Unhinged

There are summers that don’t end. They don’t belong to years or calendars. They settle under the skin, in scraped knees and half-forgotten songs, in the way your chest feels when the air turns thick and the cicadas start screaming like they’re trying to be heard by God himself.

This was one of those summers.

You are young enough that time doesn’t feel like something that moves forward. It just is.

The heat is everywhere. In your hair. In your clothes. In the grass that scratches your arms as you lie on your stomach, notebook sprawled open between you and San. The paper is wrinkled at the edges, smudged with graphite and sweat and fingerprints that aren’t yours.

Your shoulders sting faintly from the sun. His nose is pink. You both smell like outside.

“You’re pressing too hard,” you tell him, chin propped on your hand.

He doesn’t look up. His tongue pokes out in concentration, pencil digging into the page like he’s trying to carve the line into existence. “I’m focusing.”

“That’s not focusing,” you say, already smiling. “That’s bullying the pencil.”

He finally glances at you, squinting like he’s offended on principle. “You said you’d teach me.”

“I am,” you say.

You don’t think about it when you reach for him. You never do. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, warm and dusty, skin tacky with chalk and sweat. You guide his hand slower. Softer. The way your teacher showed you once, the way felt right.

Your feet touch. They always do.

San exhales without realizing it, shoulders dropping as his grip loosens. The line curves the way it’s supposed to, gentle instead of jagged.

“Oh,” he says, quiet. Like he’s surprised.

“See?” you murmur.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The air hums with cicadas and heat and something unnamed. He keeps his eyes on the paper. You forget to let go right away. It feels normal. Like gravity. Like this is how bodies are meant to exist when they trust each other.

Later, his house smells like laundry soap and warm fabric and the faint sweetness of something baking down the street.

You sit on the floor of his room, backs against the bed, legs stretched out, sharing a bowl of snacks you didn’t ask permission to take. You never do. You’ve been doing this too long for it to feel like stealing.

He puts on his favorite movie. The one he’s been insisting you watch for months.

“It’s not dumb,” he says quickly, already defensive.

“I didn’t say it was,” you reply.

You don’t even look at him when you smile, because if you do, he’ll notice. He always does.

He sits too close. Close enough that your arms brush when you both reach for the bowl at the same time. Close enough that you can feel the steady heat of him through your t-shirt. It doesn’t make you nervous. It just feels right. Familiar. Like his room wouldn’t work properly if you sat anywhere else.

San keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re distracted. Watching your reactions. Waiting for your laugh at the parts he loves. Every time you laugh at the right moment, something in his chest lifts, light and fizzy, even though he doesn’t know why.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but you don’t have words for it yet.

The years pass without asking permission.

Inside jokes pile up like treasures only the two of you know how to find. Silence becomes comfortable. Something shared. You grow taller. Louder. Then quieter again. Limbs stretch. Voices change. But somehow, you never grow out of each other.

By seventeen, sneaking out feels less like rebellion and more like habit.

You meet him by the window, shoes dangling from your fingers, laughter pressed tight in your chest as you slip into the night. The hill near your neighborhood waits for you, grass cool and damp under your palms as you climb. The sky opens wide above you, stars scattered without care, like no one bothered to arrange them.

You lie down side by side.

Your shoulders touch. Your heads are close. Not quite resting together. Almost.

The cicadas are loud enough to erase everything else. Your breathing slows without you noticing, matching his. San stares at the sky, hands folded over his stomach, heart steady and strange in his chest.

If this is all I get, he thinks, I’ll take it.

Beside him, you feel full in a way you don’t understand yet. Safe. Seen. Like the world makes sense right here, on this hill, under this sky, with San breathing beside you.

This is what life feels like, you think. Simple. Warm. Real.

Sleep finds you quietly.

No confessions. No promises. Just the certainty that this will always be here.

And that’s the lie you grow up believing.

You grow older assuming you will always orbit each other. That whatever happens, whatever changes, this remains untouched. Untested. Eternal. Love, unnamed, patient enough to wait.

Adulthood never quite erases this memory. It only softens the edges, blurs the light. But it stays. Vivid. Persistent.

Waiting.

You don’t remember when things first shifted. There wasn’t a clean line between then and now, between the summers that never ended and the days that taught you how easily something bright could dim.

It happens quietly.

Yunho enters your life the way good things usually do. Through someone you trust. A mutual friend, smiling too wide, saying, You’ll like him. He’s kind. Someone who wouldn’t have handed you something dangerous on purpose.

