with my face pressed into the pillow, vision sparking white. He followed almost immediately, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into me with a broken, wrecked sound that sounded dangerously close to my name. His whole body shuddered through it. His hand on my back trembled.

For a long time afterward neither of us moved. He stayed draped over me, chest heaving against my spine, face buried in the curve of my neck. Eventually he shifted just enough to pull out and roll us onto our sides, still tangled together, one of his legs hooked over both of mine like he was afraid I might try to leave the bed. His hand found its way to my chest and settled there, palm flat over my heart, thumb moving slowly back and forth in a gesture that felt less like the confident, deliberate touches from earlier and more like something involuntary… something he wasn’t doing on purpose at all.

The apartment was quiet except for the distant hush of the freeway and, somewhere further off, a siren fading in and out on its way toward downtown. City light filtered pale and grey through the blinds. I could feel every place he had touched me… the bruises already forming on my hips, the residual ache between my legs, the ghostly press of those fingers against my skin. More than that, I could feel the shape of the thing we still hadn’t named sitting heavy and electric in the dark between us.

He didn’t leave. He stayed curled around me for a long time, breathing slowly evening out, that hand never moving from over my heart. Every so often his thumb would stroke once, absent, like he was checking the beat was still steady. I covered his hand with mine and felt the veins under my fingertips, soft and unguarded now. Neither of us spoke for what felt like hours.

“I should go,” he murmured eventually, not moving.

“You should,” I agreed, and neither of us moved either.

It was almost four in the morning by the time he finally sat up, and even then he lingered at the edge of the bed for a long moment, watching me in the near dark like he was trying to memorize something before he’d let himself leave. His hair was a disaster. There was a faint red mark on his shoulder where my teeth had been. He looked younger in the grey light. Scared, maybe. Or just tired of pretending he wasn’t.

“Hey,” he said, quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, and pressed a kiss to my forehead that felt entirely too soft for two people who had agreed, months ago, on nothing beyond this. His lips lingered. When he pulled back his hand came up one last time, fingers brushing my cheek, the veins standing out faintly as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Get some sleep.”

I didn’t sleep, not really, not after the door clicked shut behind him. I lay there instead, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed flat over the same spot on my chest his had been resting on, and thought, with a clarity that scared me more than anything else had that whole night:

I’m in love with him.

It did not feel like good news.

CHAPTER 25: THE BREAK

I ended it on a Tuesday, in the same stairwell where he'd laid out the rules months before, because some part of me thought there was a kind of symmetry in that, even if it didn't make the conversation hurt any less. Outside the narrow window at the top of the stairs, the sky was doing the thing it did most evenings in that city, going pink and orange and gold all at once, entirely too beautiful for what I was about to do.

"We need to talk," I said, and watched something in his face brace itself before I'd even gotten any further.

"Okay."

"I think we should stop. This… whatever we've been doing." My voice came out steadier than I felt, which was the only mercy I could manage to give myself in that moment. "It's getting complicated."

"Complicated," he repeated, carefully.

"I don't want to catch feelings, Jake. That was the rule. I think we're getting close to breaking it, and I'd rather stop now, cleanly, than let it turn into something that actually hurts."

It wasn't a lie, exactly. It just wasn't the whole truth, either… the whole truth being that I already had feelings, deep and inconvenient and entirely too real, and I was terrified, genuinely terrified, of being the only one standing there holding them when this inevitably ended the way everyone had warned me it would.

Better to jump first. Better than being left.

Jake was quiet for a long moment, studying me with an expression I couldn't read, and when he finally spoke his voice was carefully, deliberately even. "If that's what you want."

"It's not about what I want. It's about being smart."

"Right." He nodded, once, like he was filing the conversation away somewhere he didn't intend to look at again anytime soon. "No hard feelings. Like we said."

"No hard feelings," I agreed, and it was the second time in this entire relationship… if you could even call it that… that I'd said something so obviously, painfully untrue.

"Okay," he said, and that was it. That was the whole thing. No argument, no protest, nothing but that same quick, efficient exit everyone had warned me about from my very first week at XO Medical, and somehow, even having braced myself for exactly this, it still managed to blindside me completely.

He walked back through the stairwell door without looking back, and I stood there alone for a long time afterward, hand pressed to my own sternum, waiting for the relief that was supposed to come with finally being the one who left first.

It never came.

CHAPTER 26: FIRST DAYS WITHOUT

The first week after the stairwell was, in a strange way, almost bearable… a kind of numb, functional autopilot that got me through shifts and charts and grocery runs without too much active thought, the way I imagined shock probably worked for other kinds of loss.

It was the second week that broke something open.

I came home on a Wednesday to find I'd bought two coffees out of habit, the second one sitting cold and untouched in my cupholder before I even registered what I'd done, and sat in my car in the parking garage for a full ten minutes, staring at it, before I could make myself go inside. I caught myself, twice that same week, reaching for my phone to text him something… a stupid meme, a complaint about a difficult patient's family, the small, reflexive impulse to share my day with someone who'd become, without my fully noticing, the person I most wanted to share it with… before remembering, sharp and fresh every single time, that I wasn't supposed to do that anymore.

I threw out the leftover peaches from Gerald's stand, the ones still sitting in my fridge from a Sunday that felt like it belonged to an entirely different version of my life, and cried about that too, which felt, even in the moment, faintly ridiculous… grieving produce… but grief didn't seem particularly interested in being reasonable about what it attached itself to.

Jasmine showed up unannounced on the ninth day, letting herself in with the spare key I'd given her for emergencies, and found me on the couch in yesterday's scrubs, surrounded by the specific, unglamorous waste of someone who had stopped bothering to pretend she was fine even to herself.

"Okay," she said, taking in the scene with a practiced, unshockable calm that told me this wasn't her first time doing this for a heartbroken friend. "We're doing a thing. Shower. I'll order food. You're going to tell me everything, and then, at some point in the next hour, you're going to feel slightly more like a person again. That's the plan."

It didn't fix anything, not really, but it helped, in the specific way that having someone simply refuse to let you disappear into a bad week always helps. She didn't tell me I was right to end it, and she didn't tell me I was wrong, either… just listened, mostly, occasionally interjecting with an observation sharp enough to make me wince, and by the time she left that night I felt, if not better, at least less entirely alone in the particular mess I'd made.

"For what it's worth," she said, at the door, "I don't think this is over. I've watched that man watch you for five months. That kind of thing doesn't just evaporate because you both got scared at the same time."

"Maybe."

"Not maybe. I'm right about this. I'm annoyingly right about most things, you'll learn." She squeezed my hand once, entirely serious under the joke. "Give it time. Not forever. Just time."

I didn't believe her, not fully, not yet. But I held onto it anyway, the way you hold onto anything when you don't have much else to hold onto, and went back to work the next morning marginally more capable of getting through the day than I had been the week before… which, given everything, felt like the only kind of progress available to me at the time.

CHAPTER 27: ABSENCE

The hospital, it turned out, was a genuinely terrible place to nurse a broken heart, mostly because it required me to see the person who'd broken it approximately every single day, often across an operating table, often with someone's life literally in both our hands.

We were professional about it. Unfailingly, exhaustingly professional. Jake was polite, competent, distant in a way that felt worse than if he'd been cold… like whatever door had briefly opened between us in his penthouse, in my apartment at four in the morning, had been quietly and thoroughly bricked back up.

"You okay?" Jasmine asked me, more than once, watching me watch him across a nurses' station with an expression I clearly wasn't hiding as well as I thought I was.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm professionally fine," I said, which wasn't really an answer, and she let it go, mostly because there wasn't much else to say.

I threw myself into work instead, the way I always had, back in Chicago, back in residency, back through every hard thing I'd ever survived… took extra call shifts, volunteered for the complicated consults nobody else wanted, told myself that if I filled every hour of the day there wouldn't be any room left over for missing him. It worked, sometimes, for an hour or two at a stretch. Mostly it didn't.

I kept catching myself doing it anyway… watching his hands during a shared case, the same veins, the same precise, careful movements, and feeling the loss of them somewhere underneath my ribs in a way that had nothing to do with professional respect and everything to do with the very specific, very personal grief of missing someone you saw every day and couldn't have anymore.

He'd started wearing his sleeves down more, I noticed. Rolled less often. I told myself it didn't mean anything. I told myself a lot of things, that month, most of which weren't particularly true.

There was a night, about two weeks in, when I finally let myself drive down to the beach after a shift, just to sit in my car in an empty parking lot and watch the waves come in under a sky gone the colour of a healing bruise, purple and orange and finally black. I'd moved out here for a fresh start, I reminded myself. For a version of my life that wasn't defined by the last thing that had gone wrong. And instead, somehow, spectacularly, I'd managed to build an entirely new version of the exact same wound, three thousand miles from where the old one had happened, like grief had simply followed me across the country and was waiting there when I unpacked the last box.

"You did this to yourself," I told the ocean, which, predictably, did not respond, and I sat there until the parking lot lights flickered on before I made myself drive home.

We were assigned another joint case, three weeks after the stairwell, and it was, without question, the worst surgery of my career… not because anything went wrong medically, but because I spent all six hours extremely, painfully aware of exactly how close his hand came to mine at the sink and exactly how carefully, deliberately, he made sure it never actually touched.

"Good work today," he said afterward, stripping off his gloves without looking at me.

"You too," I said, and that was the whole conversation, and I went home that night and cried in a way I hadn't let myself do since the stairwell, out of sheer, exhausted grief for something I'd ended myself and still somehow felt entitled to mourn.

Jasmine found me at my lowest that week, showed up at my apartment with a bottle of wine and a genuine willingness to sit through however much crying it took, and it was somewhere around the second glass, both of us curled up on my couch with the balcony door open to let in the warm night air, that she finally said the thing I think she'd been holding back for weeks.

"You know he's miserable too, right?"

"He doesn't look miserable."

"He looks exactly like you look. Professionally fine. Terribly, obviously not fine underneath it." She refilled my glass without asking. "Sunoo said he's been picking up extra shifts too. Nobody does that unless they're trying to outrun something."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe not," she said, gently, in a way that told me she didn't believe that any more than I did. "But it's worth thinking about, don't you think? Before you decide the story's already over."

I didn't answer her. I didn't know how to, not yet. But I thought about it for a long time after she left, staring out at the city lights scattered across the hills like something spilled and never cleaned up, and some small, stubborn part of me that I hadn't managed to talk myself out of yet refused to stop hoping.

CHAPTER 28: WHAT EVERYONE ELSE SAW

It wasn't just Jasmine who noticed. By the third week of the silence between us, it seemed like the entire hospital had quietly, collectively decided that something had gone wrong, in the particular way hospitals always know these things before anyone involved has said a single word out loud.

"You two used to argue in the elevator all the time," Sunoo said, relevant to nothing, while we waited on lab results for a shared patient. "Now you just stand on opposite sides and look at your phones. It's honestly less entertaining."

"We're being professional."

"You're being sad," he said, with the bluntness only a twenty eight year old resident who hasn't learned sensitivity yet could manage. "Sorry. Just an observation."

Even Dr. Kim, who I would have sworn had no interest whatsoever in staff gossip, caught me alone in her office one afternoon under the pretense of discussing a case and, at the end of the conversation, said, almost offhandedly, "You've seemed distracted lately. Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine."

"Mm," she said, in a tone that made it clear she didn't believe me, and didn't push it, which somehow felt worse than if she had.

I ran into Giselle, of all people, in the cafeteria line one day… the cardiology fellow from the gala, the one I'd been so unreasonably jealous of months earlier… and braced myself for something awkward, only for her to surprise me entirely.

"You should talk to him," she said, without warning, sliding her tray along the rail. "Jake. I don't know what happened between you two, it's honestly none of my business, but for what it's worth… nothing ever happened with us. I liked him for about five minutes at that gala, and it became extremely clear extremely fast that his whole attention was on you the entire night, even while he was technically talking to me. I've genuinely never seen him look at anyone else the way he looked at you across that room."

"Oh," I said, entirely unprepared for that. "I… thank you. For telling me."

"You looked like you needed to hear it," she said, with a small, knowing smile, and walked off toward the cardiology table before I could ask her anything else.

I carried that conversation with me for days, turning it over during quiet moments between patients, during the drive home each night through streets that had started, somewhere in the last several months, to feel entirely, unmistakably like mine. It didn't change anything, not immediately… I still didn't know how to close the distance I'd created, still didn't trust myself not to be the one who got hurt if I tried… but it planted something, a small, stubborn seed of possibility that refused to fully die no matter how hard the rational part of my brain tried to talk it down.

Maybe, I let myself think, just once, walking to my car under a sky gone that particular, impossible shade of orange that only seemed to happen here… maybe I hadn't imagined the whole thing after all.

CHAPTER 29: A REASON TO CALL

The excuse, when it finally came, wasn't one either of us planned out… which was, in its own strange way, exactly why it mattered.

Mrs. Sloane was readmitted on a Thursday night, complications from the hip revision unrelated to anything either of us had done wrong, but serious enough that both her original surgeons were paged in, together, for the first time since the stairwell. I got the call first, was already halfway into my scrubs when I saw Jake's name pop up on the shared consult, and felt my stomach drop with a complicated mix of worry for her and something else entirely for the idea of working beside him again after weeks of careful, wordless distance.

He was already at her bedside when I arrived, sitting in the chair beside her, holding her hand… that same gesture from all those months ago, the one that had first cracked something open in me… and something in his face when he looked up and saw me told me he was as unsettled by the timing as I was.

"She's stable," he said, all business, though his eyes lingered on me a beat too long before returning to the chart. "But we need to move fast if we want to avoid a second surgery."

We worked together for six hours that night, falling back into the old, wordless rhythm without either of us having to think about it… the particular fluency of two people who knew exactly how the other worked, even now, even with everything unresolved and raw between us. It should have been unbearable. Instead it felt, unexpectedly, like coming up for air after weeks of holding my breath.

Mrs. Sloane stabilized by morning, out of danger, cranky and demanding her rosary back from a nurse who'd tucked it away for safekeeping, and Jake and I stood in the hallway afterward in the pale, early light, both of us too exhausted to keep up the careful performance of professional distance we'd been maintaining for weeks.

"She's going to be fine," he said.

"Yeah."

"You did good work in there."

"So did you," I said, and for a second, just a second, it felt like the easiest thing in the world to close the distance between us… before both of us, almost simultaneously, stepped back instead, neither ready yet, not quite, though something had shifted, some old wall worn thinner by six hours of trusting each other completely with someone else's life.

"I'm glad you were there tonight," he said, quietly, before he turned to leave. "For what it's worth."

"Me too," I said, and meant it more than I'd meant to let myself.

I sat in my car in the parking garage afterward for a long time, watching the sun come up properly over the hills, thinking about how strange it was that the two of us, who couldn't manage to say a true thing to each other outside a hospital, had never once lost the ability to work together inside one… how some part of us had kept choosing each other all along, in the one language neither of us had figured out how to distrust.

It wasn't a resolution. Not yet. But it was, unmistakably, a crack in the wall wide enough to let some light back through.

CHAPTER 30: NEAR MISS

It happened on a night neither of us had planned for, the way these things always seemed to.

A case ran late… a twelve year old with a spinal deformity that needed both of us in the OR until well past midnight, delicate enough that neither of us had room to think about anything except the work in front of us, which was, in its own way, a small mercy. It was only after, in the empty scrub room, stripping off gloves and gowns in the particular silence that came after a long, difficult surgery had gone right, that the mercy ran out.

"Good save," Jake said, and it was the most words he'd said to me outside of strict clinical necessity in almost a month.

"You too."

He didn't leave right away. He stood there at the sink, hands under the water, not quite looking at me, and something about the set of his shoulders made me stay too, even though every instinct told me to go, to not let this become one more thing I'd have to carefully unfeel later.

"Can I ask you something?" he said finally, still not looking up.

"Sure."

"Was any of it real? For you? Or was I just…" he stopped, jaw tight, "… was I just what everyone always said I'd be. A distraction. Something to pass the time until it got complicated."

The question landed somewhere under my ribs, sharp and unexpected. "Jake—"

"Because I keep telling myself it was just physical. That's what we agreed on. That's the whole deal. But I don't…" he shut the water off, turned to actually look at me for the first time in weeks, and his eyes were doing something I hadn't let myself hope for, something raw and unguarded, "… I don't think I believe that anymore. And I don't know what to do with not believing it."

I didn't answer right away, because the honest answer was standing right there in my chest, three words heavy and terrified and desperate to get out, and I was so close… so close… to just saying them, right there in the empty scrub room at one in the morning, consequences be damned.

"It doesn't matter," I made myself say instead, voice not quite steady. "We agreed. No feelings. I meant that."

Something in his face closed, slow and deliberate, like watching a door swing shut in real time. "Right," he said. "Of course."

We stood there for one more unbearable moment, close enough that I could have reached out, close enough that I could see the exact second he decided not to push it either, and then he nodded once, grabbed his jacket, and left without another word.

I stood alone in the scrub room for a long time afterward, hand braced against the cold edge of the sink, furious with myself in a way that had nowhere useful to go. I had wanted, more than almost anything, to close that distance. I hadn't. The tension between us, unresolved, unspoken, followed me home that night heavier than it had ever been when we were still sleeping together, which felt, somehow, like the cruelest joke of the entire situation.

I didn't sleep. I sat out on my balcony instead, wrapped in a blanket even though it wasn't cold, watching the sky lighten slowly over the hills, and replayed his question over and over… was any of it real… until I couldn't tell anymore whether the ache in my chest was regret for what I'd said or grief for what I hadn't.

CHAPTER 31: THE WEIGHT OF ALMOST

I didn't go straight home after the scrub room. I drove instead, no direction at first, and then found my direction, until I found myself parked outside the old Italian place near the water… the one we'd never actually gone to together, the one he'd mentioned once in passing months ago, back when we were still pretending this was simple. I don't know what I expected, sitting there in my car at two in the morning, except maybe some kind of proof that the life I'd imagined with him had ever been real to begin with.

It hadn't been, not yet. Not really. That was the whole problem.

I called my sister the next morning, earlier than either of us usually surfaced on a weekend, and she picked up on the second ring, groggy and immediately alert the way only family manages to be.

"Okay," she said, after I'd gotten about halfway through an explanation that kept looping back on itself, unable to land on a single clear thought. "Slow down. Start over. You like him."

"I love him. I think. Which is worse."

"Why is that worse?"

"Because loving someone means actually risking something. Liking someone, you can walk away from. Loving someone…" I stopped, throat tight, staring out at my own dark apartment like it might have an answer I didn't. "Loving someone means if it goes wrong, it actually wrecks you. And everyone told me exactly how this ends with him. I had all the information. I chose it anyway."

"You know," she said, gently, "you did the exact same thing with James. Saw all the warning signs, told yourself you were being smart about it, and then acted shocked when it hurt exactly as much as everyone predicted."

"That's not helpful."

"It's not supposed to be helpful, it's supposed to be true." A pause, softer now. "Look. I can't tell you whether this is going to work out. Nobody can, that's not how any of this works, ever, with anyone. But you didn't move three thousand miles to keep playing it safe. You moved out there to find out who you are when you actually let yourself want something. So which is it? Do you want him, or do you want to be safe?"

I didn't answer her right away. I sat with the question for the rest of that day, turning it over during a slow shift, during the drive home, during a lonely dinner I barely tasted, and it followed me into a restless, half formed sleep that night, tangled up with the memory of his voice in the scrub room… was any of it real for you… and the answer I'd given him instead of the one that had actually been sitting in my chest.

By morning, something in me had settled, quiet and certain in a way it hadn't been in weeks. I didn't know exactly how I was going to say it, or when, or whether he'd still want to hear it after everything. But I knew, finally, which answer I was choosing.

Not safe. Him.

CHAPTER 32: REALIZATION… CONFESSION

It was Jasmine, in the end, who forced the issue, cornering me in the on-call lounge on a slow Wednesday afternoon with the particular expression of someone who had run out of patience.

"I can't watch this anymore," she announced, sitting down across from me with her arms crossed. "You look like someone died. He looks like someone died. You're both so obviously miserable that Sunoo started a bet on when one of you would crack, and honestly, at this point, I just want my ten dollars back."

"There's nothing to bet about."

"You're in love with him," she said, flatly, not a question. "I've watched you stare at his hands for five months, and I watched you stop doing it three weeks ago, which is somehow worse, because now you just stare at the space where his hands would be and look like you're grieving something."

I opened my mouth to argue and found, for the first time in weeks, that I didn't have the energy to lie about it, not even to myself. "It doesn't matter," I said instead, quietly. "He doesn't do feelings. Everyone told me that from day one. I ended it because I didn't want to be the one left holding this by myself."

"Have you actually asked him?"

"I don't need to ask him. It's practically hospital lore at this point."

"Hospital lore," Jasmine repeated, unimpressed, "also said he'd never crouch down to talk to a scared seventy eight year old patient like she was the only person in the room, and he did that too. Hospital lore also said he'd never drive across the city at midnight after a bad fight to show up on someone's doorstep, and I heard from three different nurses that a certain neurosurgeon looked like absolute hell the entire week after you two stopped talking. Maybe hospital lore doesn't actually know Jake Sim as well as it thinks it does."

I didn't have a good answer for that. I sat with it for the rest of the day, turning it over between patients, between charts, between the long stretches of driving I did now just to have somewhere to think that wasn't my apartment or the hospital… up into the hills sometimes, past the overlook where you could see the whole valley spread out gold and hazy in the late afternoon light, and it was still sitting there, unresolved, when I finally decided to just say something to him instead of running the math on it one more time.

I found him at the end of a shift, in the parking garage, and I almost lost my nerve twice on the walk over before I made myself keep going.

He was already leaning against my car when I got there… waiting, it turned out, for exactly this, though neither of us knew that about the other yet.

"We need to talk," he said, echoing the exact words I'd used in the stairwell, and something about the deliberate symmetry of it made my chest ache before he'd even said anything else.

"Okay."

"I let you walk away," he said, before I could say anything else, "because you said it's what you wanted, and because I've spent my entire life making sure I'm the one who leaves first, so it felt almost… familiar, letting you go instead. Like I already knew how this story was supposed to end." He dragged a hand back through his hair, the old, familiar gesture, except his hand wasn't steady doing it. "But I haven't slept right in five weeks. I keep reaching for my phone to text you something stupid before I remember I'm not supposed to anymore. And today Jasmine cornered me in the hallway and told me I was, and I quote, 'an idiot with very nice hands and terrible communication skills,' and honestly, I couldn't really argue with either part."

"She got to you too."

"She's very thorough." A flicker of that old smile, gone almost as fast as it came. "But she's not wrong. About any of it."

"Jake—"

"I caught feelings," he said, plainly, like it cost him something to say it out loud and he was doing it anyway. "Somewhere around the penthouse, maybe before that, if I'm honest… maybe as early as you insulting my coffee opinions on your first day, I genuinely don't know. I broke the rule. I broke it a long time ago and I was too scared to say anything, because every single time in my life that I've let this happen, I've been the one to leave before it could hurt. And I didn't want to find out what happens when I don't."