The beginning is easy. Coffee that stretches longer than planned. Conversation that doesn’t snag. Yunho listens carefully, attentively, like he’s memorizing you. He remembers details. Texts to check if you got home safe. Walks you back without making it feel like obligation.

He never pushes.

When he reaches for your hand, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s asking permission from the air around you. When he kisses you, it’s soft, smiling, the kind of affection that promises safety instead of heat.

San tells himself this is good.

He watches from where he’s always been. A step behind you. Close enough to notice everything. Close enough to feel the shift before it has a name.

At first, nothing really changes. You still laugh. Still show up with stories tucked under your tongue, eager to share. Still text him late, complain about work, steal his food without asking. San tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wants for you. Someone kind. Someone steady.

But kindness, he learns, can have rules.

It starts small. Yunho asking why you didn’t answer right away. Why you stayed out later than you said you would. Why you laughed so hard at something San said.

He never raises his voice. He smiles when he says it. Frames it like concern.

“I just worry about you.”

“I don’t like when people get the wrong idea.”

“You know how guys think.”

San notices the first time you flinch when your phone buzzes.

He notices the pauses in your voice. The way you rehearse answers out loud, testing them first. He notices how you start apologizing for things you never used to apologize for. How you soften your opinions, sand down your edges.

You used to take up space without thinking.

Now you measure it.

Now you negotiate it.

The night of the party, San sees it clearly.

Yunho’s hand is at your lower back, firm enough to steer. Too firm. His smile never leaves his face, but his fingers dig in just enough to communicate something private. When you try to stop to say goodbye, Yunho leans in, says something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Your smile falters.

You nod.

You leave early.

Later, you call San from the bathroom, voice low, door locked.

“He didn’t like how close we were sitting,” you whisper. “He said it looks wrong. Like you’re waiting for a chance.”

San’s stomach drops.

Yunho doesn’t like San. Not openly. Not aggressively. He’s smarter than that.

He jokes about him. Laughs too lightly when his name comes up. Calls him that friend. Mentions, casually, that it’s strange how much time you spend with someone who’s obviously in love with you.

“He’s not,” you say, defensive, tired.

“I’m just saying,” Yunho replies. “I trust you. I just don’t trust his intentions.”

San hears the echoes of those conversations in the way you start pulling back. The way you hesitate before inviting him places. The way you ask, carefully, if it’s okay that you’re hanging out with him.

It puts you in impossible positions.

Every time you choose San, Yunho sulks. Withdraws. Goes quiet for hours, sometimes days. Every time you create distance, Yunho relaxes. Praises you. Becomes affectionate again.

San considers giving you space.

For your sake.

He thinks maybe if he steps back, Yunho will ease up. Maybe if he disappears quietly, you’ll stop getting punished for knowing him. The thought makes him sick, but he holds it anyway.

He never follows through.

You were his friend first.

The late-night calls are the worst.

San sits on his bed, back against the wall, room dark except for the glow of his phone. He listens to your breathing before you speak. Shallow. Controlled.

“I don’t want him to hear,” you whisper.

So you cry quietly. Like even your hurt needs permission.

San says your name again and again, low and steady, trying to anchor you to something solid. He tells you you’re not imagining it. That you’re not too much. That love isn’t supposed to feel like walking on glass.

Every word he doesn’t say burns.

He doesn’t say leave. He doesn’t say this isn’t right. He doesn’t say it should have been me.

But the thought claws at him anyway.

He should be the one holding you. The one kissing your forehead. The one you fall asleep against without fear of being overheard. He should be the one you come to, not the one you hide with.

Instead, he stays where he is. Listening. Waiting. Loving you quietly, painfully, from the sidelines.

Yunho always sounds reasonable when you talk about him.

“He’s just worried about me.”

“He didn’t mean it like that.”

“He says he only gets like this because he loves me.”

San learns to hate how gentle those words sound.

He learns how control can dress itself up as care. How jealousy can pretend to be protection. How someone can take pieces of you and hand them back shaped like guilt, until you start thanking them for the loss.

Yunho takes.

Your confidence. Your sleep. Your certainty. He takes your joy and returns it conditional, something you earn by behaving correctly.

San stays.

Through the calls. Through the silences. Through the nights you fall asleep on the line because crying takes more energy than you have left. He stays because leaving you alone with it feels worse than standing just outside the door.

San remembers thinking, bitter and helpless, that love shouldn’t feel like surviving.

And that if you ever looked back at him the way you once did, he would never make you feel small for it.

When it finally ends, it isn’t loud.

There’s no confrontation, no last conversation that announces itself as closure. Just a sudden quiet that feels wrong at first. Too open. Like the noise stopped but the ringing didn’t.

And then, slowly, you come back.

Not all at once. In fragments. A laugh that escapes you before you’re ready, sharp with surprise. Color returning to your clothes.

You started talking about things you wanted again. Not what you were afraid of losing. Not what you were bracing yourself against. You start talking about plans again. Small ones. Safe ones. Yours.

San watches from the edges.

He doesn’t guide or correct. He doesn’t rush the process. He just stays where he’s always been, careful not to startle you back into retreat.

Watching you come back to yourself felt like watching the sun rise after weeks of neverending rain. Relief hit him so hard it almost hurt.

You’re here. You’re okay.

And then a cold realization follows. He almost lost you. Not to distance or time, but to someone who mistook possession for love.

The guilt settled deep in his chest, heavy and permanent.

He hated Yunho. Clean. Simple.

But worse than that, he hated himself.

For never stopping it. For mistaking patience for protection. For telling himself that staying quiet, staying close, staying available was enough. For believing that being there meant the same thing as intervening.

The promise forms without ceremony. Not spoken. Not dramatic. Just something he carries from then on, like a rule written into his bones:

I won’t let anyone do that to her again.

It settled into him without ceremony. Sank deep. Became something structural, something he carried into adulthood like a second spine. Not visible, but holding everything upright.

And even when you smiled now, that promise hummed under everything he did.

The past loosens its grip eventually. Not cleanly, not all at once, but enough that it stops defining every breath you take. Life becomes solid again. Recognizable.

San is part of that solidity.

It shows in small, unremarkable ways. The way he notices before you say you’re tired. The way he adjusts without asking. The way his presence never demands anything of you. He offers. He waits.

Love, with San, is mostly presence.

You spend time together without naming it. Rides in his car. Shared meals. Quiet nights that don’t need an agenda. His hand rests open between you sometimes, an option rather than a question.

Sometimes you take it.

Sometimes you don’t.

He never moves it either way.

You tell yourself this is normal. That this is what life looks like when it isn’t sharp all the time. Taken care of without being watched. Wanted without being owned.

You don’t examine it too closely.

Because examining it would mean acknowledging how naturally you lean into him. How easily your world aligns around his presence. And you’ve learned what happens when you name things too soon.

So you let it be what it is.

Easy. Steady. Unspoken.

You are happy. Not loudly. Not in a way that needs proof. Just settled, like something returned to its proper place.

There is a quiet understanding between you. Something shared and untouched. And for now, that’s enough.

You let yourself believe this will last.

Overhead lights too bright. The low, constant hum of computers. Your coffee cooling beside your keyboard because you forgot about it again. You answer emails. Fix numbers. Tap your pen when your thoughts wander. Boring in the best way. Predictable. Safe.

You like it that way.

Your phone buzzes once near your elbow.

You don’t check it immediately. You finish the sentence you’re typing, reread it, change a word. It buzzes again, impatient this time.

You glance down, expecting San. A reminder. A stupid meme. Something unimportant.

The name on the screen steals the air from your lungs.

Yunho.

It feels invasive. Like someone saying your name too close behind you. Your fingers go cold. The office noise dulls, like it’s been pushed underwater.

You open the message before you can stop yourself.

Just checking in. Hope you’re doing well. No pressure. Just thought of you.

It’s polite. Careful. Familiar.

Nothing you could point to and say this is wrong.

That’s what makes your chest tighten.

You don’t reply. You stare at the screen until your reflection ghosts back at you, warped and pale. Then, with a steadiness that surprises you, you block the number.

The relief comes fast. Dizzy. Almost lightheaded.

You sit back, exhale, even laugh quietly to yourself. That was easy, you think. That was nothing. You go back to work. The day moves on.

You don’t think about him again.

The first bouquet arrives three days later.

Not dramatic. Not excessive. Just flowers. Bright, expensive, arranged with care. They sit at the front desk like they belong there. Your name is written neatly on the card. Handwritten.

Your stomach drops anyway.

Someone whistles behind you. “Damn,” a coworker says. “Someone’s spoiled.”

You smile because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Because explaining would take too much energy. Because not smiling would invite questions.

You don’t read the card.

You throw the flowers away in the break room, petals bruising against the plastic. You wash your hands longer than necessary afterward.