My eyes were stinging, and I didn't bother fighting it. "You could have said something."

"So could you," he said, gently, not an accusation, just true. "You ended it because you thought I wouldn't feel the same. I could see it in your face in that stairwell. You weren't protecting the rule. You were protecting yourself."

"Yeah," I admitted, quietly. "I was. I moved three thousand miles to stop doing exactly this… falling for someone and then bracing for the part where they leave first, because it always feels safer to see it coming. And then I got here and did it again anyway. With you. In record time, honestly."

"For the record," he said, closing the last of the distance between us, reaching up to brush his knuckles… those hands, I'd know them anywhere, veins and all… very gently against my jaw, "you didn't have to. Protect yourself from me, I mean. I know that's not exactly the reputation, but—"

"I don't care about the reputation."

"I know," he said, and something in his voice cracked open, soft and unguarded in a way I'd only heard from him twice before… once in an on-call bedroom after losing a patient, once at four in the morning with his hand resting over my heart. "I care about you. That's the whole confession. That's it. That's all I've got."

"That's plenty," I said, and let him kiss me, right there in the parking garage, slow and certain in a way that felt nothing at all like the frantic, desperate collisions that had started this whole thing, and everything like a beginning instead of an ending.

Somewhere behind us, a car alarm chirped twice as someone unlocked it, entirely unglamorous, entirely ordinary, and neither of us so much as flinched, too busy finally, finally getting this part right.

CHAPTER 33: LIGHTS ON

He drove us back to his place without either of us really discussing it… just a quiet, certain understanding that the parking garage wasn’t where this was going to end, not tonight.

Neither of us said much on the way up in the elevator. There wasn’t anything left that needed saying, not after everything that had already been said down in that garage… no rules to lay out, no careful arrangement to negotiate, nothing to protect ourselves from anymore. Just the quiet, charged kind of quiet that comes after two people finally stop pretending.

He unlocked the door and flipped the light on without thinking about it, and I remember noticing that… the light, on, neither of us reaching to turn it off, neither of us needing the dark to hide in this time.

“Hey,” he said, catching my hand before I could take another step further into the apartment, turning me gently back to face him. “I just want to say it again. Out loud. In case it didn’t land the first time.”

“Jake—”

“I love you,” he said, plain and unguarded, nothing performed about it at all. “Like I said I’ve probably loved you since you called my coffee opinions dramatic on your first day, if I’m honest, and I spent way too long being an idiot about admitting it. But I’m done being an idiot about it. I just needed you to hear it again, somewhere that isn’t a parking garage.”

“I love you too,” I said, and watched something in his whole body ease at hearing it, like he’d been braced for it not to be true even after everything.

He kissed me then, slow and certain, the kind of kiss that had nothing left to prove and everything left to feel. The lights stayed on. I noticed that, too… the warm spill of the entryway fixture catching the side of his face, the way I could see every shift of expression instead of guessing at it in the dark. No supply closet shadows. No on-call room dimness. No frantic race against discovery or against the rules we had both already broken a hundred times over. Just the two of us, standing in the middle of his living room with the city glittering beyond the windows and the light fully on, neither of us reaching for a switch.

“Come here,” he murmured against my mouth, and walked me backward toward the bedroom without ever breaking the kiss for longer than a breath. We left a trail of clothes that felt almost routine in its slowness… my jacket, his, the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor one piece at a time. He took off my shirt off like he was unwrapping something he intended to keep. I did the same with his, palms sliding over the warm skin of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my hands. When I reached for the button of his jeans he caught my wrists gently, thumbs stroking the insides of them, and waited until I looked up.

“Lights stay on,” he said, quiet. Not a question. A promise. “I want to see you. All of it. No hiding.”

“I know.” My voice came out softer than I expected. “I want that too.”

He finished undressing me with the same deliberate care, kneeling to help me step out of the rest of my clothes, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the inside of my knee, the soft skin of my thigh, the jut of my hipbone. Every touch was unhurried. Every glance was full and open. When he stood again I could see the faint flush across his cheekbones, the way his pupils had gone dark, the small, almost disbelieving smile that kept threatening the corners of his mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe we had made it here.

We made it to the bed without rushing. He laid me down against the sheets and followed, bracing himself over me on those long, veined forearms so he could look at me properly. The lamp on the nightstand was already on, neither of us moved to turn it off. Golden light pooled across the mattress, across his shoulders, across the back of the hand he lifted to brush hair away from my face. I watched the veins shift under his skin as his fingers moved. I always watched. The difference was that this time I didn’t pretend I wasn’t, and he didn’t pretend he didn’t notice.

“I love the way you look at my hands,” he said, almost conversational, while his thumb traced the line of my lower lip. “You’ve been doing it since day one. I used to think it was just a weird surgeon thing. Then I realized it was a you thing. And I started doing it on purpose because I liked watching you react.”

“I know you did.” I turned my head enough to press a kiss to the center of his palm, then to the inside of his wrist where the strongest vein ran closest to the surface. “I always knew. I just didn’t know how to say that I liked it out loud.”

“Say it now.”

“I love your hands,” I said, holding his gaze. “I love how careful they are in an OR and how greedy they get with me. I love the veins. I love that you know I love them and you use it against me on purpose. I love that I don’t have to hide any of that anymore.”

Something soft and almost pained moved across his face. He leaned down and kissed me again, deeper this time, while one of those hands slid down my body with well patience… over my collarbone, the curve of my breast, the soft plane of my stomach, until his fingers slipped between my legs and found me already wet. He made a low, appreciative sound against my mouth and worked me open slowly, two fingers curling, the heel of his palm pressing in steady circles while he watched every flicker of expression that crossed my face. Full eye contact. No looking away. No burying my face in a pillow or his shoulder to hide how much it affected me.

“I love you,” he said again, quiet, while his fingers moved. “I love how stubborn you are. I love that you moved three thousand miles and still somehow ended up exactly where I needed you. I love that you called me on my bullshit in a stairwell and then let me back in anyway.”

I came like that… slow and rolling, eyes open, his name a soft, broken sound between us while he watched and murmured soft praise against my cheek. When the tremors eased he withdrew his fingers, brought them to his mouth, and tasted me without looking away. The sight of it, lit fully by the lamp, made heat pool low in my belly all over again.

He settled between my thighs and pushed into me in one long, controlled thrust, both of us exhaling hard at the stretch and the heat and the simple rightness of it. He stayed still for a moment once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to mine, giving us both time to feel it. The lights stayed on. I could see the exact shade of his eyes. I could see the way his lashes lowered when the sensation threatened to overwhelm him. I could see the small, helpless smile that appeared when I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him even deeper.

“Stay with me,” I whispered. “Eyes open. I want to see you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He started to move… deep, steady strokes that had nothing in common with the frantic supply closet urgency or the almost angry office collision or even the tender but still slightly careful penthouse night. This was slower. Fuller. Every thrust deliberate. Every withdrawal a chance to look at each other again. His hands framed my face for a while, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. Then one slid down to lace our fingers together against the pillow, veins standing out along the back of his hand where it pressed against mine. I watched them flex with every movement of his body. He watched me watch them and smiled, soft and open, no performance left in it at all.

“I love you,” I said, because I could. Because the lights were on and there was nowhere left to hide the words and I didn’t want to hide them anymore. “I love how you crouch down to talk to scared patients. I love that you cry at allergies that aren’t allergies. I love that you tried so hard not to need anyone and then needed me anyway.”

His rhythm faltered. He dropped his forehead to mine again, breathing hard, eyes still open and locked on mine.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He kissed me like the words had rewritten something fundamental inside him. The pace stayed slow but the intensity built… deeper rolls of his hips, the wet sound of our bodies moving together, the quiet creak of the bed, the distant city noise filtering through the open balcony door. Sweat gathered at his temples. I reached up and brushed it away with my fingers, then traced the line of one of the veins running down his forearm while he moved inside me. He shivered under the touch and drove into me a little harder, a little deeper, still never looking away.

When I came the second time it was with my eyes open and his name on my lips and his hand still laced tightly with mine. The orgasm rolled through me in long, shuddering waves that left me trembling. He followed almost immediately, burying himself deep and spilling into me with a broken, reverent sound that was half my name and half something that might have been another I love you. His whole body shook with it. He stayed braced over me afterward, chest heaving, forehead still pressed to mine, neither of us closing our eyes.

For a long time the only sound was our breathing and the faint hum of the city beyond the glass.

Eventually he shifted just enough to ease out of me and roll onto his side, pulling me with him so we ended up face to face, legs tangled, the lamp still glowing warmly across the sheets. Neither of us reached for the switch. Neither of us moved to cover up or put distance between our bodies. His hand settled on my waist, thumb stroking absently over my skin. I traced the veins on the back of that hand with one fingertip, slow and open and completely unashamed of the habit this time.

Afterward, we lay there tangled together, the lamp on his nightstand still lit, neither of us in any hurry to reach over and turn it off.

“So that’s new,” he said, eventually, voice lazy and warm against my hair.

“What’s new?”

“Not immediately panicking and finding an excuse to leave the second it’s over.” A small laugh, self aware in the way I’d come to love about him. “Or turning the lights off. I always used to turn the lights off.”

“Why?”

“Easier to leave, I think. Harder to actually see someone, in the dark. Harder for them to see you.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, unhurried. “Didn’t want to do that tonight.”

“I noticed.”

“Good,” he said. “I wanted you to.”

I traced one finger along the back of his hand where it rested on my stomach, over the vein running down into his knuckles, the same gesture I’d been doing since that very first week, except there was nothing furtive about it anymore, nothing I was pretending not to do.

“For the record,” I said, “I liked the lights on.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Turns out I didn’t actually want to hide any of this either. I just didn’t know how to say that out loud yet.”

“Well,” he said, pulling me closer, the city glittering wide and unbothered beyond the window, neither of us reaching for the switch, “you don’t have to hide it anymore. Not from me. Not ever again, if I have anything to say about it.”

CHAPTER 34: LEARNING IT SLOW

We took it slow, after that… which was, admittedly, a strange concept for two people who'd started out with a supply closet, but there was something almost funny about working backward into the parts we'd skipped the first time, actual dates, actual conversations that weren't just between surgeries or in the five stolen minutes of an on-call shift.

"This is weird," I told him, on our first real date, both of us sitting across from each other at a small Italian place near the water he swore had the best pasta in the city, both of us dressed in something other than scrubs for once, which somehow felt more intimate than half the things we'd already done together. "We've had sex in a supply closet and now we're doing, like, appetizers. It feels backwards."

"I like backwards," he said, reaching across the table to lace his fingers through mine, thumb moving slowly over my knuckles in that same absent, familiar gesture. "Backwards got us here. I'm not complaining."

He told me things, over the following weeks, that he'd never once mentioned in five months of whatever we'd been calling ourselves before… that he’d grown up in Australia, in a house on the outskirts of Brisbane where the summers were so hot the sidewalks shimmered, that his grandmother, the one Mrs. Sloane reminded him of, had died his second year of residency and he still hadn't fully figured out how to talk about it, that he'd chosen neurosurgery specifically because his father had suffered a stroke when Jake was fourteen and he'd spent three days in a hospital waiting room learning exactly how much a good doctor's steady hands could mean to a terrified family.

"That's why the leaving thing," he admitted, one night, both of us lying tangled together on his couch with the city lit up gold beyond the windows. "I watched my mom fall apart for a year after my dad's stroke… not because he died, he didn't, but because she'd built her whole life around him and then almost lost it overnight, and I decided, somewhere around sixteen, that I was never going to let anyone matter enough to do that to me. Leave first. Simple math."

"Bad math," I said, quietly.

"Yeah," he agreed, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Turns out. Took me thirty four years and one very stubborn orthopedic surgeon to figure that out."

I told him things too… about the residency program that had worn me down to nothing before I finally recognized it for what it was, about the breakup that had sent me looking at cross country job listings in the first place, about standing on my old curb in Chicago watching the moving truck pull away and wondering, for one genuinely terrifying second, if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

"You didn't," he said, when I told him that part. "For the record."

"No," I agreed, looking at him… really looking, the way I had that very first morning in the surgeons' lounge, except everything about the way I saw him now had changed. "I really didn't."

Hospital gossip, predictably, caught on within a week of us stopping the pretending… Sunoo won his bet, loudly, in the cafeteria, to a chorus of groans from everyone who'd bet against him, Jasmine declared herself personally responsible for our entire relationship and demanded to be a bridesmaid at a wedding that did not yet exist, even Dr. Kim, usually entirely unbothered by staff gossip, gave me a knowing look over a chart one morning that I chose not to examine too closely. Jake, to his credit, stopped pretending to be embarrassed about any of it almost immediately, walking me to my car after every shift like it was the easiest, most obvious thing in the world, no longer bothering to check who might be watching.

CHAPTER 35: OLD GROUND, NEW RULES

There was a moment, a few weeks into actually dating, where the old habits nearly tripped us both up… a reminder that just because we'd said the true thing out loud didn't mean five months of careful self protection simply evaporated overnight.

It happened over something small, Jake picked up an extra weekend shift without mentioning it until the morning of, an old holdover from a life built around never letting anyone plan too far ahead with him, and I found out from the schedule board instead of from him, which stung more than the actual inconvenience deserved.

"You could have told me," I said, that evening, more hurt than angry, though it came out sounding like both.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just…" he dragged a hand back through his hair, frustrated with himself. "Old habit. I used to pick up shifts specifically so I'd have a built in excuse not to make plans with anyone. I didn't even think about it, I just did the thing I've always done, and then I remembered halfway through the day that I actually had someone to check in with now, and I didn't know how to walk it back without making it a whole thing."

"It doesn't have to be a whole thing. It just has to be a conversation. That's kind of the point of doing this for real."

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I'm still learning that part. Bear with me."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, and meant it, and watched something in his shoulders ease at hearing it, like some old, tired part of him hadn't quite believed I'd stay for anything less than a formal announcement.

We talked, properly, that night… not a fight exactly, more like two people renegotiating the terms of something neither of us had ever actually done before, not like this, not with any real intention of it lasting. He told me more about the string of almosts before me, not the gossip version but his own accounting of it… how each one had ended the same way, him pulling back the second things asked anything real of him, and how exhausting it had become, underneath the charm, to keep proving the reputation right.

"I don't want to keep doing that," he said. "With you. I want to actually be bad at this the normal way people are bad at relationships, not bail out before it gets the chance to be anything."

"I can work with bad at this," I told him. "I'm not exactly an expert either."

"No," he agreed, pulling me closer, "but you stuck around for the worst of it already. Feels like a decent sign."

It wasn't a dramatic turning point, not really… just an ordinary, unglamorous conversation about calendars and communication, the kind neither of us would have thought to mention if anyone asked us to describe the moment things got real. But it mattered, in its own quiet way, more than either of the big, cinematic scenes that came before it, because it was the first time either of us chose, deliberately, to do the hard, undramatic work of staying instead of just surviving one more dramatic moment of almost losing each other.

CHAPTER 36: MEETING THE FAMILY

"My mom wants to meet you," Jake said, one evening, with the particular tone of someone bracing for a reaction he wasn't sure he'd get. "Fair warning, she's going to ask you a hundred questions and probably show you baby photos. She's been waiting for this for a while."

"A while how long?"

"Since I mentioned you exist, if I'm being honest. Which was about two weeks after your first day, for the record, though I will deny that under oath if you ever bring it up in front of her."

"Two weeks," I repeated, delighted. "You were talking about me to your mother two weeks after I insulted your coffee opinions?"

"I said you had 'dramatic opinions about vending machines and terrifying competence in an OR.' It wasn't romantic. I want that on record."

"Sure it wasn't."

His parents lived in a house forty minutes east of the city… the place they’d moved to after leaving Australia when Jake was in his twenties..., a modest single story with a lemon tree in the front yard and a driveway crowded with a decade of accumulated family life… bikes that clearly belonged to nieces or nephews, a faded chalk hopscotch grid on the walkway, wind chimes that never quite stopped moving even on a still day. His mother, hugged me before I'd even gotten both feet through the door, already talking, already pulling out a photo album from somewhere suspiciously close at hand.

"He was a very serious baby," she informed me, flipping to a picture of an unmistakably grumpy infant Jake scowling at the camera. "Very serious. Didn't smile until he was almost one. The doctor said it was normal, but I worried."

"Mom," Jake said, with the particular long suffering patience of a grown man who had clearly had this exact conversation many times before.

"What? She should know these things. It's relevant information."

His father, quieter, more reserved, watched the whole exchange from an armchair with the faint, permanent weakness on his left side that Jake had told me about, and caught my eye at one point with a small, knowing smile. "He talks about you," he said, simply, once his mom had wandered off to check on dinner. "More than he's talked about anyone. Just so you know."

"Good talk or concerning talk?"

"Good talk," he said. "Very good talk."

Dinner ran long, loud, warm… his mom insisting I take home three separate containers of leftovers, Jake's younger sister video calling in from Portland halfway through dessert specifically to interrogate me about my intentions, which she did with a bluntness that made Jake put his head in his hands and made me laugh until my sides hurt… and it was well past ten by the time we finally left, both of us quiet in the car on the drive back, the radio low, streetlights sliding past the windows.

"That went well," I said, eventually.

"They loved you. Obviously. I told you they would." He reached over, found my hand in the dark, laced his fingers through mine. "For what it's worth, my dad doesn't say things like that lightly. The good talk thing."

"I could tell."

"Good," he said, quietly, and brought my hand up to press a kiss against my knuckles at a red light, unhurried, certain, and I thought, watching the city lights blur gold and warm through the windshield, that I had never in my life felt so completely, unexpectedly at home.

CHAPTER 37: NOT YET

The invitation arrived in early spring… not Jasmine's wedding, not yet, but a save the date for a hospital fundraiser gala that had become, in the months since Jake and I had gone public, something both of us actually looked forward to instead of dreading, if only because it meant an entire evening of watching Sunoo try and fail to act casual about having won a bet off our relationship.

"You clean up nice," Jake said, adjusting his tie in the mirror of our shared bedroom… a phrase that still gave me a small, private thrill every time I thought it, our bedroom, ours, not his, not mine, a fact that had happened so gradually I couldn't pinpoint the exact day the boxes labeled BEDROOM had simply stopped being separate from his things.

"You say that like it's a surprise."

"It's not a surprise. It's an observation. I'm allowed to make observations about my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend," I repeated, the word still faintly new enough to catch, pleasantly, in my chest every time either of us said it out loud. "Feels like a very flat word for everything we've been through to get here."

"We could go bigger," he said, mock thoughtful, catching my eye in the mirror. "Life partner. Significant other. Woman who insulted my coffee opinions on day one and never let up."

"That last one's a mouthful."

"Accurate, though."

The gala itself was, this time, an entirely different experience than the one that had ended in me white knuckling a wine glass on a terrace, watching him get cornered by a cardiology fellow I'd been unreasonably jealous of. This time he kept a hand at the small of my back all evening, introduced me to colleagues from departments I'd never worked with, and when Giselle caught my eye across the room at one point, she raised her glass in a small, knowing toast that made me laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from Jake that I didn't bother explaining.

Jasmine cornered me near the dessert table, considerably less subtle than Giselle had been. "So," she said, "when's the wedding."

"We've been together five months, Jasmine."

"I've had shorter engagements than your entire situationship took to resolve. I feel like I'm owed an speed up timeline out of principle."

"You're owed nothing," I told her, laughing, though later that night, dancing slow with Jake near the edge of the floor, the city lights spread out gold beyond the ballroom windows exactly the way they had been that first terrible gala, I let myself think about it anyway… some future version of this same room, or one like it, with considerably higher stakes than a silent auction nobody wanted to bid on.

"What are you thinking about?" Jake asked, catching the look on my face.

"Nothing," I said, and then, because I'd promised myself somewhere along the way to stop hiding the true things, "Actually. Everything. This. Us. Where it's all going."

"Yeah?" Something careful and hopeful crossed his face. "Good things, I hope."

"Very good things," I said, and let him pull me closer, both of us moving slow and easy to music neither of us was really paying attention to, thinking, for the first time in longer than I could remember, that the future wasn't something to brace against anymore… just something to look forward to, one ordinary, extraordinary day at a time.

CHAPTER 38: RESOLUTION

Nine months after I first stood in that surgeons' lounge insulting his coffee opinions, I stood on Jake's balcony… our balcony, really, since I'd given up the lease on my apartment two months earlier and moved most of my boxes labeled KITCHEN and BEDROOM into a spare room he'd cleared out without me even having to ask… watching the sun go down gold and pink over hills that had, somewhere along the way, stopped feeling foreign and started feeling like mine.

"You know," he said, coming up behind me with two glasses of wine, considerably better than the bottle I'd shown up with that first night, setting one down beside me on the railing, "I used to think leaving first was the smart move. Saved everyone the trouble."

"And now?"

"Now I think I just hadn't found the person worth staying for." He lifted my hand, pressed a kiss to my knuckles, unhurried, unguarded, nothing at all like the performance he used to wear so easily in hospital hallways. "Also, for the record, I noticed you staring at my hands on your very first day. Took you long enough to admit it."

"I wasn't staring."

"You were absolutely staring. Jasmine told me, weeks ago. Said you called them dramatic."

"I stand by that judgment."

"I'll allow it," he said, grinning, and pulled me closer, one arm settling easy around my waist like it had always belonged there.

Mrs. Sloane sent a card that spring, addressed to both of us… she'd heard, apparently, through some hospital grapevine neither of us had ever managed to identify the source of, and wanted us to know, in careful cursive, that she'd never once doubted it, watching the two of us in her hospital room all those months ago, and that she expected an invitation to whatever came next. Jake taped it to the refrigerator, right next to a photo from the gala neither of us had ever admitted to keeping, the two of us caught mid argument by someone's phone camera, months before either of us had said a single true thing to the other out loud.

We didn't rush anything, in the end… no dramatic proposal, no grand gesture, nothing that would have looked good as a hospital rumor. Just a slow, steady build up of Tuesday dinners and lazy Sunday mornings and the particular, acquired comfort of two people who had both spent a long time convinced that leaving first was safer than staying, learning, one ordinary day at a time, that it wasn't.

"You know," I told him, one evening months later, both of us tangled together on the couch, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the back of my hand, "when I moved out here, I told myself I needed to find out who I was when nobody already had an opinion about it. Find myself. Fresh start. All of it."

"Did you?"

"I think so," I said, considering it. "Turns out I'm someone who falls for insufferable neurosurgeons with very dramatic veins in his hands. Wasn't exactly the plan, but I'll take it."

"High praise," he said, laughing, and pulled me closer, and outside the window the city went on being loud and ordinary and entirely unaware of the fact that somewhere in it, two surgeons who'd spent five months insisting they didn't do feelings had finally, quietly, completely stopped pretending otherwise.

Lights on, this time. No more hiding in supply closets and on-call rooms and rules built to keep either of us safe from the other.

Just this. Just us. Just the whole wide, golden, unfamiliar city that had somehow, without either of us noticing exactly when, become home.

CHAPTER 39: ONE YEAR LATER

A year to the day after I'd stood on a curb in Chicago watching a moving truck pull away, I stood on a different curb entirely… outside XO Medical Center, at the end of a shift, waiting for Jake to finish signing off on a consult so we could drive to the beach for the sunset picnic he'd been suspiciously insistent about all week.

Jasmine had, predictably, been right about everything, a fact she reminded me of at least once a week with an insufferable amount of satisfaction. Sunoo had collected his winnings from the bet months ago and had, somehow, transformed the story into minor legend status among the incoming residents, who now regarded the two of us with a kind of admiring curiosity usually reserved for attendings who'd survived something genuinely dramatic. Mrs. Sloane still sent a card every few months, walking to church every Sunday exactly as promised, and had recently taken to including updates about a great grandchild she was very transparently hoping we'd take an interest in as a parenting preview.

The beach that evening was quiet, the tourist crowds thinned out by the hour, the sky doing its usual, impossible show of color as the sun dropped toward the water… pink bleeding into orange, orange into a deep, bruised purple, the whole horizon on fire in a way that had stopped surprising me and never once stopped taking my breath away.

"You're doing the thing," Jake said, spreading out a blanket, watching me watch the sky.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at this view like you still can't quite believe you live here."

"I can't," I admitted. "Some mornings I still wake up and I'm surprised there are palm trees outside my window instead of a parking lot in Chicago. I don't think that surprise is ever fully going to wear off."

"Good," he said, sitting down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched, his hand finding mine automatically, fingers lacing through mine in the gesture that had become so familiar I barely registered it as a gesture anymore, just as a fact of how his hand fit against mine. "I like that you still notice it. Most people who grow up here stop seeing it after a while. Takes an outsider to remember how strange and beautiful the whole thing actually is."

"Is that what I am? An outsider?"

"You were," he said, "on day one, staring at my hands like you'd never seen a neurosurgeon's veins before in your life." A pause, his thumb moving slow and absent over my knuckles, the same gesture from that very first almost kiss in a hospital hallway a lifetime ago. "You're not anymore. Not to me. Not for a long time now."

I turned to look at him then, the last of the light catching the side of his face exactly the way it had that first night in his penthouse, and felt the same catch in my chest I'd felt every single time since… a small, private wonder that this, of all things, was where three thousand miles and one deeply unwise hospital rule had eventually led.

"For the record," I said, "I still think about that first day. The coffee. The hands. All of it."

"For the record," he said, lifting my hand to press a slow kiss against my knuckles, unhurried, certain, the ocean going dark and gold behind him, "so do I. Best mistake I ever made, letting you insult my coffee opinions and stick around anyway."

"Second best," I corrected.

"What's the first?"

"Not leaving first," I said, quietly, "even when it would have been so much easier."

He didn't say anything to that… just pulled me closer, pressed a kiss to my temple, and we sat there together as the sun finally dropped below the water and the sky went fully, softly dark, lights coming on one by one along the coast behind us, the whole wide, glittering city we'd both, somehow, separately and then together, learned to call home.

We stayed at the beach long after the color had drained fully out of the sky, long after the last of the tourists had packed up their towels and headed back toward the boardwalk, until it was just us and the sound of the waves and the distant hum of the pier lights flickering on further down the shore. Jake pulled a second, smaller blanket from his bag… the same bag, I realized, that had held the first one, which meant he'd planned this far more carefully than his usual breezy just a picnichad let on… and wrapped it around both our shoulders, and I let myself lean fully into him, listening to his heartbeat under my ear, steady and unhurried, nothing at all like the frantic, uncertain thing it had felt like in an on-call bedroom over a year ago.

"You know what I keep thinking about," I said, quietly, into the dark.

"What's that?"

"That first week, when I was so sure I'd made a mistake moving out here. Sitting in my apartment surrounded by boxes, calling my sister, telling her I didn't know a single person in this entire city." I tilted my head back to look up at him. "I had no idea I was about to meet the person who'd make it feel like home. I was so busy being terrified of starting over that I almost missed it happening right in front of me."

"For what it's worth," he said, pressing his lips to my hair, "I think that's usually how the good things sneak in. Not with an announcement. Just quietly, while you're busy being scared of something else entirely."

"That's annoyingly wise for someone who spent five months insisting he didn't do feelings."

"I'm full of surprises, remember," he said, for what had to be the hundredth time since that very first day in his kitchen, and I laughed, the sound carrying out over the dark water, easy and unguarded in a way I don't think I'd ever quite managed to be with anyone before him.

We didn't talk about the future in any specific terms that night… no ring, no formal declaration, nothing that would have made a tidy ending to the story other people at the hospital liked to tell about us. Just two people who had both spent a long time convinced that leaving first was the safer bet, sitting together on a dark beach in a city neither of us had originally planned to call home, in absolutely no hurry to be anywhere else.

That would come later. Both of us, it turned out, still had a little more waiting left in us… just the good kind, this time.

CHAPTER 40: THE PROPOSAL

He asked me eight months after that night on the beach, and true to form, he did not do it the way anyone at XO Medical would have predicted.

There was no elaborate scheme, no orchestrated flash mob, no hiring out the entire farmers market to be in on it… I'd braced myself for something ridiculous, honestly, given how much he'd been disappearing on "errands" for the two weeks prior, texting, "don't ask, it's a surprise" in his usual lowercase whenever I got suspicious. What I got instead was a Tuesday.

An entirely ordinary Tuesday, in fact… both of us off, which was rare enough on its own, spent exactly the way we spent most of our rare shared days off by then, the farmers market first, Gerald pressing an extra bag of peaches on us "for the road" with a wink that, in hindsight, should have tipped me off immediately, and then the trail above the city, the same overlook where he'd told me, more than a year earlier, that he'd stopped wondering what would've happened if he'd taken the Seattle job instead.

"You're being weird," I told him, near the top, watching him check his pocket for the third time in ten minutes.

"I'm not being weird."

"You've patted your jacket pocket like it's about to catch fire since we left the car."

"Allergies," he said, entirely unconvincingly, and I let it go mostly because the view had opened up in front of us, the whole valley spread out hazy gold in the late afternoon light, the ocean a thin silver seam at the edge of everything, exactly the way it had looked that very first time.

"This spot again," I said, smiling. "You really do love this rock."

"I love a lot of things about this spot," he said, and there was something different in his voice, something that made me actually look at him instead of the view. "This is where I told you I'd stopped wondering about Seattle. Where I figured out, sitting right here, that I didn't want to be anywhere I couldn't picture you being too."

"Jake—"

"Let me finish, I've been rehearsing this for two weeks and Gerald made me practice it on him three separate times." He was smiling, but his hands weren't quite steady, and when he reached into his jacket pocket this time it wasn't for a ghostly allergy tissue. "I spent most of my life leaving before things got real, because it felt safer than finding out what happens if you let something matter and it falls apart anyway. You're the first person who ever made staying feel like the safer bet instead. And I don't want to keep proving that to myself one ordinary Tuesday at a time. I want to prove it for the rest of however many ordinary Tuesdays we get."

He dropped to one knee right there on the dusty overlook trail, a small velvet box open in his hand, catching the same gold light that had caught the side of his face in his penthouse kitchen a year and a half earlier, back when neither of us had a single true thing figured out yet.

"Marry me," he said, simply, the Australian lilt a little stronger with nerves. "Lights on, this time. No hiding any of it."

I said yes before he'd even finished getting the box all the way open, which he complained about for weeks afterward… you didn't even let me finish the sentence properly… and a passing hiker, a total stranger, whooped loud enough that a pair of birds startled up out of the chaparral below us, and neither of us cared even a little that our engagement had an audience of one very enthusiastic jogger in running shorts.

"For the record," I told him, once he'd gotten the ring onto my shaking hand and pulled me into a kiss that tasted faintly of Gerald's peaches, "I would have said yes on day one too. If you'd asked me while I was insulting your coffee opinions."

"Don't tell me that," he said, laughing against my mouth. "I spent way too long being an idiot about this. I don't need to know I could've skipped several months of it."

"Worth the wait, though?"

"Every second," he said, and kissed me again, the whole city glittering awake below us as the sun finally dropped behind the hills.

CHAPTER 41: THE WEDDING

We got married the following spring, on the beach… the same stretch of coast where he'd proposed to me a second time, technically, in his own head at least, the night of the beach picnic that neither of us had called an engagement yet but both of us, looking back, agreed had basically been one.

It was small, by design… closer to fifty people than the sprawling, catered affair Jake's mom had gently lobbied for during at least four separate dinners. Jasmine was my maid of honor, exactly as she'd been threatening to be since the very first week she found out about us, and she cried through the entire ceremony despite loudly insisting beforehand that she absolutely would not. Sunoo gave a toast at the reception that opened with "I won forty dollars off this relationship, and honestly, it was worth every cent," which got the loudest laugh of the night and made Dr. Kim, seated at the head table in a rare moment of unguarded warmth, actually snort into her champagne.

Mrs. Sloane came, cane and all, refusing every offer of a wheelchair with the same stubbornness that had gotten her through her own surgery years earlier, and pulled me aside before the ceremony to press a small, worn rosary into my hand… "for luck," she said, "and because I told you both, from the very first day I watched you in my hospital room, that I already knew." I kept it tucked into my bouquet the whole ceremony, and gave it back to her, tearfully, at the end of the night.

Jake's father walked him partway down the aisle on Jake's mom's arm.. slower than either of them wanted, the lingering weakness on his left side more pronounced by then, but steady, determined, refusing every offer to sit down before the job was done… and Jake cried before I even reached him, which surprised absolutely no one who'd watched him wipe away tears in a hospital hallway after Sana Kombu's surgery and blame it, unconvincingly, on allergies.

"You're doing the crying thing," I whispered, once I reached him, taking both his hands… the same hands, veins and all, that I'd been quietly obsessed with since day one, a fact the entire wedding party had been informed of at length by Jasmine during her toast.

"I'm allowed. It's my wedding."

"Our wedding."

"Our wedding," he agreed, and something about hearing him say it, out loud, in front of everyone who'd watched this entire ridiculous, five months of denial story unfold from the very beginning, undid something in my chest that I hadn't realized was still holding on to any last bit of disbelief that this was actually happening.

The vows were simple… we'd written our own, both of us stubbornly refusing to let the other one see a draft beforehand… and Jake's, when it came to it, circled right back to the beginning, the way I should have known it would.

"I used to think leaving first was the safest thing I could do for anyone I cared about," he said, voice rough, not bothering to hide it. "You taught me that staying is actually the brave part. Lights on, no more hiding… that's the only promise I really need to make you today, because it's the one that covers everything else. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. Not ever."

My own vows were shorter, mostly because I'd rewritten them four separate times trying to say everything I wanted to and kept coming back to the same simple truth underneath all of it. "I moved three thousand miles to find out who I was without anyone else's opinion weighing on it," I told him, "and it turns out the answer was someone who falls hard for insufferable neurosurgeons with dramatic veins in their hands. I wouldn't change a single detour it took to get here… not the rules, not the mess, not any of it. Just you. Always, from here on out, just you."

We danced our first dance to something slow and a little too sentimental for either of our tastes on any other night, and somewhere around the second chorus Jasmine cut in, loudly informing Jake that she required "at least one dance as compensation for five months of secondhand emotional labor," and he laughed and handed me off without a fight, watching from the edge of the floor with an expression I'd come to know very well by then… the one that meant he still, after everything, couldn't quite believe his own luck.

CHAPTER 42: TWO LINES

We found out on an entirely unremarkable Sunday morning, almost two years into the marriage, in the small, cluttered bathroom of the house we'd bought together the previous spring… a modest place not far from the beach, close enough that Jake still ran the same coastal path most mornings, closer still to his parents' house than either of us had originally planned, though neither of us minded that particular accident of real estate.

I sat on the edge of the tub with the test face down on the counter, both of us staring at it like it might do something unexpected if we looked away too soon.

"You're allowed to look," Jake said, crouched down in front of me, hands braced on my knees, his own hands… still the same hands, still doing that thing to my chest they'd been doing since day one… not quite steady.

"You look. I can't."

He reached over, turned it faceup, and went very, very quiet.

"Jake."

"Two lines," he said, voice cracking clean down the middle, and when he looked up at me his eyes were already wet, the same unguarded, undefended look he'd worn at the altar, at Sana Kombu's bedside all those years ago, every single time he stopped bothering to perform anything at all. "Two lines. We're—"

"We're having a baby," I finished for him, because he genuinely could not get the words out, and then neither of us could say anything else for a long moment, both of us laughing and crying at the same time on the bathroom floor of the house we'd built together out of one very unwise hospital rule and every single thing that came after it.

We told his mom first, over dinner two weeks later, and she burst into tears so immediately and so loudly that Jake's father had to explain, laughing, that yes, these were the happy kind, before she'd even managed to get a single word out. Jasmine found out at work, trapped me in the on-call lounge the moment she noticed I'd turned down coffee twice in one week, and screamed loud enough that half the floor came to check if there was an emergency. Mrs. Sloane, informed by card exactly as she'd once predicted the whole relationship into existence, sent back a tiny, hand knitted baby blanket within the week, along with a note that said, simply, I told you both. I always know.

The pregnancy wasn't without its complications… a scare at eighteen weeks that sent both of us, doctors as we were, into a version of panic neither of our medical training had adequately prepared us for, an entire night spent in an ultrasound room holding hands so tightly Jake's knuckles went white, waiting for a heartbeat that, thankfully, steady and strong, eventually appeared on the screen. Jake cried again that night too, unashamed, forehead pressed to mine in the dim light of the ultrasound room, whispering something too quiet for even me to catch, though I had a fairly good guess what it was.

She arrived in the spring, seven days past her due date and in no particular hurry even then, in the same hospital where both her parents had built an entire life around each other without either of them meaning to. Jake held her first, in the quiet, exhausted hour just after, tears streaking silently down his face, that same absent gesture… thumb tracing slow, careful circles, this time against the impossibly small back of a hand that already, unmistakably, had his same long fingers.

"Hey," he murmured to her, voice wrecked and soft, "you've got dramatic hands too. Runs in the family, apparently."

"Don't start," I said, laughing, exhausted, watching the two of them with a fullness in my chest I hadn't known was possible before that exact moment.

"I'm just saying. Someone's going to stare at these hands one day and fall hopelessly, catastrophically in love, same as her mother did." He looked up at me, that same easy, unguarded smile from a hospital lounge years earlier, except everything underneath it had changed completely. "Best mistake I ever made. All of it. Every single step."

"Second best," I corrected, softly, looking down at our daughter, at the whole wide, unexpected life we'd built out of one insulted cup of coffee and a set of dramatic veins.

"What's the first?"

"This," I said. "All of this. Right here."

He didn't argue. He just leaned in, pressed a kiss to my temple, then to our daughter's tiny, sleeping head, and outside the hospital window the city went on glittering, wide and golden and entirely, finally, unmistakably home.

Lights on. No more hiding. Just this… just all of this… for as long as we get to have it.

THE END 

Hope you guys enjoyed it! I think I might try to do more fics inspired by shows! I love Grey's Anatomy, so I thought it was good inspiration! Please let me know if you guys have any requests!

wonluvzu taglist ;)

you really don’t know how it happened. one moment you were asking your sweet boyfriend to take pictures of you on your new camera and the next he has you pinned down, mini-skirt tossed up, with his face buried in your sopping cunt.

“nghh, y-yun please!”

jake peers up at you from between your thighs, his fluffy brown hair a tangled mess from your fingers and his big pointy nose glistening from your heavenly juices. he only groans in response, focusing on your throbbing clit that he is currently suckling between his plump lips.

“please what, bunny?” his slender fingers tug your panties farther to the side, granting him more access to your needy cunt. “ya keep beggin’ but not telling me what for, hm?” he hums into your folds, the tip of his pink, skilled muscle dragging down from your sweet bundle of nerves towards your entrance without breaking eye contact.

“mm p-please i. . . i want you inside,” you whine out pathetically, covering your flushed face in embarrassment which only makes jake chuckle lightly in response at your cuteness. his eyes flicker towards the digital camera propped against the nightstand, the red dot flashing at you almost tauntingly.

his gaze wanders up with a thoughtful expression, lips curled in a small pout — but you could already tell he was merely pretending to consider your request.

“nahh, i have a better idea.”

“fuck— fuck! hold still babydoll,” jake pants as his thick, veiny cock disappears into the makeshift hole he ripped in the bottom of your little panties. the large print of his shaft bulging through the soaked thin fabric from your mixed arousal.

his red, weeping tip catches against your clit on every upward stroke, making you writhe beneath him and cry out borderline pornographic moans as the room fills with the obscene sound of wet skin rubbing together. your poor, swollen lips hug and drag against the underside of his shaft so perfectly while he continues his assault between them.

jake runs his fingers through the damp strands of his hair, pushing it back as his free hand brings the camera up towards your fucked out face. the bright flash from the camera making you squint.

“smile, my pretty girl. . .” he cooes, before lowering the lens down to your joined areas molding and squelching together.

you are so slick that your panties have practically become a second skin, sticking to you in a way that allows for jake to see the outline of your puffy lips through the material as he slides his cock through the tight pocket he’s created, glans rubbing between your smooth folds oh so deliciously.

“jakey. . . a-ah- put your cock in my pussy please,” you plead.

“shh, be a good girl and take what i give you, angel,” he taps your lips with his middle and ring fingers, signaling for you take them into your mouth as he brings the camera back up to your face to capture the way your damp, doe eyes look up at him so innocently in the low quality lens and drools slips from the corner of your lips.

“fuck— you are beautiful, all fucking mine.” he turns the camera lens towards himself and flashes it a boyish grin, wiggling his eyebrows as he angles it to catch both your spread silhouette and his face perfectly.

he dips his head, lips latching onto the soft peaks of your breasts, a soft, wet popping sound emitting in the space as he lets each of them go.

you only moan in response, unable to form any coherent words as you are overwhelmed by all of the sensations he provides. you instinctively tilt your hips upwards in attempt for the ridge of his cockhead to catch against your creamy, ringed entrance on his downward stroke. a small whimper escapes when you succeed, feeling the tip sink in ever so slightly.

he quickly pulls away with a hiss, grabbing your face with his free hand while the camera stays focused on his cock teasing your pussy. “say it.”

he leans down to lick the hot tears streaming down your cheeks before crashing his lips against yours in a wet, salty kiss. his tongue dragging across your teeth hungrily. “mmph— all yours,” you moan back into his lips.

“yeahhhh, you are,” he moans, jaw slack as his grip on the camera tightens a fraction while he fucks his cock between your folds. it’s become such a sticky mess that he slips out every now and then. his relentless press against your clit makes the coil in your belly unwind fairly quickly. “soak my dick, yeah?”

his words send you over the edge as your walls clench around nothing and a gush of thin clear juices seep from your cunt, coating his thighs.

“s-shit baby! fuckfuck— ‘m gonna fuckin cum!”

you gasp when you feel the warm splatters of his sticky semen spurt across your folds, the milky cream slowly oozing down your slit and out of the hole from your ruined panties. his hips roll forward slowly, body twitching as his balls empty his load all over your labia, spread open like a pretty little flower from the shape of his cock molding them for so long.

jake smacks his teeth with a low huff. biting his lip until he tastes blood as he grabs ahold of his heavy, throbbing cock and smears his hot seed along the mushroom tip. he nudges the head between your lips and drags downward until he finally dips inside of your aching hole, which swallows him up greedily.

the initial stretch of his thick cockhead entering your warm pussy makes your back arch of the bed and your toes curl in satisfaction. he moans at the warm envelope from your cunt, eyebrows knitting together as he slowly fucks his sticky seed within your tunnel.

“s-shit doll— still so fuckin’ tight no matter how many times i fill you. she’s sucking me in so good, hm? hah— now, what do you say baby?”

“ohmygod yesyes! baby— t-thank you!” you cry out, eyes rolling back.

“fuckin’ cockdrunk already,” he laughs, stroking half of his length inside of you at cruel pace before bottoming out until his deflated balls rutt against your ass, “this tiny cunt is all f’ me, hm?” he thrusts slowly, dragging his length up and down your velvety walls.

jake only continues to praise you through strokes, being sure to spear against that spongey patch and ripping yet another messy orgasm from you. he follows, pulling his hips back slightly so only the tip remains as he pumps hot cum at the entrance of your pussy.

“haa-ah, ngh n-no more jakey,” you whine, hips still rolling to meet his thrusts despite yourself.

he chuckles, littering soft kisses to your cheeks, forehead, nose and then lips until he notices a white frothy ring around his shaft. finally, he withdrawals with a wince, his softening cock slipping out with a soft, wet pop.

jake spreads your pussy lips with his fingers and brings the camera closer to witness the fresh creampie he delivered as it slowly dribbles out from between your swollen lips and down your ass. he watches as your hole opens and closes, forcing another glob of his love milk out when he commands you to push.

“yeah, good girl. fuuuck baby— you’re stuffed so full like a pastry. thats soo hot, can’t wait to beat my cock to this later.”

Your apartment was bigger by a bit, and you had a balcony, and so did he, and for about a year that was the extent of what you knew about each other, parallel lives separated by one wall, coexisting in the same building without ever really intersecting.

You'd run into each other, of course. 

That was inevitable. 

The elevator, always the elevator, because there was only one and it was slow and you'd both developed the habit of timing your commutes to avoid waiting, which meant you ended up waiting together more often than not, standing in silence with your coffee and your headphones and the unspoken acknowledgment that you recognized each other but hadn't progressed past nodding. The laundry room in the basement, where you'd once spent twenty minutes folding clothes across from each other and he'd held the door open for you when you were struggling with an overstuffed basket and you'd said thanks and he'd said of course and that was the most conversation you'd ever had. The cafe downstairs in the complex, the little one with the good matcha and the barista who always spelled your name wrong, where you'd both ended up at the same window table on separate laptops and caught each other glancing over and looked away fast.

He was so, so hot. That was the thing you couldn't get around, the fact that sat in the center of every interaction you'd ever had with him like a stone in your shoe, impossible to ignore. 

Park Sunghoon was tall and broad and bulked up in a way that made it very clear he spent a terrifying number of hours at the gym, his shoulders filling doorframes, his arms thick with visible muscle even through his jackets, his chest and abs a sculpted landscape that you'd caught glimpses of during the summer when he'd come back from the building's gym in a tank top, skin glowing with sweat, and you'd had to physically remind yourself that staring was rude and you were a grown adult with self-control. 