Nothing else happens.

A week passes.

You start to relax again. Your shoulders loosen. The quiet settles back into place.

Then another bouquet arrives.

Different flowers. Same handwriting.

Two weeks after that, another.

Always spaced just far enough apart that you almost forget. Always close enough that you’re never surprised.

Soon, you start expecting them.

You find yourself thinking in intervals instead of days. Not if, but when. You scan the front desk when you arrive in the morning. You feel a flicker of relief on the days nothing is there, followed by something worse when it shows up anyway.

Yunho never texts again.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s everywhere without being visible. In the way your shoulders tense when someone says your name. In the way your stomach tightens when you leave work and glance down the street without meaning to. In the way the air feels heavier, like it’s waiting.

You don’t tell San.

Not because you don’t trust him. Not because you think he wouldn’t care.

Because saying it out loud would give Yunho shape again. Weight. Presence. Because you didn’t end things cleanly. You just left. You vanished. And part of you is afraid this is his way of answering that silence.

This isn’t over.

You tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

You keep living.

You go to the movies with San, sitting side by side in the dark, sharing popcorn. His arm resting along the back of your seat, close but careful. When something funny happens, you laugh at the same time. When something sad flickers across the screen, he glances at you first, always checking in.

You don’t tell him how every time the theater doors open, your body flinches.

You have dinner with your sister, listen to her complain about work, nod in the right places. You tell her you’re fine when she asks. You sound convincing enough that she lets it go.

On the walk home, you keep your keys threaded between your fingers without really thinking about it.

You get beers with San’s friends. Wooyoung loud and familiar. Jongho quiet, observant. You joke back. You almost feel normal.

Almost.

All week, the hum stays under your skin. Low. Constant. You catch your reflection in windows. You scan faces that blur past you. You tell yourself you’re tired. That stress does this.

But you know better.

Yunho never did anything without intention.

And whatever this is, you know one thing for certain. It isn’t a peace offering.

It happens late in the afternoon.

The bus stop is half-empty, the kind of liminal place no one really claims. The bench is cold beneath your thighs, metal seeping through denim. Cars pass in uneven waves. The air smells like exhaust and dust and heat.

You scroll on your phone without reading. Thumb moving. Mind somewhere else.

Someone sits down beside you.

You don’t look.

Why would you? It’s a public bench. People sit. Your heart doesn’t get to react like this. Your breath doesn’t get to stall.

But it does.

The presence beside you is wrong. Not loud. Not rushed. Just… settled. Too close without touching. Too still.

You stare at the cracked corner of your screen like it might anchor you.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Almost careful.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like missing a step.

You turn slowly. Deliberately. Like sudden movement might snap something fragile.

Yunho is sitting next to you, elbows on his knees, eyes forward. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t surprised to see you. He looks like someone waiting for a late bus.

Like this was inevitable.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

“You look tired,” he says finally.

Concern, perfectly measured.

“I’m fine,” you reply, too quickly.

He hums, a sound you remember too well. “You never were good at admitting that.”

Your fingers curl around your phone. “Why are you here.”

He turns to look at you then. His gaze feels like hands. Familiar. Appraising.

“I was worried,” he says easily. “You never answered.”

“I blocked you.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Annoyance, quickly smoothed away. 

“I figured.”

You stand. Your legs feel unsteady, but you don’t let him see it. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t move to follow you. That’s the trick. He lets the space between you stretch just enough to make you doubt yourself.

“I know you,” he says quietly, eyes still forward. “I know when something’s off.”

You laugh once, sharp and brittle. “You don’t know me anymore.”

His smile is small. Sad. Calculated. “You say that now.”

The bus approaches in the distance. Relief spikes in your chest.

“You always run when things get hard,” he continues, voice low. “That hasn’t changed.”

You step back. “Don’t talk to me.”

“San doesn’t really see you,” Yunho adds gently. “He’s good at being present. That’s not the same thing.”

Something old stirs in your chest. A reflex. A doubt you thought you’d buried.

“I’m happy,” you say, forcing the words out.

He finally looks at you fully, eyes sharp with something close to satisfaction.

“If that were true,” he says, “you wouldn’t look like you’re bracing.”

The bus hisses to a stop.

You don’t answer. You don’t wait. You climb aboard with your heart hammering, fingers white around the pole. Through the window, you see him still seated, watching the bus pull away like this went exactly as planned.

After that, you start noticing him.

Not immediately. Not every day.