But here's the part that made it complicated, the part that turned this from a simple story about wanting the hot guy next door into something that still made your head spin when you thought about it too hard: you were a cam girl. 

Mask Girl, that was your name on the site, your persona, the faceless, nameless fantasy that thousands of people tuned in to watch three nights a week. 

You wore a delicate mask that covered your face, and you performed with a confidence that belonged to someone else entirely — someone bold, teasing, and untouchable, someone who did provocative things on camera without ever fully touching herself, who built tension like architecture, who made her audience desperate for a glimpse of more without ever giving them everything. 

One of those viewers, your most loyal, most generous, most dedicated viewer, was Park Sunghoon.

You didn't know this at the time. 

How could you? 

On the site, he was just a username: tiramissulatte. 

A name that made you smile when it popped up in chat, always early, always staying late, always sending money with a casualness that suggested he either had a lot of it or didn't care about spending it on you, maybe both. 

He talked in your chat more than anyone else, complimenting your outfits, reacting to your teases, and the things he said were so specific, so filthy, so attuned to exactly what you were doing that sometimes you wondered if he could read your mind through the screen. You'd arch your back a certain way and tiramissulatte would type something about the curve of your spine that made your stomach flip. You'd wear a new set and he'd describe the color against your skin with a precision that felt intimate, like he was writing you a letter instead of typing in a chat box.

You didn't know tiramissulatte was Sunghoon. Sunghoon definitely didn't know you were Mask Girl, not for sure, not until he did.

Eventually, a blackout forced you to ask Sunghoon if he could keep your cheesecake in his fridge before it melts. He lets you stay while the power’s out, and what starts as a normal movie night slowly becomes tense when he starts acting a bit too strangely — staring too long, seeming distracted, like he’s hiding something. 

When you try to leave for a moment, he stops you and reveals that he knows your secret identity as Mask Girl after recognizing the moles on your hand from your streams. 

Damn it. 

The realization completely changes the atmosphere between you, especially once you understand just how long he’s known.

Everything after that gets pretty blurry in your head.

He kissed you. 

Then he was suddenly walking you backward, guiding you, and your back hit his bedroom door and then you were through it and then you were on his bed and his body was over yours, heavy and warm and so much broader than you'd allowed yourself to imagine, and he fucked you. 

Right there, in his bed, in unit 109, with the movie still playing in the living room and your cheesecake still safe in his fridge and the power still out in your unit, he fucked you like he'd been waiting for it his entire life, and you let him, you wanted it, and the fact that it was impulsive and confusing and absolutely insane didn't matter because nothing had ever felt that right.

The morning after was complicated. 

You'd woken up in his bed, in his t-shirt, with his arm around your waist and your brain full of static and the overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating realization that you'd just slept with your neighbor, your viewer, tiramissulatte, Park Sunghoon, and you had no fucking idea what came next. 

But you talked, really talked, for hours, lying in his bed with the morning light coming through his balcony doors, and you told him about the cam work and how it started and why you did it and how it made you feel, and he told you about finding you on the site and becoming a regular and the slow, consuming obsession that had taken root the more he watched, and by the time the conversation wound down you both understood that this wasn't a one-night thing, that it couldn't be, that something real, specific, and undeniable had been growing between you for months and the sex had just been the match that lit it.

He courted you. 

Eight months of it, deliberate and traditional and so awfully Sunghoon it made your chest ache — showing up with food, learning your schedule, being there when you needed him and stepping back when you needed space, never pushing, never presuming, just steadily, patiently, beautifully making it clear that he was serious about this, about you, about whatever this was becoming. 

You said yes. 

Of course you said yes, because you'd been halfway to yes since he opened his door on that power-outage night and said of course, come in, and the eight months had only confirmed what you already knew.

Now here you were. Still in your respective units, him in 109 and you in 110, because you'd talked about moving in together and decided there was something sweet about maintaining your own spaces while being close enough that you could see each other whenever you pleased. 

Your apartment had the bigger couch and the setup for your streams; his had the nicer kitchen and the balcony with the view. Between the two of you, you had everything you needed, and the wall between your bedrooms had become less of a barrier and more of a technicality.

You'd found work as an economic consultant about five months ago — real, professional, respectable work that used your actual degree and paid actual money, though not as consistently and not as well as Mask Girl did, so you kept the streams going, three nights a week, the same schedule, the same persona, the same teasing and provoking and driving your audience insane without ever giving them everything. 

Sunghoon still watched. He still tipped. He was still tiramissulatte in your chat, still your most loyal viewer, except now when you read his messages you knew exactly who was typing them, and you'd smile behind your mask at the screen and think, that's my boyfriend, that's my man, that's the person who makes me coffee in the morning and carries me to bed at night, and the secret knowledge of it was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted.

He absolutely loved it. Having his favorite cam girl all for himself — that's how he described it, with that quiet, possessive certainty that he rarely let anyone else see, the side of him that was reserved for you and only you. Your audience didn't know you were taken. They didn't know that the Mask Girl they fantasized about went home to the most beautiful man in the building, that the fingers they watched trail along lace edges were the same fingers that carded through his hair while he fell asleep, that the voice that whispered filth into the camera whispered his name into his pillow every night. It was your secret, yours and Sunghoon's, and the exclusivity of it, the intimacy of it, drove him absolutely insane in the best possible way.

Sometimes he'd help you get ready. Your outfit, your hair, your accessories, he'd sit on the edge of your bed and watch you sift through your closet with that quiet, observant gaze, and he'd point to things and say, "That one," or "The red tonight," and he was always right, always knew which combination would look best on camera, which color would pop against your skin, which silhouette would drive your viewers insane. He'd zip you up and adjust your straps and step back and look at you with this expression that was equal parts pride and hunger, like he couldn't believe you were his but he was going to appreciate every second of it.

He'd help you get unready too. After every stream, when the adrenaline had faded and the exhaustion had set in and you were soft and pliable and murmuring about nothing in particular, he'd carry you to bed, literally carry you, one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, like you weighed nothing, like his gym-honed body had been built specifically for this, for scooping you up and holding you close and making you feel safe and utterly, completely cherished, then he'd tuck you in and play with your hair and listen to you mumble about the cute pair of boots you'd found on your Pinterest feed or the drama episode you'd missed or whatever random thought was drifting through your tired brain, and he'd smile at you with that rare, private, just-for-you smile and press a kiss to your forehead and say, "We'll get the boots, princess. Go to sleep."

Sometimes both of you would get freaky. On stream, off stream, in the gray area in between, it didn't really matter, because whatever was happening between you in those moments was real and so intensely, perfectly attuned that it felt like you'd been made for each other. You were absolutely perfect for one another, you and Sunghoon, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Christmas had been a milestone. 

You'd brought Sunghoon back to your hometown, your family's house with the creaky porch and the too-small dining table and the chaos of too many relatives in too little space, and he'd fit right in like he'd always been there. 

Your little cousin, the one who blasted Brazilian phonk from his portable speaker at all hours and had zero volume control, had clung to him like a koala, dragging him around by the hand to show him his room, his art projects, his collection of shiny rocks he'd found in the yard, and Sunghoon had gone along with all of it with a patience that made your mother watch the two of them with a soft, knowing smile. 

He went grocery shopping with your dad, the two of them coming back with twice what was on the list because your dad had kept saying "one more thing" and Sunghoon had kept saying "of course, sir" and apparently they'd bonded over the pickle aisle in a way you were never going to understand. 

He helped your mom set the table, folding napkins into little triangles with the same precision he brought to everything, and when she'd thanked him he'd said, "It's my pleasure, Mom," and your mother had stood frozen with a serving spoon in her hand and looked at you with eyes that said this is the one, this is the one right here.

And then there were your old friends. Or rather, the girls from middle school who had been mean to you in the way that middle school girls are mean, not overtly, not cruelly, just in that slow, grinding, undermining way that chips away at your self-esteem over the course of years until you graduate and realize you never want to see them again. 

You'd run into them at the mall, of all places, and they'd swarmed you with those too-bright smiles and air-kisses and "oh my god, how have you been"s, and then Sunghoon had appeared beside you with two iced americanos and a bag from the bakery your mom liked, and their jaws had literally dropped. 

Not figuratively. Literally. Jaw-dropping, eye-widening, conversation-stopping shock, because Sunghoon was just that handsome, tall, sharp-featured, bulked up in a black coat, and a scarf your mom had knitted him, his shoulders spanning the width of the hallway like a goddamn billboard for genetic superiority, and he was yours. The way he'd slid his arm around your waist and said, "Ready to go, baby?" without even noticing the effect he was having on everyone around him was the single most vindicating moment of your entire life.

It was a regular night, as regular as nights got when your boyfriend was the Park Sunghoon and your side hustle was Mask Girl.

You'd both just gotten home from shopping, or more accurately, from the nail salon and the subsequent wandering-around-the-city that had become your ritual. 

True to his word, the word he'd given you in chat before either of you knew who the other was, when you'd shown your nails on stream and tiramissulatte had mentioned he’d pay for your next set and you laughed at him — he'd paid for your nails. Not just that first time. Every single appointment up until now, each and every time, pulling out his card before you could even reach for your wallet, and when you'd protested he'd just tilted his head and given you that look, the one that said don't argue with me on this, and you'd learned to stop arguing because arguing with Sunghoon about things he'd already decided was like arguing with a very handsome, very stubborn wall.

It had become a tradition now. Whenever you got your nails done, you both always had to do something afterwards — eat, take cute photobooth pictures together, catch a movie, cafe hop, wander through museums, just a lot of things, a rotating menu of date activities that turned a routine errand into something you both looked forward to. 

Today had been ramen, at the little bar around the corner from the salon that you'd been going to for months, the one where the owner knew your order by heart and always gave Sunghoon extra chashu because she said he was too thin, which was absurd because Sunghoon was built like a weapon, all dense muscle and broad shoulders and arms that could bench press your body weight without breaking a sweat, but you’d never argue with free chashu.

Your nails were spring themed now — short French tips in green, yellow, and pink with tiny hand-painted florals and an obscene amount of sparkle that caught the light every time you moved your hands. 

You'd held them up for Sunghoon to see when you'd walked out of the salon, wiggling your fingers in his face, and he'd taken your hand in his and examined each nail with the same careful attention he gave to everything and said, "Pretty. They suit you," and the casual sincerity of it had made your chest flip in a way that nine months of being together hadn't even begun to diminish.

After ramen, you'd strolled through the city park, the one with the duck pond and the willow trees and the cobblestone paths that wound through flower beds that were just starting to bloom, and there'd been a big, sprawling, unavoidable puddle right in the middle of the path, and you'd stopped and whined to Sunghoon that you didn't want your ballet flats to get wet, and he'd looked at you with that tiny, barely-there smile that passed for a grin on his famously stoic face, and he'd pressed a kiss to your forehead and then bent down and scooped you up with one arm, one arm, like you were a bag of groceries and not a grown adult woman, his bicep flexing against your thighs, the sheer strength of him so effortless and so absurd that you'd clung to his neck and laughed, and when he set you down on the other side he'd flexed on you, both arms, and said, "I'm so strong," with such deadpan sincerity that you'd laughed so hard you'd snorted, and he'd smiled, really smiled, the crinkly-eyed one that you lived for, and you'd grabbed his flexed arm and kissed his bicep and told him he was the strongest man alive and he'd said, "I know," and you'd walked home with your hand in his back pocket because you could, because he was yours and you were his and everything was exactly as it should be.

That was earlier. That was the good part.

Now, Sunghoon was face-down on your gigantic unicorn plushie, the one you kept by the couch because it was the size of a small car and served as both decor and emotional support, and he hadn't moved in ten minutes.

You'd noticed something was off the second you'd walked through the door, though you couldn't pinpoint exactly what. 

Sunghoon's expression was a masterpiece of neutrality, that stone-cold, impenetrable mask he wore like armor, the one that made strangers think he was aloof and made you think he was the most beautiful mystery you'd ever tried to solve. He'd been quiet on the walk home, quieter than usual, which was saying something because Sunghoon was a man of few words on his most talkative days, but this was a different kind of quiet, a weighted kind, like there was something pressing down on his chest that he couldn't name or wouldn't share.

He'd dropped the shopping bags by the door, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed face-first onto the unicorn without a word, and now he was just lying there, his long legs dangling off the edge, his face buried in the plush, his body completely still, and you watched him from the kitchen with a growing knot of concern in your stomach.

You walked over and crouched down beside him, your freshly done nails catching the lamplight as you reached out and combed your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, scratching gently at his scalp the way he liked. His hair was soft and slightly damp at the roots from the humidity outside, and you leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Hoon? Baby? What's wrong?"

Nothing. Not a word, not a grunt, not even a shift of his body to acknowledge that he'd heard you. Just that still, heavy silence that was so unlike him, because even at his most tired, even at his most withdrawn, Sunghoon always responded to your touch, always leaned into your hand, always gave you something.

"Sunghoon-ah," you tried again, softer now, your voice dropping into that honeyed, babying register that you only used with him, the one that made his ears go pink on the rare occasions he let himself be soft in return. "Awww, poor baby. It's okay. I'm right here. Tell me what's wrong, yeah? Let me make it better."

You carded your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, tracing the shell of his ear, the back of his neck, and you felt the tiniest shift, his shoulders releasing a fraction of their tension, his body turning a centimeter toward you, but still no words. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even close to crying, you could tell. He was just upset, in that quiet, internalized way he had of being upset, where something was wrong and he either couldn't articulate it or wouldn't, and the not-knowing was its own kind of agony because all you wanted was to fix it and you couldn't fix what you couldn't understand.

"My poor baby," you murmured, and you leaned down and kissed his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his jaw. "It's okay. You don't have to talk. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Awww, look at you, all sad and pouty on the unicorn. It's okay, baby, I've got you."

He shifted again, a small, subtle movement, his body orienting toward you just barely, like a flower turning toward warmth, and that tiny response was enough to tell you that he heard you, that he appreciated you, that whatever was weighing on him wasn't about you, it was about something else, something he was keeping locked behind those beautiful, guarded eyes of his.

An idea sparked in the back of your mind.

It was a ridiculous idea. It was a dramatic, over-the-top, absolutely unhinged idea, and it was exactly the kind of thing that would either make him laugh or make him forget whatever was bothering him entirely, and either outcome was acceptable to you at this rate.

"Hey," you said, and you smoothed his hair back one more time. "Wait here. Don't move. I'll be right back."

He didn't respond, not verbally, not with any visible reaction beyond a subtle shift of his body that might have been acknowledgement or might have been nothing, and you took it. 

You stood up quickly, your knees protesting the crouch, and you padded down the hallway toward your office — the room you used for your Mask Girl streams, the room that held your setup and your lighting and the closet that held every costume, every prop, every piece of carefully curated fantasy that you'd accumulated over your career.

You opened the closet and surveyed your inventory. Rows of costumes on hangers, organized by color and theme, each one a different persona, a different fantasy, a different way of becoming someone else for the camera. You sifted through them methodically — the nurse, the cat girl, the maid, the schoolgirl, the devil, the angel — until your fingers landed on something you hadn't worn yet, something you'd ordered months ago and never had occasion to use, something that was still in its garment bag with the tags attached.

A bunny girl cosplay.

Oh shit.

You unzipped the bag and let it fall to the floor, and the costume unfurled in front of you like a promise. It was stunning. It was obscene. It was exactly what you needed. The ears were tall and pointed, covered in soft black velvet with wire inside so they could be posed, attached to a headband that sat securely on your crown. The stockings were sheer black thigh-highs with a lace trim at the top and a seam running up the back. The gloves were elbow-length satin that matched the ears. And the body — the body was the main event.

It was a bodysuit shaped like a corset, boned and structured, in thin black fabric with lace overlay that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The breast area was tight, padded just enough to push your tits upward and together until they were practically spilling over the top, and the cut of it was so low that it bordered on illegal. The bottom half was high-cut on the hips, the kind of cut that made your legs look endless and your waist look impossibly small, and the whole thing fastened with a ribbon at the back that, when untied, would cause the entire structure to fall apart like a house of cards.

If this couldn't cheer Sunghoon up, you didn't know what would.

You dressed quickly, pulling the bodysuit on first and adjusting yourself within it, tucking and shifting and arranging until your cleavage looked like it had been sculpted by a renaissance artist with a very, very specific agenda. The stockings came next, rolling them up your legs with care, the lace sitting high on your thighs, the seam straight and precise. The gloves, satin-smooth against your skin. The ears, positioned just right on top of your head, one tilted slightly forward for that playful, coquettish look. 

You checked your makeup in the mirror, you'd had a full face on from earlier, and it was holding up fine, just needed a touch-up. More blush, a sharper wing on the eyeliner, a swipe of the deep red lip color that you knew for a fact made Sunghoon lose the ability to form coherent sentences. You fluffed your hair, adjusted the ears one more time, and looked at yourself in the full-length mirror.

Ooh la la. You looked good. You looked better than good, you looked like a fantasy, like a wet dream wearing bunny ears, and the sight of your own reflection was enough to make you feel the first flutter of confidence that this was going to work.

Before you left the room, you grabbed one more thing, a length of black silk cloth from your prop drawer, soft and supple and long enough to serve as a blindfold. You tucked it behind you, took a breath, and headed for the living room.

The air conditioning prickled at your bare skin as you walked down the hallway, raising goosebumps on your arms and the exposed tops of your breasts, and you shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the adrenaline of what you were about to do. 

When you rounded the corner into the living room, Sunghoon was still there, still face-down on the unicorn, his body in the same position you'd left him in, and a surge of tenderness so fierce it almost knocked you sideways washed over you at the sight of him, this beautiful, stubborn, infuriating man who wouldn't tell you what was wrong but who trusted you enough to stay exactly where you'd asked him to.

You crossed the room and crouched down beside him again, and this time when you touched his hair, you felt him lean into your hand, just barely, just enough.

"Hoon," you said, and your voice was soft and honeyed and full of the kind of warmth that was reserved exclusively for him. "Lift your head up for me. Just a little. And close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

He didn't look at you. He didn't turn around. He just obeyed, lifted his head just enough for you to access his face, and closed his eyes, and the simplicity of it, the immediate, unquestioning trust of it, made your heart squeeze so hard it almost hurt. 

You reached behind you and pulled the silk cloth free, and you wrapped it around his head and tied it carefully at the back, snug enough that he couldn't peek but loose enough that it didn't hurt, and the black silk stood out against his pale hair and his sharp features and you wanted to take a photo of him like this, blindfolded, trusting, and yours, but that would have to wait, unfortunately.

"Okay," you said, and you placed your hands on his shoulders and stood up, guiding him with you. "Stand up for me. Come on. Up."

He stood, and you led him by the hand to the couch, guiding him around the coffee table, and when the back of his knees hit the cushion you pressed gently on his chest and he sat, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders, the faint furrow between his brows beneath the blindfold, the way his hands gripped the edge of the cushion, he was surprised, caught off guard, not sure what to expect, and the uncertainty of it was almost endearing.

You climbed onto his lap. One knee on either side of his hips, your hands on his shoulders, your weight settling onto his thighs, and for the first time since you'd gotten home, he spoke.

"What are you doing, princess?"

His voice was low and rough and slightly muffled by the blindfold, and the word princess hit you like a jolt of electricity, the way it always did, because Sunghoon called you princess like it was a title he'd invented just for you, like you were royalty and he was your most devoted subject, and the roughness in it, the hint of curiosity beneath the exhaustion, gave you the opening you needed.

"Go see for yourself," you said, and you reached up and undid the blindfold with one hand, pulling the silk away from his eyes, and at the same time you shifted your hips forward on his lap, grinding down onto him in a slow, deliberate roll.

His eyes opened.

And you watched, in real time, as every thought in Sunghoon's head evaporated.

His gaze dropped to your chest first, because of course it did, your tits were right there, pushed up and out and practically begging for attention, the lace edge of the bodysuit cutting across the upper swell of your breasts in a way that made them look like they were about to escape entirely, and you weren't wearing a bra underneath, weren't wearing anything underneath, because the whole point of this was to leave as little between you and him as possible. 

Then his eyes traveled down, taking in the corset, the stockings, the gloves, the ears, and then back up to your face, to your red lips and your sharp eyeliner and the mischievous, knowing smile that you were wearing like a weapon, and his mouth opened and closed and opened again and no sound came out, and you had never felt more powerful in your entire life.

"What—" he started, and his voice cracked, actually cracked, and you felt the vibration of it in your thighs where they pressed against his.

"Shhh," you said, and you rolled your hips again, slower this time, a grinding motion that pressed your core against the growing hardness you could feel through his jeans. "I saw my baby was upset, and I couldn't figure out why, and you wouldn't tell me, and I thought—what's the one thing that always makes my Sunghoon feel better?" You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear, your breasts pressing against his chest, and the bunny ears tickled his cheek. "And then I thought—me. I make Sunghoon feel better. So here I am."

You ground down on him again, and this time you were shameless about it, rolling your hips in a slow, tight circle that dragged your clothed center against his length, and you could feel him hardening beneath you, could feel the heat of him even through the layers of fabric, and you made sure to be loud about it, a breathy, exaggerated moan right against his ear, followed by a smaller, more genuine one when the friction hit your clit just right, and the combination of performance and real pleasure made the sound so convincing that you felt his hands tighten on your hips.

"Awww, poor baby," you murmured, and you pressed your lips to his jaw and kissed a slow path to his ear while you kept grinding. "So stressed. So tense. Let me take care of you, yeah? Let me make it all better. You've been so good today—carried me over the puddle, paid for my nails, flexed those big arms for me—you deserve a reward, don't you, baby? Don't you think my baby deserves a reward?"

His hands came up to rest on your hips, and his grip was firm and warm and just this side of desperate, and you could feel the war happening inside him, the part that wanted to stay upset, to hold onto whatever was weighing him down, fighting against the part that wanted to let go, to sink into you, to let you take all of it away. You made the decision for him. You kissed him.

You kissed him like you were trying to drink him, like his mouth was the only source of water in a desert, and you rolled your hips at the same time, grinding down onto him with a deliberate, rhythmic pressure that left no room for anything else, and you were extra noisy about it, so noisy, so shameless, gasping and whimpering into his mouth, making sounds that were pure performance and pure need all tangled together, the kind of sounds you made on camera when you knew your audience was watching, except this audience was just one man and he was the only one who mattered.

"Mmmph—oh—" you gasped against his lips, and you ground down harder, the friction against your clit sending a spark of genuine pleasure through you, and you let the sound come out filthy and breathless and completely unhinged. "Goodness, Hoon, you feel so good already, and I've barely started—you're getting so hard for me, baby, I can feel you through your jeans—you're such a slut for me, you know that? One little grind and you're already this hard—"

He kissed you back. That was the turning point. His hands tightened on your hips and his mouth opened against yours and his tongue slid between your lips and he kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, and the sound he made was this low, broken, desperate thing that vibrated through his chest and into yours, told you that you'd won. Whatever wall he'd built around himself tonight, you were scaling it, and he was letting you.

You kept grinding, kept kissing, kept being noisy and slutty and shameless about it, rolling your hips with purpose now, pressing down onto the length of him, letting him feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of the bodysuit, and the sounds you were making were absolute filth, breathy moans and high-pitched whines and his name over and over like a prayer, like you couldn't help yourself, like riding him through his clothes was the most overwhelming sensation you'd ever experienced.

"Baby," he groaned against your mouth, and his voice was wrecked, barely holding together, and the sound of it sent a bolt of heat straight between your legs.

"Shh," you said again, and you pressed your forehead to his and smiled, soft and fond and so full of love it almost hurt. "Let me take care of my baby. Let me make you feel good. You're so pretty when you're stressed, you know that? All broody and quiet and I just want to climb you like a tree—wait, I already am climbing you—" you giggled against his lips and ground down particularly hard and his breath stuttered, "—I want you so bad it makes me stupid, Park Sunghoon, you and your stupid big arms and your stupid handsome face—"

Your hands went to the back of your bodysuit, where the ribbon was, and his eyes tracked the movement, dark and hungry and slightly dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. 

You held his gaze as you pulled the ribbon loose, and the bodysuit went slack around your torso, the structure collapsing, and you shrugged it off your shoulders and pulled your arms free of the gloves and the bodysuit peeled down your body and fell to your waist, and then it was off entirely, kicked to the floor, and you were sitting on his lap in nothing but the stockings and the ears because you hadn't been wearing panties underneath, hadn't even thought to, because the whole point of this was to leave as little between you and him as possible.

He stared at you. His eyes swept over your bare chest, your bare stomach, the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips and the wet, glistening evidence of how turned on you were, and his throat worked around a swallow that was almost audible.

"Baby," you said, and you leaned back slightly, putting yourself on display for him, and you brought your hands up to your breasts and cupped them, squeezing gently, your thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you watched his eyes go dark, so dark, like someone had pulled a shade over the warm brown and left nothing but heat behind. "You've been so stressed today. Let me help."

You touched yourself the way you would on stream, which was to say, not fully, not completely, just enough to tease, just enough to build the tension to an almost unbearable pitch. Your hands on your breasts, kneading, rolling your nipples between your fingers, and you let the sounds come easy, soft, breathy moans that you knew drove him insane, little gasps and whimpers that were only partially performance. One hand drifted down your stomach, down between your thighs, and you rubbed lazy circles at your clit and your head fell back and you moaned, long and low and shameless.

"Mmmgh, Sunghoon, baby," you whined, and you rubbed yourself slowly, obscenely, your wetness coating your fingers, the slick sound of it filling the quiet room. "You feel so good—fuck—how I wish that dick could be inside me right now. Been thinking about it all day. Every time you looked at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you picked me up with those stupid big arms—I just kept thinking about how bad I want you inside me—"

You leaned forward deliberately, pressing your chest close to his face, and you moaned into his hair, your lips brushing his temple, and you let the sound vibrate through you and into him. "God, you're such a slut for me, Park Sunghoon. My own personal slut. All mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this, nobody else gets to make you this hard, just me—and you love it, don't you? You love being a slut for me, baby?"

"Princess—" His voice was rough, almost pained, and his hands were on your hips again, gripping hard, and you could feel the restraint in him, the effort it was taking him to let you lead, to let you set the pace, and you loved it, you loved the way his fingers dug into your flesh like he was holding on by a thread, like one more tease would be the thing that snapped it.

"I love it," you said, answering your own question with a grin that was equal parts wicked and adoring. "I love that you're such a slut for me. I love that all I have to do is put on bunny ears and grind on you and you're already falling apart. I love that my favorite viewer is also my favorite person to ride—"

"Princess," he said again, and this time it was a warning, or maybe a plea, or maybe both tangled together into a single word that couldn't decide what it wanted to be.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his eyes were so dark they were almost black, his lips parted, his chest heaving, and the flush on his cheekbones was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. "Let's get you out of these," you said, and your hands went to the hem of his shirt.

You undressed him slowly, or as slowly as you could manage when your hands were shaking and your heart was hammering and every inch of skin you revealed made you want to skip ahead. 

His shirt first, pulled over his head and tossed somewhere behind you, and you ran your hands down his chest, his abs, the sharp cut of his V-line, tracing the defined muscles that he spent hours at the gym building, and you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his pectoral and murmured, "Gym rat. Look at you. All this for me? You're so hot it's actually annoying," and he huffed a laugh that was half breath and half disbelief. Then his jeans, unbuttoned and unzipped and pushed down his hips along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and thick and leaking at the tip, and you looked at it and then at him and then back at it and licked your lips.

"Oh, baby," you said, and you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock and squeezed, and his hips jerked up into your touch and a strangled sound escaped his throat. "Look at you. So hard for me. All this from a little grinding? And you call me the slut—you're dripping, Hoon, you're making a mess already and I've barely touched you—"

You weren't going to ride him. Not yet. You had other plans first.

You shifted off his lap and settled between his knees on the floor, the carpet soft beneath you, and you looked up at him through your lashes, the bunny ears still perched on your head, your lips red and swollen from kissing, your bare chest heaving, and the image you made was so pornographic that you half-wished your camera was running. But this wasn't for the camera. This was for him.

You leaned in and spat on his cock. A thick, deliberate string of saliva that landed on the head and dripped down the shaft, and you spread it with your hand, slicking him up, and the wet, obscene sound of your fist sliding along his length made you clench around nothing. You looked up at him and spat again, more this time, letting it drip from your lips onto him like you couldn't be bothered to swallow, and the sheer filth of it made his jaw go slack and his cock twitch in your hand.

"Oh, you like that?" you said, and you stroked him again, spreading the spit and precum, your grip firm and twisting. "You like when I'm messy? When I spill spit all over this big fucking cock? God, you're so big, Hoon—I never get used to it. Every time I see it I'm like, how does that fit inside me? And then it does and I lose my goddamn mind—"

You stroked him fast, your grip firm and twisting, your hand flying up and down his shaft while your thumb dragged across the sensitive ridge beneath the head on every upstroke, and his thighs were tensing and his abs were clenching and the sounds he was making were the most beautiful music you'd ever heard. 

Then you slowed. You slowed way down, and you leaned in and took just the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, licking into the slit, tasting the salty bead of precum there, and you sucked lightly, so lightly, and his hand flew to your hair and gripped.

"Fuck—" he breathed, and it was barely a word, more of an exhalation shaped like one, and you looked up at him through your lashes with his cock in your mouth and watched his eyes flutter and his head fall back against the couch, and the power of it, the sheer, intoxicating power of having Sunghoon at your mercy, made you moan around him, and the vibration of it made his hips buck.

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him feel the wet heat of your mouth inch by inch, and when you pulled back you did it slowly too, your lips tight around him, your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft, and you popped off the head with a sound that was deliberately, pornographically wet.

"Such a pretty cock," you murmured, and you stroked him again, fast and tight, your spit and his precum making everything slick and obscene. "My favorite cock. The only cock I ever want in my mouth ever again. You know that? I'd be happy just doing this forever, just sucking you off whenever you're stressed, keeping you warm and wet and happy—would you like that, baby? Want me to be your little stress relief? Your personal slut?"

"Princess—" His voice was wrecked, barely a voice at all, just friction and heat and need, and you could tell he was getting close, could feel it in the way his cock throbbed in your hand, in the way his thighs trembled, in the way his breathing turned ragged and shallow.

You pulled back. Not yet. Not like this.

"Enough," you said, and you climbed back onto his lap, settling over him, and you reached down and positioned the head of his cock at your entrance. "I need you inside me. I need to feel you. You've been patient, baby, you've been so good—let me reward you."

You sank down onto him slowly, torturously slowly, and the stretch of him was so much, so overwhelming, that your mouth fell open in a silent moan and your eyes squeezed shut and your nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents. 

He filled you completely, thick and hot and so deep that you could feel him everywhere, could feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in the tips of your fingers where they gripped his skin, and when you were fully seated on him, when he was buried to the hilt inside you, you both just stayed there for a moment, breathing, adjusting, feeling.

Then you started to move.

You rode him slowly. Nice and slow, the way you'd promised yourself, rolling your hips in a languid, grinding rhythm that let you feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein and the way he pulsed inside you when you clenched around him. His hands were on your waist, letting you set the pace, and his eyes were on your face, dark and burning and so full of want that it made your breath catch.

"Mmmgh," you moaned, and you rolled your hips harder, grinding down onto him, and the new angle meant his cock was dragging against that spot inside you with every movement, and your voice came out breathless and broken. "Daddy—you feel so good—so big and warm for me—I'd love to be filled up all night—just like this—keeping you inside me forever—"

You felt the shift in him the second the word left your mouth. His whole body went rigid, his fingers digging into your waist so hard, and his jaw clenched and his eyes went wide and then narrowed and something dark, hungry, and absolutely feral crossed his face, and you knew damn well that you'd just lit a fuse and you were about to find out what happened when it burned down.

"Daddy?" he repeated, and his voice was low, lower than you'd ever heard it, a rumble that you felt in your bones, and there was a dangerous edge to it, something predatory and barely controlled. "Say that again."

"Daddy," you said, and you rolled your hips and pushed your chest forward, your tits bouncing with the movement, right in front of his face, and you watched his eyes lock onto them like they were the only thing in the world. "You're literally daddy, Park Sunghoon. You pay for my nails, you carry me over puddles, you put me to bed after my streams—you're so daddy it's insane—you're the daddiest man I've ever met in my entire—mmmph—"

He took one of your nipples into his mouth and you forgot how to speak. 

His tongue was hot and wet and relentless against the sensitive bud, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and you cradled his head against your chest and rode him harder, faster, chasing the feeling, and the sounds you were making, wet, desperate moans and breathless repetitions of daddy and yes and please and more, and you could feel him getting close, could feel the tension coiling in his body, the way his thrusts were getting jerkier, more urgent, his cock pulsing inside you—

And you slowed down.

You slowed way down, nearly to a stop, just a slow, lazy grind that kept him right on the edge without pushing him over, and you looked down at him with half-lidded eyes and a smile that was equal parts love and wickedness, and you said, "Not yet, daddy. You gotta wait. You've been a bad baby, keeping secrets from me, not telling me what's wrong—bad babies don't get to come yet—"

Something in him snapped.

It happened so fast you didn't have time to process it. 

One moment you were on his lap, in control, setting the pace, and the next his arms were around you and he was standing, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct and your arms wrapped around his neck and you barely had time to register the movement before your back hit the glass door of your balcony, the cold surface shocking against your bare skin, and the city lights were spread out behind you through the glass, and you hadn't closed the curtains, and you didn't care, you couldn't care, because Sunghoon was spinning you around and pressing your front against the glass and his cock was inside you again, from behind this time, and the new angle was so deep, so impossibly deep, that the sound you made wasn't even a moan, it was something more primal, something torn from a place you didn't know existed.

He didn't start slow. He didn't ease into it. He rams into you with a force that makes the glass rattle in its frame, his hips slamming against your ass, his cock hitting so deep inside you that you can see galaxies, and one arm wraps around your throat, holding, just claiming, a headlock that pins you against him while he fucks you, and his other hand comes down hard on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that makes you gasp and clench around him, and then the hand is moving, sliding around to your front, finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, firm circles that have you seeing white.

"Daddy—" you gasp, and the word comes out broken and desperate and so far gone that you barely recognize your own voice. "Daddy, I'm—ah—daddy, please—harder—fuck—daddy, I love you—"

"Say it again," he growls against your ear, and his voice is so low and so rough and so utterly wrecked that it sends a shiver down your entire body, makes your walls clench around him so hard he groans. "Call me daddy again. Keep saying it. You wanted to tease me, princess? You wanted to edge me? Bad babies get fucked, you hear me? You don't get to tell me when I come—I come when I want—and I'm gonna come so deep inside you you'll feel me for days—"

"Daddy—oh god—daddy, you feel so good—you're so deep—daddy, I'm so close—"

"That's right, baby." His hand moves from your clit to your breast, grabbing it, kneading it roughly, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple, and the combination of him inside you and his hand on your tit and his arm around your throat and his breath hot against your ear is so overwhelming that you feel like you might shatter into a million pieces. 

"I'm your daddy. Say it louder. Let the whole building hear who you belong to. You're such a slut for me, aren't you? Putting on that little outfit, grinding on me, calling me daddy—you wanted this, didn't you? You wanted me to snap, wanted me to fuck you like this—"

"I did—I wanted it—daddy, please—I wanted you to fuck me like you hate me—I wanted—ah—I wanted you to ruin me—"

"Oh, I'm gonna ruin you alright. I'm gonna ruin you so good you won't remember what was upsetting you—wait, that's me—I won't remember what was upsetting me—fuck—" and he laughs, breathless and slightly unhinged, and the sound of it, the fact that he's laughing while he's balls-deep inside you and his hand is on your clit again and the city lights are glittering through the glass, it's so perfectly, absurdly, beautifully you-and-him that you feel the orgasm building like a tidal wave.

"Daddy—yes—right there—daddy, harder—I love you—I love you so much—fuck me harder, daddy, please—"

"I love you too, princess—fuck, I love you so much it makes me crazy—" His hips are snapping forward with a rhythm that's becoming erratic, desperate, his breath ragged against your ear, and his hand is working your clit faster now, harder, and you can feel yourself barreling toward the edge. "Come for me. Come on daddy's cock. Let me feel you."

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking, your walls clenching around him in pulsing waves, your body arching against the glass, his name and daddy and yes and please all spilling from your lips in a breathless, desperate litany, and you feel him follow you over the edge a moment later, his hips jerking against you, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes with a groan that's muffled against your shoulder where his teeth are pressing into your skin, not hard enough to break but hard enough to mark, hard enough to claim.

"Oh yes, baby, I'm your daddy," he groans against your shoulder, and his voice is strained and breathless and so full of filthy, desperate need that it makes your cunt clench around him in another aftershock. "Keep saying that and I'm gonna stuff you up with my cum until it's all you'll ever be able to feel for days. You want that? You want daddy to fill you up so good you'll be leaking me all week?"

But he's not done. Before you've even fully registered the words, he's pulling out of you and scooping you up into his arms, and you're too wrecked to do anything but wrap your arms around his neck and let him carry you, and he walks with purpose down the hallway to your bedroom, and he kicks the door open and deposits you onto the bed, and he looks at you with those dark, burning eyes and you know what he wants and you want it too, and you reach for him and pull him down onto the bed with you.

You push him onto his back and straddle him, and you can feel his cock, still half-hard, pressing against your entrance, and you sink down onto him again and start to ride, and this time you don't go slow, you go fast, so fast, so desperate, your hips bouncing on his cock at a pace that's almost violent, your hands planted on his chest, your tits bouncing with every movement, and the sound of it fills the room — skin slapping against skin, wet, and so, so good.

"Daddy," you gasp, and you're riding him so fast that you can barely catch your breath, can barely form words, but you force them out anyway because you know what they do to him, you know the power you hold when you call him that. "Daddy, come for me—come inside me—fill me up—I want it—I want all of it—come more, baby, fill me up—give me every drop—you're such a good slut for me, coming inside me like this—you love filling me up, don't you, daddy? You love stuffing me full—"

His hands grip your hips so hard you know there'll be fingerprints tomorrow, and his head is thrown back against the pillow and his jaw is clenched and his abs are trembling, and you can feel him getting close again, can feel the way his cock throbs inside you, the way his breathing turns to gasps, the way his hips jerk up to meet yours, and the fact that he's still half-hard and getting hard again and you're making him come twice in the span of ten minutes makes you feel like a god.

"Come," you command, and your voice is firm and breathless and absolutely certain, and that's all it takes. 

He comes with a broken groan of your name, his cock pulsing inside you, his cum spilling hot and thick, and you keep riding him through it, slowing only slightly, milking every last drop out of him, and you're babbling, encouraging him, praising him, "Yes, daddy, that's it, give me more, fill me up, so good, you're so good for me, such a good daddy, my good little slut—come more, baby, I want it all—"

When you finally stop, when you finally lift yourself off him, you can feel the mess — his cum and your slick dripping down your inner thighs, the evidence of everything you'd just done, and you crawl up his body and press a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet and so full of love that it makes your chest ache.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, oversensitive and messy with both of you, and you stroke him slowly, spreading the mixture of your arousal and his cum along his length, the slick, filthy sound of it filling the quiet room, and you look down at him with a smile that's equal parts tender and satisfied.

"Does my baby feel better now?"

He smiles. A real smile, not the barely-there quirk of his lips that most people got, but the full, genuine, slightly dopey smile that was yours and yours alone, the one that made his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunch and made you fall in love with him all over again every single time.

"I do," he says, and his voice is rough and wrecked and warm, and you're about to lean in and kiss him again when his hand moves.

His hand comes up between your thighs, and before you can react, before you can process what's happening, his fingers are sliding inside you, two of them, then three, stretching you open with a suddenness that makes you gasp against his mouth, and your eyes go wide and you pull back and stare at him and he's looking at you with that dark, hungry look again, the one that says he's not done with you yet, the one that says you started this and he's going to finish it, and the shock of it, the sheer audacity of Sunghoon shoving three fingers inside you when you thought you were done, makes a sound escape your throat that's somewhere between a gasp and a laugh and a moan.

"Sunghoon—what—I—you—"

"I won't be the only one who comes twice," he says, and his voice is rough and completely matter-of-fact, like he's stating the weather, like this is simply how things are going to be, and his fingers curl inside you and press against that spot and your brain short-circuits, your protest dissolving into a broken whine that you can't control.

He pulls you over him, positioning you so you're straddling his face, and his mouth finds your breast at the same time his fingers are fucking you, his tongue hot against your nipple, sucking and biting and licking while his three fingers stretch you open and curl and press and find that spot over and over and over, and everything is too much that your hands fist in his hair and you arch your back and you can't breathe, you can't think, you can't do anything except feel.

"Come for me," he says against your breast, and his voice vibrates through your nipple and straight down to your core, and the filth of it, the way his mouth is still on you and his fingers are still inside you and he's commanding you like it's totally normal, "Come for daddy."

"Daddy—please—faster—I'm coming—daddy, please, faster, I'm—"

You come so hard your vision whites out. Your walls clench around his fingers in pulsing waves, your entire body trembling, your voice breaking on his name, on daddy, on a sound that isn't even a word anymore, and he works you through it with the same steady, devastating rhythm, his fingers curling and pressing inside you while his mouth stays on your breast, and you can feel him smile against your skin when you clench around him, can feel the satisfaction radiating off him like heat, and he fingers you through it, through every aftershock, through every pulse, until you're pushing at his wrist and gasping from the overstimulation and your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up.

When it subsides, when the aftershocks have faded to small, trembling ripples, he gently lifts you off of him and lays you beside him on the pillow, and his fingers slide out of you slowly, and you whimper at the loss, and he brings his hand up to your face.

"Open," he says, and his voice is soft now, gentle, a command wrapped in tenderness, and you open your mouth without thinking, without questioning, because you're his and he's yours and this is what that means, and he slides his fingers inside, the ones that were just inside you, covered in your slick and his cum, and you suck them clean, your tongue swirling around each digit, tasting both of you on his skin, and his eyes are on your mouth and his expression is so raw and so full of something that looks like reverence and hunger and love all tangled together that it makes your chest hurt.

He pulls the blanket over both of you. The soft, heavy duvet that smells like your laundry detergent and his shampoo and home, and he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in close, your back to his chest, his breath warm and slow against the back of your neck, and the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal.

"That was amazing," he says, and his voice is muffled against your hair, sleepy and satisfied and so soft that you almost miss it.

"I'm sorry," he says after a moment, quieter now, the sleepiness giving way to something more vulnerable. "For not telling you. For shutting you out."

You turn in his arms, because you need to see his face, because you need him to know that whatever was bothering him earlier doesn't change anything, doesn't diminish what you have, doesn't make you love him even one fraction less. 

You're still too wrecked to form proper sentences, the sensation still running through you like electricity, making your muscles twitch and your breath catch and your skin tingle everywhere he touched you, but you manage a smile and whisper, "It's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay. You'll tell me when you're ready."

He looks at you for a long moment, and his eyes are clear now, no longer dull or guarded or shut off, and something in them shifts, softens, opens, and he pulls you in tighter by the waist and presses his forehead to yours, and you reach up and wipe the sweat from his forehead with your thumbs, gentle and so full of tenderness that it makes his breath catch.

And then he starts to talk. 

Slowly, hesitantly, the words coming out in fits and starts, like he's testing each one before releasing it, like he's not sure how to give shape to the thing that's been sitting heavy in his chest all day. You don't push. You don't ask questions. You just lie there in his arms, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb still brushing his temple, and you listen. You listen like you've always listened, with your whole body and your whole heart, and the words come, slowly at first and then faster, and the weight on his chest lifts piece by piece, and by the time he's done the room feels lighter and his arms feel tighter and his forehead is pressed to yours and he's saying, "Thank you. Thank you so, so much. For being patient with me. For—um, for all of this."

And you smile, because that's all you can literally do, smile and hold him and know that whatever it was, whatever it is, you'll face it together, the way you face everything — side by side, wall to wall, unit 109 and unit 110, close enough to touch, and way too in love to leave.

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . touch by cigarettes after sex

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

There's something about the soft lilt of your voice that makes him feel ashamed to even speak in your presence. There's something about your enticing eyes that makes him stutter and stumble with his own words, his grammar-police persona flying out the window. There's something about the sure sway of your hips that makes him want to avert his gaze and look more all the same time; like something sinful he shouldn't want but crave for anyway.

You're the kind of woman that makes Sim Jaeyun nervous.

Park Jongseong's cousin from the States that always comes to visit for summer, with that bold show of your body that'll usually often get frowned upon in his neighbourhood, that honey tint of your skin that's far from the local society's beauty standard. You're upfront and so unapologetically you, something he admires and makes him overly conscious if his hair looks nice or not.

It's another summer and you're here again. You're always a welcome addition to their annual trip to Jay's beach house, a road trip that's usually joined by the other five plus you and him. But this year, Nishimura Riki had a last minute decision to cancel his flight to Japan and opted to spend the summer with them instead of with his family.

Which leaves all of you with no space for one person inside Jay's SUV.

"I call dibs on the rear seats," Heeseung says before anyone gets the chance to and disappears into the car. Riki opens his mouth, about to follow the eldest of the group, when Jungwon shoots him a sharp look and blocks his way with his hand.

"No, Riki. You're not getting a seat."

Riki's face morphs into horror. "What?! Am I excluded from this trip?"

"You cancelled your flight this morning. You were never included in the trip."

Seeing the look of hurt on his face, Sunoo actually takes pity on Riki. Peering inside, the blonde mumbles with a pout when he sees a small ice box sitting beside Heeseung. "Surely we can squeeze him into the rear seat, right…?"

"All of his six-feet-one ass? I'd like to see you try, Sunoo hyung." Jungwon shakes his head. He leans on the passenger door, already the assigned co-pilot of the car, in charge of Spotify playlist and Waze and moral support to his Jay hyung. "Either one of you sits in another's lap, or we can Uber Riki to the beach house."

Hearing that, Riki immediately throws his hands. "It's a two-hour drive, hyung, I might just be paying for the Uber's car loan! It's gonna be so expensive!"

"If you can afford cancelling your flight with no refunds, then I think you can afford an Uber to Sokcho."

Riki whips his head to his Sunoo and Jake hyung, jutting out his lips in a pout that's borderline pitiful. Jake mirrors his expression, not really having the power to go against Jungwon's verdict—as if anybody could. Jake pities him, really, but it's Yang Jungwon. There's a whole menace behind those cute dimples and boba eyes.

Beside him, Sunghoon lets out a long sigh. "Then one of us will have to sit in another's lap."

It's an option that has everybody darting their eyes around, afraid that any eye contact with Jungwon will make them become the sacrificial thighs for the two-hour road trip. They're all men packed with mass and muscles, a result of a gym routine that unexpectedly becomes a problem today. Each of them at least weighs one hundred-forty pounds. Jake's sure that if he was chosen, he'd lose his legs by the time they exit Seoul.

Just in time, a loud thud is heard from the car boot. You and Jay walk into the scene, just having finished loading all of their stuff into the car. Jake adjusts his glasses instinctively, unknowingly fixing his appearence when his eyes land on you.

You've abandoned your cardigan, now only wearing a yellow camisole top that only reaches your belly button and a pair of jeans shorts that ends at the bottom swell of your ass. Your outfit choice hides nothing about your figure—your perfect body that admittedly has always been on his mind.

Jake gulps and lets his eyes trail down to your legs. You're seriously one of the most beautiful and hottest girls he's ever seen, and unfortunately, he has a severe problem of having a crush on baddies who are completely out of his nerdy league. You're definitely one of them.

When he looks up, Jake almost faints when your gaze catches his eyes with an unreadable expression. He quickly averts his eyes, adjusting the thick black rims of his glasses that didn't need adjusting.

Did you notice him staring?

"Car seat problem?" Jay asks when he senses the tension among the boys, already foreseeing this issue the moment Riki told him that he was joining their road trip over the phone this morning. They hesitantly nod.

"So what's the solution?"

"Riki takes an Uber to Sokcho—"

"Which will cost him his tuition fees," Jay comments, ever the hyperbole-user.

"—Or someone has to sit in another's lap."

Judging from the expression on Jay's face, he, too, doesn't think it's a comfortable position to be sitting in on a two-hour road trip.

But apparently, someone thinks otherwise.

"Oh, then let's do that!" You pipe in, flashing them with your charming smile. "I don't mind doing it!"

There's an elephant silence that follows your statement. Upon seeing their gaped expression, your smile slowly dies down, unsure if you had said the right thing.

"…Or not."

"Or yes!" Riki interrupts, relief flooding his senses. His eyes lit up as he looks around at each one of his friends. "Guys, she's offered to sit in anyone's lap. We can do that, right?"

Jungwon narrows his eyes. "It's a two-hour drive."

Riki blinks nervously. "But noona wants it."

"Then let Y/N noona sit in your lap."

Now, there's a rosy blush blooming across Riki's cheeks. Jake frowns. Lucky bastard. "I-I mean—"

"Not him," you cut in, a small smile playing on your lips. Jake can feel the exact moment everyone holds their breath, as if the air pauses on its own accord and waits for the rest of your sentence. Either they're anticipating or dreading to be your exclusive seat in the car—he's not sure. He's certain that he's the former, but he's also certain you'd pick someone more your type—Sunghoon or Riki, who are loyal gym buddies that possess strong thighs for you to sit on—or even Heeseung who's abandoned his nap and is eavesdropping the conversation now.

He doesn't know why, but surely someone hot like you would pick someone just as hot, right? And hot in Sim Jaeyun's definition is someone who matches your confidence (not him), someone who has a good body and is not shy to show them (Jake thinks his body is nice, but he's also always wearing long-sleeves), or just anyone but him.

Jay pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then who?"

When your eyes meet Jake's, the brown-haired boy almost loses his breath.

A smile curves up your lips. Jake thinks he's hallucinating because there's no way you are smirking at him.

"With Jaeyun."

There's a ripple of gasps, disbelief and shock mixing with a hint of betrayal (no doubt from Riki). Jay's brow disappears behind his hair.

"Seriously, Y/N? You don't have to—Riki's rich enough to pay for the Uber."

Riki's protest is muffled when Jungwon pulls him into a chokehold and slaps a hand over his mouth. Jake wants to pity him, really, but this time he thinks he's the one who needs help because what do you mean? There's no way—

"I'm serious. Jaeyun-ah."

—Oh my fucking God. Jaeyun. Jaeyun. Who's Jaeyun? Who the fuck is Jaeyun?

Jake has a trouble hearing you over the loud roar of his blood, heart threatening to jump out of his throat. But he manages a small, airy, 'Hm?' when all eyes are on him.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes never letting go of his, holding him hostage in your gaze alone. This, paired with the way you call his government name—a name you prefer over Jake because 'it's cuter' (according to you, not him) when he first introduced himself to you four years ago, and Jake had let you because he could never say no to you—are the most perfect, never-before-seen formula to unravel the physics genius Sim Jaeyun.

Yeah. Jake is a goner. And will soon have a boner if no one stops you from picking him as today's sacrificial thighs.

"Can I sit with you, Jaeyunnie?"

Someone please say no. Someone please stop you. Someone please tell this Jaeyun to say no because—because why him? Is this some kind of a cliché ploy that popular girls do to play with men's feelings, especially a physics nerd like him? Because if it is, Jake hates to admit that he'd be a willing participant (even if it'd break his heart a little).

"Yes, sure," he squeaks, finally recognising that Jaeyun is his name. He's still trying to process that you chose him—not Sunghoon with his ridiculous broad shoulders, or Riki with his ridiculous long legs, or Heeseung with his ridiculous charm—but him, who's sweating buckets and dampening his armpits underneath his long-sleeved T-shirt. His glasses almost glide down his nose from how sticky it is.

"It's settled, then!" Sunoo claps once, already red and irritated from having to stand under the unforgiving sun for longer than necessary. "Jake hyung and Y/N will sit together. So I will be sitting with—"

"Me!"

"Me!"

Sunoo ignores Sunghoon and Riki, and walks straight to the rear seats. "With Heeseung hyung!"

Soon, there's shuffling and then everyone's already inside the car. Riki sits in the middle with a pout, a penalty for causing the minor disruption and losing rock-paper-scissors to Sunghoon and Jake. Sunghoon is happily humming to a song from the 80s, occassionally turning around to tease Sunoo who's been trying to join Heeseung in his mandatory road-trip nap. Jay and Jungwon have settled into their designated seats as the drivers of the day, already talking about the route they're taking and traffic condition. While Jake—well, he's preparing himself for the inevitable.

You're still standing by the door, overseeing the situation at hand, and Jake tries to ignore the way his cheeks burn under your weighted gaze.

"Can I sit now?" You softly ask. Jake hesitates a moment before nodding his head frantically.

"Y-Yes."

You, on the other hand, do not hesitate at all. Jake instinctively spreads his legs when you climb into the car, already aiming his lap as your throne for the next 120-minute of the ride. His senses heighten, overly aware of his friends' eyes watching his every move, and the soft scent of peach from your body wash that invades his nose when your weight finally settles on him.

In a split second, Jake goes from never daring to touch you to having you resting your ass comfortably on his clothed dick, thanks to a certain Japanese who's now queueing songs like he didn't just commit a fatal crime against his Aussie hyung.

His slightly longer thighs bracket your exposed ones in a hesitant cage, every point of your skin meeting his seems to burn through the fabric of his jeans. Your hair and neck are one breath away from his nose now, where he's inhaling lungfuls of peaches and creams and your vanilla-ish perfume, and Jake chooses to blink at the ceiling to avoid looking over your shoulders and possibly flashing himself with the swell of your chest under that thin camisole top. The already-cramped space feels even smaller, and Jake doesn't think he can breathe properly.

While at it, Jake hopes his prayers could break through the car roof and reach the heavens.

God, please have mercy on me and let my other head not have a brain of its own.

God answers him shortly in the form of you shifting around.

"You comfortable?" You ask innocently, adjusting yourself on his lap. Jake nearly inhales his tongue, feeling blood rush to his ears and south. A strangled noise escapes his throat instead.

"Mhm."

From the front, he can hear a snort coming from none other than Jay. "You sound constipated, dude."

'Try having a pretty girl sit on your dick then!', is what Jake wishes he could say to his friend, but he knows that this is more of a him-problem. Someone like Jay won't get flustered in this kind of situation—at least not as bad as he is, who doesn't even fucking know where to put his hands, hovering in the air like he's about to conduct a choral speaking.

So, Jake resorts to conveying his rage through the rearview mirror instead, hoping that his glare and frown are enough to make Jay feel bad. (They don't, Jay finds him cute instead).

Jungwon comes to save the day as he turns to the backseat. "Do you have everything with you?" All of them except Jake hum. He thinks he doesn't have his sanity anymore, but of course the younger boy pretends to ignore him.

Jungwon eyes each one of his friends, his gaze stopping longer at the sight of Jake gripping the leather seat, the white of his knuckles almost matching his face, and you smiling innocently at him. Jungwon badly wants to laugh.

Jake widens his eyes at Jungwon. Help me!

The younger boy gives him an indecipherable look before turning to face the front. "Alright. We're not turning back for you even if you forgot your PlayStation."

Jake wants to say that they might want to leave a certain Sim Jaeyun to save him from this misery, but all words are gone from his mind when the car starts forward with a sharp jolt. Your back meets his chest in a soft thud, punching air out of his lungs. Your ass pushes deeper into his lap and Jake nearly pierces the leather with his nails from how desperately hard he's gripping it.

"Oops, sorry!" Jay chimes from the driver seat, sounding far from sorry.

You straighten up and turn around, looking more sorry than your cousin. "You okay? Sorry about that, Jaeyunnie."

Oh, fuck. Please don't use that voice on him when he's one bump away from kissing your lips. You're so close it feels like you're breathing in the same air he exhales, so close he can see the faint, tiny freckles dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose.

"Yeah," he manages, voice hoarse like he's just swallowed a bucket of sand. "I'm okay."

There's a halt in your movement, like you're actually seeing him through the calm façade he's exuding. His breath catches when your eyes drop to his lips briefly, the bitten-red skin tingles under your heated gaze.

Then, after a moment, you smile at him so easily; as if the tension never existed, as if the pull was only one-sided.

"If you say so."

When he's met with your shiny hair again, Jake lets out a breath he unknowlingly held. Your voice fills up the space softly as you begin talking to Jungwon and Jay, all cheery and unrestrained while he's exerting mental training equivalent to physical labour of a building constructor to stop his dick from hardening every time you move.

He hears a snicker from his left and immediately meets with Riki's mischievous eyes. The younger boy mouths something that has Jake closing his eyes and leaning on the headrest in defeat.

'Don't get horny now, Jake hyung.'

Jake is worried that if it's not now, it'll be the next time Jay hits a bump.

Instead of a road bump, Jake's personal enemy turns out to be you.

Ten minutes in, everything is still going fine. Jake is still breathing, alive, and hasn't popped a boner that could traumatise you and get him banned from the car permanently. You also seem okay, still engrossed in a conversation with the cat-duo driving the car, talking about college and your winter trip to Japan.

For a moment, Jake selfishly thinks if his lap was that…sitable, seeing as you haven't shown any signs of discomfort yet. Or, to be fair, it has been barely ten minutes since they're en route, and though those minutes are enough to pull the others into a car nap, ten minutes feel like one round of orbit around the Sun when he has you sitting on his lap.

Jake can feel himself melt into the seat. Maybe this isn't so bad at all. Maybe he can make it to Sokcho without having to cut his dick off before anyone could see his hard-on. He just has to sit really quietly and will his mind to avoid teetering dangerous territory.

Yeap. Everything is fine.

Not until you decide to put your hands on his thighs.

Jake almost jolts at the contact, flexing his thighs instinctively when you place your perfectly manicured fingers on the surface of his jeans. It's a brief touch, one that can pass as accidental, but the lingering heat it leaves behind feels almost physical.

His eyes dart to the back of your head, trembling with nerves nearly frayed at the edges, gauging your reaction, and bites the bottom of his lips when you resume your conversation as if nothing happened. Or nothing really happened to you.

It's just a touch, for God's sake. Calm your dick down.

If a simple touch from you could unravel him this fast, what about other things? What if you hug him, or-or if you hold his hand, or—wait, is he wishing for other things to happen between you and him? (He does, but he knows that it won't happen.)

Jake gulps harshly and decides to enjoy the scenery instead. He stares hard out the window, so intense like he's memorising every species of the trees they pass by, mind lost in a whirlwind of horny thoughts clashing with rationality, when you do something again.

This time, it isn't an innocent touch on his thigh. It's an innocent move to hear Jungwon better. You lean forward, pushing your ass deeper into his lap simultaneously, offering your ear to Jungwon who seems to be sharing a secret about Jay. Jake's breath hitches and his hands almost come up to hold your waist, the friction sending heat through his body.

Fuck. He peels his eyes away from the window forcefully and follows down the dip of your spine to where your ass meets his crotch. Your position highlights the narrow of your waist and the width of your hips, all sinful curves that have him swallowing harder, something inside his pants threatening to stir alive. Jake closes his eyes.

Think of Jesus, Jake. Think of Layla. He absentmindedly fixes his glasses. Think of quantum physics. Think of—

"—Oh!" You squirm excitedly, round butt wiggling slightly against his cock. "Yes, I met her before!"

Jake hisses before he can stop himself, the sound serving like a knife cutting the conversation. You and Jungwon instantly turn to look at him, the latter wearing a mischievous expression when he sees the heat painting Jake's face red.

"Are you okay?" You prompt in concern, noticing how stiffly Jake is nodding at you.

"Y-Yeah. Good. I'm horgoony."

Freudian slip is gonna be the death of him.

Jay and Jungwon burst out laughing, catching the slip as fast as any dirty-minded man would. Jake's face turns a darker shade of red, avoiding your eyes whose brows now pinching in confusion.

"Horgoony?" You echo, pretty confident you have never heard of that strange word spoken before. Jake immediately shakes his head, panic creeping into his chest when Jungwon shows a sign of opening his mouth.

No! Do not let that orange cat speak! Jungwon only cares about his downfall!

"I feel horribly good! Yeah," Jake stammers, to hell with any logical reasoning. "Like, I feel good because we're on a road trip. But also kind of horrible because I get motion sickness sometimes."

Now that the string of the sentences has flowed out of his mouth, Jake thinks he is kind of making sense. Satisfaction blooms in his chest when you nod in understanding, because two conflicting emotions—feeling good and horrible—can exist simultaneously, right? Like the way he wants to push you from his lap and hide in the deepest part of the Sokcho forest forever but also craves to just grab your hips and pull you close and have his way with you—wait stop.

What a horrible, horny, nothing-good man you are, Sim Jaeyun.

"That does sound horrible." Jake snaps out of his thoughts when he registers your voice, nodding fervently to amplify the faux pity that he's just orchestrated.

You give him a sorry look, the one where it pulls the corners of your mouth down into a frown. Jake sighs in relief. You bought it. Thank God for his smart brain.

"Yeah. I think I'm just gonna take a nap," he adds, voice turning softer when you still look at him in concern. He feels a strange need to overexplain.

"Motion sickness happens because your eyes see one thing while your inner ears and muscles feel another. If I take a nap, it'll eliminate the visual stimuli that causes the conflict…" Jake trails off, catching himself before he could go on and on and on on why humans experience motion sickness, and possibly bore you to death. He shakes his head imperceptibly. "So—yeah. I should take a nap."

To his surprise, you only give him a warm smile. "I never knew that, Jaeyun. Then what's the correlation between motion sickness and playing your phone in a moving vehicle?"

Jake blinks behind his glasses, genuinely taken aback that you're actually listening instead of zoning out halfway through his rambling.

"Oh. Um." He clears his throat. "It's kind of the same concept. Your eyes are focused on something stationary—your phone—but your body still feels the movement of the car."

You hum softly, leaning back against him slightly, prompting him to continue. Jake immediately forgets how lungs work.

"S-So your brain gets confused because the signals don't match," he continues weakly. "Your eyes tell your brain you're sitting still, but your inner ears are like, 'No, we're moving.' It's like mixed signals, and our body doesn't like mixed signals."

His ears are warming up from how true the words are to the situation he's having with you.

"And right now you're seeing my stationary body while the car's moving," you continue with a subtle tilt of your mouth, "so you're nauseous and all dizzy now, right?"

Jake almost chokes to death. Did you know about his little problem? He blinks at you rapidly, hand itching to touch his glasses in a fit of nerves.

Oh my God. He's going to die. He's going to die and Jungwon will write 'Sim Jaeyun was a smart friend, died a horny man with a dick that never went down, a standing ovation to his contribution to Seoul National University' as his headstone epitaph. You know about it so Jake is going to die!

He stumbles with his own words. "I-I mean—It's actually—"

You give him a cheeky smile. "I'm just joking with you, Jaeyun. You're probably sick because you're having me on your lap like this."

You start digging into your front pocket, frowning when it's empty. Jake holds his breath when your hands move to your back pocket, looking for whatever it is that gets you so determined and his dick so excited whenever your finger brushes against his crotch. Jake is almost blue from not breathing.

He thinks this time he's really going to die.

"Found it!"

You offer your palm to him, where two mint candies sit idly on the soft surface. Jake's chest slowly feels lighter as air rushes in, no longer collapsing under the pressure of your searching hand accidentally brushing against him moments ago. He clears his throat.

You beam at him. "These will soothe your sickness, Jaeyunnie. Please take them."

Jake studies your face.

Do you know what you're doing to him? Was everything done on purpose, or are you really oblivious to everything?

He swallows and forces a nod, taking the candies from your palm, feeling a spark of electricity in his system when his fingers brush your skin.

"Thank you, Y/N."

You turn your back on him, resuming your conversation with Jungwon and Jay. All sweet and cotton candy, unaware of the turmoil he's going through. Jake stares at the candies in his hand, a mocking sign to his misery, and heaves out a quiet sigh. He glances at his wristwatch.

It feels like two world wars had happened but it's only been twenty minutes into the drive. An hour and forty minutes of horny torture remains for Sim Jaeyun to endure, and he's not sure if he's going to survive.

He slowly closes his eyes. Maybe sleep can help with horniness, too.

It does, but only for a moment, because Jake could swear he just blinked when you tap his shoulder a few times.

Jake blinks, half-groggy and half-alert. Did he have a wet dream of you and get hard in his unconsciousness? Is that why you woke him up?

But he's met with your apologetic face instead. "I'm sorry for waking you up," you whisper, trying not to wake other boys who are fast asleep. "But my back's sore. Can I lean on you for a moment?"

In a flash, all incoherent thoughts fly out the window. Guilt starts lodging in his chest as he realises—glancing at his watch—that you've been sitting straight for one hour. Before he knows it, Jake is already nodding at you, adjusting his seat to accommodate the new position.

"Y-Yes, you can."

God, he's such a loser. The word 'no' seems to disappear from his dictionary whenever you're around.

You reward him with an appreciative smile and waste no time to turn around and lean back softly on him. The moment your back touches his chest, Jake can feel his system kick start, a chemical reaction that he can never understand no matter how hard he studies Biology.

You physically relax into his chest. "This is so much better," you sigh, a dreamy smile on your face, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Then you tilt your head upwards to glance at him. "Is this okay for you?"

Jake hopes you can't feel how fast his heart is beating through the fabric of his shirt. The brown-haired boy nods wordlessly. "More than okay."

For a moment, you just stare at him, brilliant eyes holding his in a soft gaze. It's a silent minute full of everything unspoken, rendering him speechless and even more restless because no matter how smart he is, he could never decipher the meaning behind this look you're giving him. There's something you hide that he feels like he should know, like an open secret waiting for the right time for him to catch.

This time, Jake is even sure that you can hear his heartbeat.

Then, as if that moment never happened, you close your eyes and get comfortable.

"We should sleep, Jaeyun. Don't want you to get carsick again."

You nuzzle closer and Jake holds his breath, feeling the silky strands of your hair brushing against his jaw. His hands hover, not knowing where to land, though the pinch of your waist is where he wants to hold the most. Eventually, Jake settles on his thighs, watching the difference between his veiny hands and the smooth span of your thighs.

Is he still sleeping? Is he dreaming or are you really sleeping on his chest?

It seems that sitting in his lap really tired you out, because you're fast asleep in less than five minutes. The guilt in his chest amplifies at the sight of your closed eyes, breathing evening out as sleep overtakes your being. Jake bites his lips.

He's so shameless, napping to avoid getting turned on instead of caring for your being. He’s so horrible, worrying more about his hard-on than the fact that you’ve been uncomfortable for an hour. Jake wants to cry so bad.

Jake spends the rest of the ride watching you sleep. He fixes your hair when it falls over your face, tucking it behind your ear carefully, and then smiles to himself when he sees your pout. He blocks the sunlight with his hand when it's glaring on your skin through the window, not minding letting his hand redden from the harsh light. He instinctively holds your waist at a sharp turn, firm and secure, though he lets go just as fast as if it burns, afraid that it's not a touch you'd receive had you been conscious.

Other than the carnal desire he has suppressed for you, this road trip also makes him realise the depth of the feelings he actually harbours for you. He's so doomed. He's so doomed because in what universe would a hot, sweet, popular California girl like yourself, return back the feelings of a bland, studious, quiet Korean-Aussie boy like him?

In fictions. In another lifetime. But not in Sim Jaeyun's current universe right now.

However, the Sim Jaeyun in this universe also will never know peace.

Because just as he's getting comfortable with the you-watching routine that he just recently discovered, the road has another plan for him when Jay finally, and actually, hits a bump this time.

The first bump is a mild surprise. Jake gathers it's a small bump, one that Jay overlooks while getting excited over Bon Jovi playing on the rodeo. But the aftermath brings you settling deeper into him, pressing on him in a way that has his breath hitching. Jake holds your waist on instinct.

"Oh my God, I didn't see that," Jay mutters from the front.

Jake tries to steady his breath. That's…a shock. One that shatters the soft atmosphere he created while watching you, now replaced with the same tension he's been fighting the last hour.

Jake lets go of your waist when he assumes that it's just a one-time thing. But then the bump happens again, and instead of a solid, big one—it's shaky, like they're sliding through endless, tiny jagged rocks.

"Damn bro, this road needs fixing," Jay makes another commentary. He glances at the rearview mirror. "You good, Jake?"

Jake doesn't know what to answer. "I think I am," he mumbles, voice clipped.

Is it good that you're practically bouncing in his lap, adding more pressure with almost no interval for him to recover mentally? He thinks not. But Jay doesn't have to know that.

"We're almost there," Jungwon chimes in, navigating the map. There's a shakiness in his voice that comes from the vibration caused by the bumps. "Fifteen minutes at most. We found a shorter route just now and traffic was smooth."

Fifteen minutes.

Jake thinks he might actually die in fifteen minutes.

Another bump sends your body rocking against him softly, your sleeping face scrunching for a brief second before relaxing. His grip tightens.

Fuck.

If Jay doesn't stop the car and fix this damn road himself then he's definitely going to pop a boner soon.

Jake squeezes his eyes shut when another bump rattles through the car, and then again, and again, and again until Jake can barely separate one sensation from another anymore. Until he doesn't know where he starts and where you end anymore. You shift unconsciously, settling heavier against his chest before Jay hits another bump.

This time, Jake makes a mistake of looking down at you.

He didn't notice it before, too lost in his sappy, romantic feelings for you. But right now, it's actually so damn obvious that the angle from where he sits taller than you and you lean against him, he can easily see your cleavage past the neckline of your camisole.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The road doesn't stop shaking beneath the tires, and so does his pulse as he watches your breasts bounce with every bump that comes their way. Jake averts his eyes, so stiff and so strained, but can't help letting his gaze drift back to watch the soft mounds shake.

This is bad. This is very, very bad, and Jake is nothing but a bad fucking pervert.

A particularly rough patch of road sends the entire car jolting. Your body bounces against him harder this time, more pressure and more friction that Jake almost whimpers. He tips his head back, gulping harshly as the line of his long neck glistens with a sheen of sweat.

Inside his jeans, he can feel his cock kick.

Oh, fuck—he's definitely hard now.

Oh my fucking God.

"This is the last one, promise!"

Jake doesn't even register Jay's words, or the way your head hits his jaw from impact, because his internal system is flooded with horny-filled panic. He can feel it: his dick twitching and getting semi-hard from the continuous stimulation from your bouncing. He doesn't even realise that he's now clawing at his own thighs, seeking strength that could neutralise his blooming lust, or that you are finally awake.

"Are we almost there?" You ask groggily, blissfully unaware of the raging boner forming under your ass. You sit up when the coastal view greets your blurry vision, mouth gaping in awe.

"Oh, wow!" You gasp, always excited to visit Sokcho no matter how many times you've been there. "It's beautiful as always!"

The road is smooth now, but Jake's final torture arrives in the form of you bouncing, excitedly and consciously, in his lap. You wiggle in enthusiasm, urging Jungwon to pass your phone that's been charging at the front to take some pictures and send it to the family groupchat.

"Jungwon, Jaeyun, look at those seagulls!"

Jake is seeing no seagulls. He's only seeing white hot, painful pleasure as you move in his lap, his brain dissolving into useless static. His fingers twitch, itching to grab your waist and force you to stay still, but you're so excited that he almost didn't have the heart to do it.

"Did you see that?" You lean to the window, and then shift happily when you spot kites in the sky. "We should do that too! Hey, Jay, do you think you can—"

Jake finally has had enough.

The restraint that he's been holding onto finally breaks like a taut wire getting cut. His hands snap to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, hips almost bucking up from the delicious friction alone. His lips drop to the shell of your ears, hot, ragged breath brushing the sensitive skin as his voice lowers an octave.

"Y/N," Jake licks his dry lips, the tip of his tongue peeking through. He watches with dark eyes as the hair on your neck stands straight under his unforgiving proximity.

"Stop fucking moving."

And that's the moment you feel it.

A bulge, hard and rigid and big, poking your ass from where you rest in his lap.

Oh my fucking God.

Sim Jaeyun is hard.

You freeze, breath hitching.

Neither of you dare to move. Not even your excitement of being back to your uncle's beach house, or Jay's questioning look from where you cut your sentence, can bring you to move. No.

You couldn't, not when Jake's hard dick is nudging at you right now, so tangible and unmistakably his.

The brown-haired boy is still panting in your ear, shooting tingles through your system. His grip on your waist is almost bruising, like he's trying very, very hard to hold back from overstepping lines that shouldn't be overstepped.

You hadn't meant for this to happen. Sure, Jake is fun to tease. That boy is all broken words and nervous glances whenever you're in his proximity, and it can't be helped when he blushes prettily too.

You just can't stop yourself from seeking his attention in your own way, because aside from being a pretty boy, Jake is also such a sweetheart and so, so smart. And in an age where intellligence is a scarcity, you absolutely adore smart guys.

Especially the one who isn't condescending and is actually eager to help people like him.

So, really—you hadn't meant for this to happen. Offering to become the one without a seat is a decision you made when you consider yourself to be lighter than most of the guys, but offering to sit in Jake's lap is definitely a decision born from personal bias. You kind of knew what it would cause—seeing how stiff and awkward Jake had been—but you let it go halfway through when the soreness in your back outweighs your desire to tease.

Which has now brought you to this situation.

The car's still moving like nothing happened, and the boys are slowly stirring to life one by one. Everything is normal, except for the nails digging into your waist and the deep timbre in your ear.

You swallow harshly, not daring to move. Jake is so close, so close that you can feel every movement of his chest. You sit still in his hold, trying not to wince from how hard he's gripping your hips, and how hot you find the situation is.

His dick, despite no movement is being made, only hardens further. Jake gasps almost imperceptibly, almost matching the way your breath leaves your mouth when you notice, again, just how big he is.

Fuck. Fuck, that's so hot. Sim Jaeyun is so hot and you can feel yourself slowly getting turned on.

Without any warning, as if driven by an invisible force that urges to look at him, you finally turn around.

And Jake looks absolutely wrecked.

Beads of sweat dot on his forehead, the furrow of his eyebrows showing restraint and constraint. His lips are red from how hard he's biting them, and his previously clean, smooth glasses are now fogged up and hazy. His eyes, glazed over with tamed lust, lock into yours, half-lidded and dark.

A breath catches in your throat.

This is not the Jaeyun you know.

Or, more accurately, this is not the Jaeyun he usually shows.

This is another side of him, like seeing Jake wearing short-sleeves and showing his arms for the first time. Gone are his round, puppy eyes, now replaced with this narrowed, slit gaze that makes you shiver under his heated stare. He used to be so nervous around you, and you can feel that he's nervous now, too, but his pent-up sexual frustration seems to outweigh any rational daily-Jake thoughts.

This is still Sim Jaeyun. Just a different, never-before-seen side of Sim Jaeyun.

"Are we finally there?" Riki, the last one to awaken, stretches beside the two of you. You don't even notice that the car has pulled up into the driveway of Jay's ridiculously huge beach house from how piercing Jake's gaze is holding your eyes captive now.

Jake bites his lips, the fog in his head slowly clearing up now that the car has stopped. As if snapping out of a daze, he quickly maneuvers you into Riki's lap instead, showcasing his strength that he often hides. The latter yelps at the sudden weight and grabs your waist on instinct, before Jake darts out of the car without looking back.

"Sim Jaeyun! Bring your own fucking luggage!" Jay shouts from the car boot, but the brown-haired boy has already disappeared behind the door.

You sit, stunned in silence, still frozen and unable to speak. Not until Riki nudges at you, Heeseung and Sunoo impatiently asking the both of you to move so that they can get out.

"Are you okay, noona? Is hyung okay?"

You nod. You give the youngest a strained smile as you slowly move out of his lap and out of the car, careful not to start another war of hormones.

"We're okay."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.

Jake is avoiding you.

It's a foreseeable aftermath. It's inevitable. But it pains you regardless.

It gets to the point where he straight up refuses sitting next to you at dinner, which raises some eyebrows and teasing from the boys. But you know better.

He is deliberately avoiding you.

It frustrates you, really. Because every summer, it is your thing with Jake to sit in silence in the morning and read at the porch, enjoying the sunrise over wordless, comfortable silence. But now he purposely sleeps in, waking up later than usual, leaving you alone in the cold of dawn, your paperback copy of The Inheritance Games left untouched on your thighs.

At movie nights, he'll be the last one to join, just to see where you sit first to avoid being near you. He'll become extra quiet when you speak, acting like the floor is more interesting than your face, not even sparing you a glance.

And your patience is wearing thin. Almost thinner than the bikini you're wearing right now.

Fine. He can ignore you all he wants, act like he didn't just pop a boner after letting you sit in his lap. He can pretend like you never affected him, pretend like nothing happened, but one thing you know is that Jake could never betray his attraction for you.

So, be fucking it. You don't care if it's petty to pick the skimpiest bikini you own today, the one in hot pink that always contours the line of your cleavage, perfectly bunching up your tits and making them look rounder. The one that you know will drive Jake crazy from how bouncy your ass looks, basically confirmed when his eyes can't seem to stop trailing after you even after you dive into the pool.

You come to the surface with a gaping mouth, letting the water slide down the lines on your body, and make no show of hiding yourself from looking straight at Jake.

That coward has the nerves to look away after staring at you like a touch-deprived teenager.

"Is Sim Jaeyun single?"

The reason why you always agree to join the all-boys road trip is because it's not exactly all-boys. There are girls who live nearby. Girls you're acquainted with from how often you follow your cousin to his beach house every summer. Spoiled rich girls whose parents come from the same tax bracket as your and Jay's family.

And one of those girls is shamelessly checking Jake out now, hungry eyes drinking in the way his wet, long-sleeved shirt sticks to his torso, outlining the faint lines of his abdomen that he never shows. She's sitting on the edge of the pool, feet-dipping while you take a break from your swim.

You narrow your eyes, an ugly spark of jealousy blooming in your chest. You don't like the implication of the question, and you absolutely hate the way she's looking at him now.

"Don't even think about it."

Your neighbour only shrugs and continues her eye-fucking. "He's so my type. So nerdy, so smart. I wonder how he'll look like without the glasses?"

You will poke her eyes before she gets the chance to. "Use your own imagination," you hiss, almost bitter when you realise that you also have barely seen him without his glasses.

Jake has sensitive eyes that react badly to contact lenses, which explains his preference for thick glasses than going out without them. Even now, when everyone is fooling around Jay's enormous pool, his thick, black-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his tall nose—the nose you hope you can put into good use one day.

The girl only hums, half-listening to you. She sighs dreamily. "I can't believe that I have his number."

At this point, the jealousy has turned so ugly you're actually seeing green. Or red. Or whatever that Cortis song sounds like. "You have his number?"

She finally pays attention to you. "Yeap! I asked him yesterday. I don't know what I should say to start the conversation though," she pouts, glancing back at Jake who's now sitting on the side with Sunghoon, sipping on coconut water. "Should I ask him if I can join dinner at your house tonight?"

Jake gave his number to her?

You grit your teeth. The hurt has materialised into a knife, twisting in your chest in a sharp pain disguised in jealousy. So, while Jake's been avoiding you like a fucking plague, he's been spending his time giving away his number to any curious girl? He's been talking with other girls while leaving you with radio silence, one that you didn't deserve because it was him who popped that boner?!

You are the one who's supposed to ignore him—not the other way around!

What a fucking loser.

You can't stop the bitterness from leaking through your voice when you finally speak.

"It's me and Jay that you should ask—not Sim Jaeyun. And no, you cannot join dinner at my house tonight."

You leave her dumbfounded by the pool, seething in anger that the water on your skin could steam from the heat alone. You march to the slide doors, giving Jake and Sunghoon the nastiest side-eye you could ever give when the latter calls out to you, and slam the door behind.

Whatever. Or not whatever. Sim Jaeyun is a fucking pervert and a jerk and a coward, and stupidly hot while being so oblivious to how hot he actually is. Whatever! You don't care.

You don't care that he barely speaks a word to you. You don't care that he leaves any room you walk into. You don't care that he's flirting with other girls and giving away his number willingly when you had his on default for being Jay's younger cousin, and from Jay himself at that.

The corner of your eyes burn.

You wish you didn't care.

You're ignoring Jake.

Jake knows this the moment you no longer come to the porch to read. Instead, every morning is now spent in the garden with Jungwon, tending to Jay's mom's flowers. After, you'll brew some hibiscus tea that you pluck from the garden and share it with Sunoo and Riki.

And when he walks into the kitchen to get some food, you no longer meet his eyes, or save that apple that he knows you know he likes to eat for breakfast. You let Heeseung eat all of them! It's so—so unfair, because he likes apples and you know it!

It sends Jake to the end of a cliff. Why are you suddenly being like this?

His sanity is stretching thin as he tries to work his brain. Why the sudden change? Is it because of his silence? But he's just embarrassed to face you! Or—did you find out about it?

Genuine horror floods his mind when he thinks, oh no, you must've realised how disgusting he truly is. How dirty-minded and perverted he is, that every day he has to take cold showers three times a day whenever he catches a glimpse of you.

You in your sleepwear. You in your casual shirt. You in shorts.

You in bikini.

Jake has fallen out of any point of salvation, because God, could any man get this horny just from a mere look? In the back of his mind, he knows it's the image of you sitting in his lap that ignited the beginning of his undoing, but the continuous hard-on he gets whenever he's around you is definitely, entirely on him.

And Jake, oh so sweet Jake, doesn't dare touch himself to the thought of you. No. He'd rather leave his balls blue, take cold showers every morning, every evening, and every night, and let his dick go from standing tall like a national anthem was being played to becoming flaccid under the cold water without any action. He doesn't even have the guts to touch his own fucking dick, the guilt blocking him from doing anything to relieve himself.

So—did you find out about it? Because if you did, then Jake could understand the cold shoulders you're giving him.

But Jake is a mere man—maybe a bit perverted, and a bit too horny despite his image, so he couldn't stop himself from getting hard the moment he sees you walking into the living room in nothing but an oversized white tee that falls off your shoulder. He grabs the nearest cushion and places it on top of his crotch, blood already rushing south when he sees the strap of your black bra.

This is why he has to go to church sometimes; to balance everything out. Because Einstein never talked about the solution or formula to cure men's (Jake's) sexual desires that seem endless. And sexual desires that come from seeing a strap of a bra alone.

Whatever it is, Jake's soul has almost left his body, already tuning out of his surroundings. He doesn't even realise that Jay and Riki are wrestling for the TV remote, and accidentally sending said remote flying onto the floor just a few feet away from him.

He only comes to when you stand in front of him, back facing him, and bend over to pick up the remote.

You. Bend. Over. In. Front. Of. Him.

In a second, Jake has a full view of your ass. The shirt rides up slightly, revealing white shorts that stretches across the round flesh as you bend over to reach the remote and Jake feels like he's brought back to the car when he was fighting demons as you unintentionally ground his crotch with every movement.

His grip on the cushion tightens, head dizzy from the way you practically shove your butt in his face.

Jake releases a shaky exhale.

He can see the outline of your panties and wonders if it matches your black bra.

And he can see the outline of his doomed future if he stays in the living room any longer.

"Whose turn is it to pick the movie?" You casually ask, now straightening up as if you just didn't flash Jake with your perky ass.

"Jake hyung," Jungwon replies from the center of the long couch, carding his hand through Sunoo's silky hair, the blonde who's now laying down his head on his lap. "It's his turn."

Your face remains expressionless as you turn to the glasses boy. But instead of taking the remote from your hand, Jake stands up, avoiding eye contact and clutching the cushion tight over his crotch.

"I-I suddenly feel sick! Gonna skip tonight's movie, bye!"

Then he flees the living room, leaving behind six confused men and one very angry, very upset girl.

Jake thinks he deserves a medal for surviving the living room.

Or perhaps an exorcism.

The moment his bedroom door clicks shut behind him, Jake drops the cushion onto the floor and drags both hands down his face with a groan. His glasses nearly fall off his nose in the process.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He paces once across the room, then twice.

Outside, he can still hear the muffled sounds of the movie downstairs—Riki yelling dramatically at a character, Sunoo complaining about spoilers, Jay laughing too loudly. Normal sounds. Normal people.

Meanwhile Jake feels like he's one accidental glimpse of your shoulder away from committing a crime.

His eyes squeeze shut.

That white shirt.

The black bra strap.

The way you bent over in front of him so casually, completely unaware that Jake nearly ascended right there on Jay's living room couch.

"Fuck," he whispers weakly to himself.

Jake drops onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

Maybe he should take another cold shower. That would make four today.

"I should sleep," he mutters to himself, breath shaky. "S-Sleep can help with motion sickness and horniness."

With a newfound resolution, he turns off the lamp and settles under the blanket. His movement is stiff and awkward, overly aware of the tent straining his shorts. Once he pulls the blanket over his chest, Jake closes his eyes, forcing sleep into his system.

Only, the image of you swimming in your hot pink bikini flashes behind his eyelids.

"No, stop. Not that," he whispers, brows scrunching in protest. He shakes his head, as if physically removing the image away, and tries again.

This time, the image of you in his lap comes back, stripped down to heated skin and soft breaths, your body moving against his in ways that make his stomach twist.

His eyes fly open. The image is so clear and vivid, thanks to his photographic memory and insane imagination—the very thing that's been saving him in the academic department now serving as the tool that brings him to his downfall.

His cock twitches involuntarily.

"N-No," he pants, chest moving rapidly. He grips the edge of the blanket, knuckles turning white. "I—Stop—"

Then he remembers just now: you bent over, giving him a delicious access to his ass-shaped sufferings, and Jake almost whimpers from the flashback alone.

The room rises in temperature, the air conditioner doing nothing to tone down the feverish lust spreading through his body. Jake finally relents and discards the blanket, glasses all fogged up as he stares at the bulge under his shorts.

"I'm sorry," he whimpers, slipping off his shorts and boxers until they bunch up around his knees. "I'm so fucking sorry."

His cock springs free, standing tall in the dimness of his room. The tip glistens, already drooling with precum that shows no sign of stopping. With shaky hands, hesitance still edging around his lust, Jake finaly touches himself.

He has to bite down hard on his lips to muffle the sound threatening to escape. His hand stutters, the feeling of finally rubbing some relief after days of holding back comes crashing down on him. His head spins from how heavy his cock is in his hold, veins protuding like they're going to combust.

He slowly starts moving his hand, lathering up precum to ease the glide. His head tips back, a strangled sound catches behind his throat.

"Oh, God," his head spins, sparks of lust bursting at the tip of his fingers. "Oh, fuck—"

Through his hazy gaze of the blurry lenses, Jake tightens his grip slightly. A moan escapes his lips at the force, his cock only getting heavier in his hand. He plays with the mushroom tip of his dick, thumbing the slit and hissing when it sends pleasure up his spine.

"Ngh—" his eyes squeeze shut, brain putting up pieces of his memory of you. His body jerks when the rough pad of his thumb touches the underside of his cock, and as if on cue, the image of your jiggly breasts inside the car flashes behind his closed eyes.

"Fuck—Y/N," Jake sobs, picking up his pace. His wrist turns and flicks, biceps flexing hard at the speed he's going. Guilt starts accumulating inside his chest the more he thinks of you, of your voice, of your gaze, of your scent—but guilt isn't enough to stop Jake from chasing his own release.

"'So sorry," he chokes, letting go of his bottom lip, bitten-red and swollen. He imagines it was your hand instead of his, smaller and softer, with those manicured nails that he loves so much. How tiny your hand would look around his hard dick, trying to grip his length in its fully erect state.

Jake isn't inexpereinced. He's had his own fair share of sexcapades with a few people, and he's always been told that he's bigger than average. The big dick that he hides under his pants, further concealed by his nervous persona that only certain girls find cute.

But seeing his state right now, Jake thinks he's the furthest thing from cute.

He's pathetic.

Pathetic and gross and disgusting, feeling bad for jerking off to the thoughts of you but still unable to retract his hand and stop. The sound of his cries that he fails to hide fills up the space, and for the first time in days he's very glad that he won paper-rock-scissors during room assignment.

"Oh, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N," he chants, mouth gaping open when he can feel himself close. His wrist is already tired and numb from the relentless pace he's set, the slick sound of his sinful act matching the roar of his blood rushing in his ears.

"Please, please, 'm gonna cum," he sobs, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. His hips lift off the mattress. "Please—"

"Do not fucking cum, Sim Jaeyun."

Jake's entire body locks up.

His wrist stills immediately, pleasure crashing into horror so fast it makes his stomach twist. For a second, he genuinely thinks his heart stops beating.

The room goes dead silent except for his ragged breathing.

Through fogged-up lenses and teary eyes, Jake stares at you standing by the door, unable to process the fact that you're actually here.

That you heard him.

That you saw him.

Oh my fucking God.

His hand jerks away from himself like he’s been burned, chest heaving violently as he scrambles to sit up straighter. The blanket tangles around his legs from how abruptly he moves.

"I—"

Nothing comes out.

Jake has never felt this level of humiliation before.

Not when he failed his chemistry olympiad in tenth grade. Not when he tripped in front of his entire lecture hall. Not even when Jungwon found his hidden Pokémon card collection at nineteen.

This is worse. So much worse.

Because it's you.

You, standing there in that oversized white shirt slipping off your shoulder again, eyes dark and unreadable as you look at him sprawled across the bed like something shameful.

Jake feels sick. His face burns so hot he thinks he might actually pass out.

"S-Sorry," he chokes out instinctively, because apologising is the only thing his brain knows how to do right now. "I didn't—I wasn't—I—"

His voice cracks miserably.

Jake is going to cry.

What should he even say in this situation? Sorry that you caught him jerking off to you? Sorry that he's such a nerd, such a loser that the only time he could talk smoothly with you was when he was defining what motion sickness was, but never had the courage to tell you how much he likes you and how much you affect me? Sorry that he's such a pervert that he thinks of you in positions way too inappropriate to be just friends?

The weight of his arousal sits heavy against his thigh, a testament to a newfound, lifelong embarrassment that he'll carry to his grave.

Jake squirms under your heated gaze, and quickly covers his crotch with his blanket when you slip into his bedroom wordlessly. The door clicks shut, the sound amplified by the heavy silence hanging in the air. His body tenses up.

Oh my God—he messed up, didn't he? Jake hangs his head low in shame, tears gathering along his lashlines.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to…"

His vision turns blurry. Fuck, you must hate him now.

"I-It's wrong—I know that—I'm sorry—ah!"

Jake looks up in surprise when your bold hand cups his erection. There's angry lines in your forehead, a sneer on your mouth, but the nasty look you're giving him does nothing to soothe down his arousal.

If anything, twisted as it is—it turns him on even more.

"Couldn't even look me in the eye downstairs," you begin, "but you here you are, jerking off to me like I wouldn't find out?"

The venom in your voice hurts him. You're being mean with your words, and it hurts his feelings but Jake couldn't care less. His mind is a messy jumbles of guilt and pleasure and shame, so all he does is cry and shake his head.

"I-I'm sorry, Y/N—"

"Are you really sorry?" you tighten your grip on his cock, one knee dipping into the mattress. "Your dick doesn't seem sorry though."

Jake wants to cry—oh, he's already crying. His hand curls into the sheets beneath him, unable to form coherent words when you start rocking the heel of your palm on his hard-on. The friction from the blanket and the pressure from your hand only spark electric pleasure through his system.

Within seconds, Jake is all hard again—even harder than before.

"Tell me, Jaeyunnie. Did all of this happen because I sat in your lap?"

Jake whimpers pathetically. You knew. Of course you knew. You're not only hot and pretty and kind, you're also smart like him, so in tune with your surroundings. You're a little mean right now, but it's okay because Jake believes that he deserves this after avoiding you without any explanation.

"Answer me, Sim Jaeyun."

"Yes," he croaks, shame burning his face red. His eyes screw shut. The admission sets his being on fire, skin flushed from embarrassment. "O-Oh, God, y-yes."

He cracks one eye open when you don't reply. Instead, he's met with your fiery gaze. The edges have softened with lust, like you're also affected by this, but you're good at keeping your control.

Unlike him, who's unraveling like a loose thread under your touch alone.

Jake almost whines when you retract your hand, but the sound is muffled with a gasp when you yank the blanket open. He instinctively closes his crotch area with his hands, but you're fast to slap his wrists away.

"I'm so pissed off, Jaeyun," you mutter, swinging your leg over his thighs so now you're straddling him. You fix him with your sharp eyes, hand finding his dick again.

"You've been acting like we're strangers and it hurts me so bad."

Jake's mouth hangs open as you gather his precum and start working your wrist around his cock. His brain barely registers your words, too lost in a cloud of lust, but when he finally processes it, he desperately shakes his head.

He wants to apologise again and again and again, because he is truly sorry—he didn't know how affected you were. How could he not, when you're always described as everything out of his league, but he's always described as everything that doesn't fit your type?

"I'm sorry, I was just—fuck—just ashamed—" he gasps, hips bucking into your touch. "Didn't mean to—t-to hurt y—ngh, Y/N, faster please."

You coo at him, feigning sympathy as you set a ruthless pace on his cock. Jake is big—something that isn't a surprise anymore since that day you sat in his lap—but the sheer size of him is enough to make your mouth water and your panties damp.

Damn these nerdy boys. Acting all shy and innocent when they have this monstrousity hiding behind those ugly glasses.

"Faster? You wanna cum, Jaeyunnie?" you tilt your head. Jake nods frantically. "I don't think you deserve it, though. Why not ask from those girls you gave your number to?"

Something sharp twists in his stomach. Jake's eyes fly open, almost cowering when you give him a distasteful look. He grabs your arms desperately and shakes his head.

"N-No! She asked me first—" you put more pressure and Jake damn near loses his mind. "—said she needs—help—w-with Physi—cs—"

You roll your eyes. It's that easy to fool him? Can't he see the way those girls fuck him with their eyes? Without waiting for his sentence to finish, you sink down and take him in your mouth.

"Oh, fuck!" Jake screams, accidentally thrusting up his hips. He bites his lips, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose as you take him deeper, tracing the line of his veins with your sinful tongue. "Oh, Y/N—please."

You hum around his length, tongue swirling as you hollow your cheeks to deepen the suction. Jake nearly busts from that alone, mind melting into a puddle of your name, the wet heat of your mouth serving as a better pleasure than his own hand.

You start bobbing your head up and down, marveling in the way the weight of his dick sits on your tongue. He's so big that you're so close to choking, but you don't care. You need to remind Jake how stupid he's been acting and how stupid he is if he thinks that you were not just as attracted toward him.

Jake sobs into his hands, hips jerking with every touch of his tip hitting the back of your throat. His head is getting dizzier, he can feel the coil in his stomach getting tighter and he knows that anytime soon, he will come undone on your skillful tongue.

But just as he's about to reach that high, you let go of him with a pop.

"No!" Jake whines, tears sliding down his cheeks. You're so mean. "P-Please let me cum."

"Not yet, nerdy boy." You mutter, red lips slick with saliva and precum. Jake can only sob, dick throbbing in need and desperation.

This is the punishment he deserves for being a jerk. He knows that, but he can't seem to stop crying. God, he's so pathetic.

Then he feels movement on his thighs. He blinks through the foggy lenses and lets out a breathless moan when you lift up your shirt and shorts and discard them away, leaving you in nothing but a pair of bra and panties. His mouth starts salivating at the display of your beautiful body, and Jake swears he almost cums when he sees that you're indeed wearing black panties.

Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Just as he imagined—God, you're so perfect he wants to kiss you.

But instead of a kiss, you push his at his chest instead. "Lie down."

And like the obedient puppy that he is, Jake follows your word, carefully descending his back onto the mattress. He's still sniffling from the previous denial, but now it's mixed with anticipation of what's to come when you hover above him.

You trace a gentle finger along the tall bridge of his nose, a barely-there touch that makes him shiver. With a slow tap on the tip of his nose, you finally speak.

"Did anyone ever ride your nose, Jaeyunnie?"

H-His nose?

Girls always compliment his nose, but he's never given it many thoughts as to why they did that. "N-No. Never."

There's a wicked smile on your face as you stand on your knees. Jake watches with a mouth gaping open as you make a show of shimmying down your panties, painfully and traitorously slowly that he almost rips it with his hand.

"Ah, what a shame," you sigh dreamily. "Guess I have to be the first one then."

Once your panties are out of the picture, Jake is instanly hit with a wave of your arousal. Your pussy glistens under the moonlight, soaked with slick and dripping with need. Jake inhales shakily, stopping himself from darting out his tongue to get a taste.

Fuck. He's sure he has actually died in the car and this is heaven because not even in his wildest dream did he get to have you like this.

Too lost in his reverie, Jake belatedly notices that you have removed his glasses. Despite your mean words and your mean actions, the caresses of your thumb on his cheeks are so gentle that he thinks he's hallucinating.

"You're so handsome, Jaeyun," you murmur. "But I bet you'll look better buried between my thighs."

You give him no time to recover from your crude words when you slowly move to straddle his head. Then, with a hand in his hair, you descend, letting the tip of his nose nudge at your clit.

And oh my fucking God—you smell so divine.

"Ah, Jaeyunnie," you moan, rocking your hips slowly to test the waters. "Your nose feels so good."

You sound even more divine. Jake's eyes roll to the back, savouring the way your sinful moans fall on his ears as you use his nose to get off. The bridge of his nose slides through your folds—wet and sticky and so sweet that he can't get enough of it.

Jake wraps his arms around your thighs to give you support, and another moan escapes your lips upon seeing his veiny arms around your supple skin. He stares at you through half-lidded eyes, groaning despite your cunt suffocating him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure to your system.

"Ngh—Jaeyun—"

He can't breathe, and he can't hear properly from how hard you're clamping his head with your legs, but he can't deny that this is the best way to die. Being suffocated by your leaking pussy sounds like a dream death compared to dying in Jay's old SUV.

You keep your rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth, grinding your clit on his nose and dragging your folds on the tall bridge until the sharp tip of his nose catches at your hole. The grip you have in his hair hurts his scalp, but everything is worth the pain when Jake can watch you fall apart on his face, his own cock pulsing with a trembling need to cum.

"Ah—ah—Jaeyun oppa—"

Fuck. Fuck that sacred nickname.

The dynamics between you two often makes Jake forget the fact that he is indeed older than you. Coming from the States, it's uncommon for you to address people with such honorifics.

But right now, using that very honorific against him ignites something inside him; a carnal desire that's been thrumming low in his guts, waiting to be unleashed.

This time, Jake barely stops himself from stealing a taste. He darts out his tongue, prodding your hole with the tip, and hums in satisfaction when your stance falters slightly.

"Don't," you hiss, but there's no heat in it. Jake takes it as a sign to continue, licking more into your weeping cunt until your pace turns sloppy.

He doesn't care. You're probably gonna be so mad at him and punish him more, but whatever it is you have prepared can wait. Right now, Jake is having the best pussy of his life—barely breathing but still eating so, so fucking well.

"Jaeyun—stop—"

"No," Jake protests when you try to get up, pulling you down until the full weight of your body rests on his face.

Oh God, choking on pussy has never felt so good.

"Sim Jaeyun!" You squirm, feeling the stirring inside your belly getting wilder. Despite your weak attempts, your hips keeps grinding on his nose, showing no signs of stopping. You throw your head back.

You knew his nose would be the best thing to ride on, but hearing the slurps of your slick and his saliva—the sinful noises of him feasting on your cunt—makes you almost regret not letting him eat you out first.

"Ngh—Jaeyun—I'm close—"

Jake pulls your hips harder, letting you grind your clit on the tip of his nose as his tongue pushes into your hole mercilessly. You let out a high-pitched scream, muscles pulling tight at his ministrations. The double stimulations are fast pushing you over the edge.

Soon, white hot pleasure crashes into you, your vision turning black momentarily. It's so blurry and messy that you haven't realised that you've been screaming his name raw, hips unrelenting to chase the high. Jake swallows every drop of your sweet nectar, moaning into your spasming hole as he licks it clean.

Fuck. He's already desperate to have another round.

When you come down from your orgasm, hair matted to your forehead, you look down at him furiously.

"Let me go! I told you not to do it!" You attempt to sit up, but Jake doesn't let go, shaking his head with a pout. His nose and chin are drenched with your release, it's so sinful and filthy and you can't lie that you like seeing him so wrecked and fucked over like this.

"Can I have more? Please," he begs, kissing your inner thigh unhurriedly. He's already so addicted to the taste of you, Jake thinks he's gonna die if he doesn't have another fill. "I'll be so good to you, Y/N. Wanna eat you out so bad."

You grit your teeth, pushing away the temptation to save your pride. "No. Get up, Jaeyun."

But Jake is stubborn. He's so desperate to have more of you that he doesn't mind if he's leaving his own cock neglected and balls blue. "Please, I need it bad," he nudges at your pussy with his finger, pupils blown wide at the strings of sticky cum decorating your folds. "Fuck, please, Y/N, I want to eat you out."

"I said get up, Jaeyun."

"Y/N—"

"Jake."

The sharpness in your voice cuts through the haze instantly.

Jake stills immediately.

The desperation in his eyes flickers into something softer, more uncertain, like a scolded puppy finally realising he’s crossed a line. His grip on your thighs loosens at once, chest rising and falling hard beneath you.

The sound of his English name on your tongue feels foreign and almost painful, because it lacks the usual warmth and intimacy that your 'Jaeyun' usually holds. Yet, something inside him pulses harder, liking the change more than he'd like to admit.

“S-Sorry,” he whispers automatically, voice rough. “I just…”

He doesn’t even know how to explain it. How could he? That hearing you moan his name made him lose every coherent thought in his brain? That he’s spent days trying to stay away from you only to end up here, beneath you, completely ruined anyway?

You study him for a long moment before finally shifting off his face.

“Sit up.”

Jake obeys instantly.

The movement is clumsy and needy. His hair is a mess, lips swollen, face still flushed from lack of oxygen and desire. Without his glasses, his eyes look unbearably open like this—too honest, too vulnerable.

You cup his jaw gently, the touch losing its cruelty. Jake melts into it.

"There he is," you murmur softly, fixing his bangs that are obscuring his eyesight.

Jake can feel his heart stutter traitorously. This version of you—tender and sweet—a glimpse of the usual-you, is always more dangerous than any teasing.

Wordlessly, you tug at his shirt, and Jake obediently holds up his arms to let you peel away the fabric. Your eyes flick downward, amusement tugging at your lips.

"You know," you start, fingers trailing slowly down his sculpted chest, "for someone who acted terrified of touching me in the car…"

He groans softly, already embarrassed.

"…You were pretty damn desperate down there, Jaeyun."

His face burns hotter. Fine, he's just a touch-starved man, desperate for you in every way possible. But how could he not? Have you even looked at yourself?

"I-I can't help it…" His eyes drop to your lips. "You tasted so good."

A breathy chuckle escapes you, quiet and fond. But to Jake's ears, he's already hearing the wedding bells chime.

And suddenly the humiliation twisting in his chest eases into something warmer when you climb into his lap again, turning slowly until your back presses against his chest.

The exact same position. That fucking position in the car that has his mind on an endless frenzy that he thinks he was genuinely getting crazy.

Jake goes completely still beneath you.

“Oh,” you whisper, settling against him deliberately. “Now you’re quiet again?”

His hands hover uncertainly near your hips, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you.

“You’re mean,” he mumbles weakly against your shoulder. You laugh, one hand patting his hair as the other one aligning his neglected cock on your entrance.

"But I know you like it, Jaeyunnie."

At the same time you presses on the nickname, you sink onto his cock slowly, letting the bulbous head of his length spear you open.

The both of you moan simultaneously. Jake's hands find puchase on your waist, trying his best to stop from manhandling you to just fucking bounce on his dick and letting you adjust. You, on the other hand, let the stretch burn, your walls spasming to accommodate his length.

"S-So big," you stutter, taking him inch by inch. Jake drops his head on your shoulder, his own breathing ragged. "So—full—"

When he finally fits inside you to the brim, you let out a long, drawn-out moan. He fills you up so good that you can feel every vein against your walls, every pulse kissing your insides. It's a dizzying experience that prompts you to start moving your hips.

Jake’s fingers dig into your waist, trembling.

Not because he wants to stop you.

Because he’s trying so hard not to lose himself completely.

The position alone is enough to send him spiraling—your back against his chest, your body in his lap exactly like the car ride, except now there’s no seatbelt digging into his side, no boys teasing from the front seat, no restraint left between the two of you.

Just you and him.

And the devastating realisation that you wanted him too.

Jake lets out a broken sound against your shoulder when you move again, his forehead falling against your skin. His entire body feels feverish, overwhelmed by too much sensation and too many emotions crashing into him at once.

"Wasn't this what got you so hard, Jaeyunnie?" You pant between breathless moans. "Me in your lap, bouncing on your cock like this?"

"Ngh—" A strangled noise escapes his throat. Jake watches with bated breath as your hands find the clasp of your bra and finally let the two soft mounds free. Now, he badly wants you to turn around, eager to relive the scene of your bouncy breasts in Jay's car.

"Did you not—ah—crave this?"

You arch your back, pleasure tingling every nerves as his cock drags against your walls. Jake feels his dick throb inside your hole, the same position that ruined him now had him completely at your mercy.

"S-So tight," he whimpers, mouth falling open at the way you clench around his cock and roll your hips. "S-So fucking tight, Y/N, fuck."

Jake clings onto you desperately, bucking his hips to chase your movement. But you hold down a firm hand on his thigh, completely in charge.

"Don't," you warn, grinding down on him in a way that makes your ass ripple. "Or I'll get up and leave."

Jake freezes instantly.

The warning slices straight through him, sharp and effective. His hands tighten on your waist, but he forces his hips back against the mattress despite every instinct screaming at him to chase you harder.

“O-Okay,” he breathes quickly. “Okay. Sorry.”

God, he sounds wrecked.

You can feel the way his thighs tremble beneath yours, the strain in his breathing every time you move your hips slowly against him. Jake drops his forehead between your shoulder blades with a weak groan, like simply holding himself back is physically painful.

"I'm still mad at you," you murmur. You roll your hips again, faster this time, and Jake nearly whimpers into your shoulder. His jaw clenches so hard he might pop a vessel.

"Are you sure you're not the one—" you moan, your thighs burning from how fast you're exerting yourself. The wet sound of skin hitting skin starts getting louder the harder you slam down your hips. "The one who's being—mean?"

Jake sobs into your skin, half-regretting, half-dizzy. The tight heat of your cunt pulses and flutters around his dick and he genuinely feels horrible for only thinking using his other head now.

Even so, he still manages to apologise again. "I'm s-sorry—"

You clench around him on purpose. Jake digs his nails deeper. "Fuck—"

"Stop fucking apologising," you seethe, voice trembling as you feel your release getting near. "Delete her number or I'll sit in Sunghoon's lap when we get back to Seoul."

There's no bite in your threat. It's just a spur-of-the-moment kind of things, one that you say just to rile him up.

But Jake takes your words like a verdict. He snakes an arm around your waist, lips worshipping your skin in desperate, wet kisses.

"I'm sorry, Y/N, darling," he begs, tears clinging to his lashes. He bites his lips in an attempt to stop himself from moaning because he's so, so close. "I will block her. Fuck—I will delete her number. P-Please don't sit with S-Sunghoon—"

His speech is interrupted by a high-pitched whine. Jake hasn't come all night, he's nothing more than a thread waiting to snap. The moment you bounce harder and faster, the supple skin of your butt jiggling wilder, Jake can feel that he's about to come.

"Y/N—ah—p-puh—lease—" he whimpers, voice scratching at his throat. "'M close, 'm g-gonna cum—"

But he should've known that you're so, so mean.

The moment you lift off his cock, Jake genuinely sobs out loud, thrashing under you.

"No! No, please—" he chokes, hiding his crying face behind his hands, too shattered when his orgasm being denied again. "Please, no—I wanna cum, please."

You turn around and the sight of him—red-faced, wet cheeks, lips trembling—it softens your heart. You quickly pull his wrists and rest his hands on your hips, your own cupping his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, baby," you shush him, blowing kisses to the tip of his nose as you take him again. Jake whimpers quietly. "I'm so sorry—I'll let you cum this time, hm?"

Jake weakly nods, then lets out a soft moan at the familiar feeling of your walls enveloping him. You move again, already sore, but you no longer have it in you to torture your poor, poor Jaeyun. This time, you immediately begin with a fast pace, giving him a show of your tits bouncing with every thrust.

"Ah—fuck—Jaeyunnie—" you bite your lips, expression so erotic that it has the brown-haired boy drooling. "Glasses—like you better with glasses."

Jake is too dazed to register your words, so you pick the glasses on your own and put them on him. And there he is—your sweet, sweet boy, your Jaeyunnie that you adore so much, your Jaeyun that thinks it's bad for wanting you this much.

"S-So—handsome, Jaeyunnie," you roll your hips, chest arching into his face. "My nerdy boy, you're mine, hm?"

Jake physically cannot take it anymore. The sight of you on top of him, bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it, putting on his glasses and calling him yours—it's too much for Sim Jaeyun who's never been given this kind of attention and affection.

Especially from you.

His lips move, but you can barely hear him.

"Hm? What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry, Y/N," his nails dig into your waist. "I'm so fucking sorry, please don't be mad at me."

Your brows furrow in confusion, but before you know it, Jake is already flipping you around, changing your position in one swift movement. You have half a second to gain your breath before the boy hovering over you pulls you closer by your ankles and throws your legs over his shoulders.

"I'm s-sorry," Jake stutters, slipping his dick back into your cunt and starts thrusting fast. "I-I can't hold it anymore."

Despite the showcase of his strength, Jake looks absolutely ruined. There's a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but from the pace he's railing you, you know that his lust ovverrides whatever little guilt he has.

Soon enough, the air smells so thickly of sex. The sound of his balls slapping your ass, accompanied by your high-pitched moans and his groans are the only one filling up the space, to the point that you're sure one of the boys must've heard you.

It's so hot and filthy that Jake's glasses are all fogged up again. His grip on your waist is now leaving bruises, but you don't care because all you can think of is Jake, Jake's big cock, Jake's stupid glasses and just Jake, Jake, Jake.

"F-f-f-fuck," he exhales shakily, splitting you open with his cock. "I-I'm so—close—"

You thrash around, fisting the sheets until it tears from the force of your nails. "Jaeyun—" you gasp when he keeps abusing that spot that has you seeing stars. "Oh, fuck—Jaeyun—harder—"

Jake leans forward, straining his arms on either side of your head. His glasses slide down his slick nose slightly when he bends down to capture your lips in his thick ones. You both moan into the kiss, finally getting the taste of each other, tongues already clashing for more.

Jake licks into your mouth, hips never faltering, and sucks on your bottom lip. You whimper, the sensation becoming too much until you're just breathing against his lips, all heat and teeth and saliva. Jake groans.

"I-I'm gonna—cum—" he gasps against your mouth, face scrunching in pleasure when you clench around him. "O-Oh my fucking God, Y/N, fuck—please let me cum inside."

His hands find your waist again, thrusting harder than before. His head drops to your shoulder as he begs, again and again.

"P-Please let me cum inside, please," he whimpers, voice needy and whiny. "Please—I'm gonna—I wanna—"

"Just cum," you moan when his teeth scrape against your skin. "Jae—Jaeyunnie—"

Jake groans. With last few, deliberate thrusts, he finally cums—a full-body orgasm that has him shuddering, his cock spurting out rope after thick rope of his release, painting your walls white.

You follow him just a second after, vision blurring for a moment as your second orgasm rips through your body. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream, eyes rolling back from how delicious your climax is.

Jake takes a long moment breathing into your ear, grinding his hips slowly before he's finally pulling out. He hisses as he drags out his cock, careful not to overstimulate you, and watches in awe as white fluid flowing out of your pulsing cunt.

"Oh my fucking God."

You breathe out a laugh, sounding breathless and disbelieving. Seeing Jake sitting still by your legs, you open your arms toward him.

"C'mere, Jaeyunnie. Let's cuddle for a moment before washing up—I'm too sore to walk."

Jake perks up at that. Gone is the hungry, lust-driven boy a few moments ago, now replaced with the shy, kicked puppy holding his tail between his legs.

"Cuddle?" he echoes, unsure. "Are you not mad at me?"

"I could never be mad at you for too long," you reply, giving him a reassuring smile.

It gives Jake a flicker of hope. He scoots closer, still cautious and observing, like approaching a scared animal.

"But I avoided you…"

You drop your arms and pretend to think, making a show of tapping your chin with a finger.

"You're right. You were mean for that. Why don't you carry me to the bathroom and clean me up so we can cuddle afterwards?"

Hearing that, Jake finally relaxes, his tight muscles loosening. With an eager smile, he scoops an arm under your knees and your back, and then lifts you up easily as if you weigh nothing.

"Your wish is my command, my princess."

The next morning, you receive knowing looks from the boys. There are lingering stares on your neck from where Jake was mauling your skin last night, but you have no problem showing them off.

Jake, on the other hand, is on the edge of another breakdown.

"So, Jake," Jay starts, already planning a mischievous teasing inside his head. "How did it feel like to get railed—"

"I did not get railed!" he squeaks, ears blushing red. "I-I was the one who railed her! Right, Y/N?"

There's a laugh bubbling inside your chest as you watch Jake squirm under the relentless teasing of his friends. It felt good to be the one in charge, but after that display of strength and the way he manhandled you last night?

You don't mind having him on top of you.

But the both of you know who's truly in charge.

And if you choose to sit in his lap again, this time grinding and shifting on purpose that he gets hard until the car reaches Seoul, nobody has to know that.

Well, maybe Riki knows. But who cares.

wow okay

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