Outside a café when you’re alone. Across the street, phone to his ear, expression neutral. At your usual bus stop, farther down the bench than before. Close enough to register. Far enough to deny.

Once, near San’s apartment. Half-hidden. Stationary.

You don’t stop.

That becomes the rule. You don’t slow. You don’t look. You don’t give him the satisfaction of your fear. When he says your name, soft and careful, you let it dissolve into traffic noise.

Sometimes he follows for half a block.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

That’s worse.

Sometimes it isn’t him at all.

A man with the same build crossing the street sends your pulse skidding. Laughter behind you sounds wrong. Too close. You catch your reflection in windows and mistake your own shadow for his, breath locking until you force yourself forward.

Your body learns him before your mind can correct it.

You change routes. Leave earlier. Wait longer. You keep your phone unlocked in your hand, thumb hovering. You stop wearing headphones.

When it really is him, when the certainty settles heavy and undeniable in your chest, you feel it instantly. The air tightens. Your vision narrows.

You don’t run.

You walk faster.

Once, close enough that his voice ghosts your ear, he says, “I just want to talk.”

You don’t answer.

He never raises his voice. Never touches. Never demands.

He doesn’t want you back, he wants you reachable.

That night, you sit beside San on the couch, your knee pressed into his thigh. He’s solid. Warm. The apartment smells like fried rice and soy sauce, takeout containers stacked on the coffee table like proof of an ordinary evening. A bad movie flickers on the TV. Someone screams. Someone laughs.

None of it reaches you.

San passes you a drink without asking. You take it.

Your fingers shake. Not enough to spill. Just enough.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you mean it. Mostly.

The crack is there, though. Fine as a hairline fracture, running quietly through your chest. You keep your eyes on the screen like not looking might keep it from spreading.

San doesn’t push. He never does. He shifts instead, barely, angling toward you. His knee presses more firmly into yours. An anchor.

You breathe.

You reach for something small. Normal. “They’re reopening that café on Fifth.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Saw the sign.”

The silence waits. Patient.

Your grip tightens around the glass.

“He’s back.”

The words land wrong. Too heavy for how softly they fall.

San stills.

“What do you mean, back.”

“Yunho.”

The name changes the air.

San’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle. Anyone else would miss it. You don’t.

“He texted. I blocked him. Then flowers showed up at work. With his name.” Your voice speeds up, afraid of stopping. “I threw them away. Every time. Then he started… appearing.”

San turns fully toward you.

“Appearing how.”

“At first I thought I was imagining it,” you say, almost apologetic. “But I wasn’t. Bus stops. Outside the café. Once near your place.” You shake your head, a small, sharp motion. “He talks like nothing happened. Like he’s worried. Like he knows me better than anyone.”

Your skin crawls just saying it.

San’s anger doesn’t explode. It focuses. You see it in the way his hand curls slowly against his thigh.

“Did he touch you,” he asks.

“No.”

“Did he threaten you.”

“No.” A beat. “Not like that.”

San exhales through his nose, sharp. His eyes never leave your face. 

“But he scared you.”

You laugh, breathless and wrong. 

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“You don’t shake like this for nothing.”

Something loosens in your chest. Relief hits harder than fear.

“I feel stupid,” you whisper. “Like noticing him is letting him back in.”

San takes the glass from your hands and sets it down. His fingers brush yours, grounding.

“Hey,” he says. Softer now. “Look at me.”

You do.

Whatever he sees there makes something in his chest break open. His thumb presses lightly against your knuckle. Careful. Asking.

“You’re not stupid,” he says. “You’re scared. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t tell you because saying it out loud makes it real.”

“It already is.”

He shifts closer, solid as a wall.

Silence settles again, heavier this time, but not empty. San shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours, solid as a wall.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters, aching.

You shake your head immediately. 

“No. San, you couldn’t have.”

“I won’t let him do this to you,” San says. Quiet. Absolute. “Not again.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” Your voice catches. “I just want to feel normal again.”

“Then let me help,” he says. “Let me walk you home. Let me be there.” His voice roughens. “Just let me.”

You hesitate. Old instincts flaring. Independence. Survival. The fear of being a burden.

Then you think of the bus stop. The shadows. The way your body learned fear without asking you first.

You nod.

His hand tightens around yours like he’s been waiting his whole life.

At first, it feels like relief.

San walks you home every night. No questions. No negotiation. He waits outside your building until your lights turn on. Sometimes longer. Sometimes until you text him a thumbs-up from bed.

He starts picking you up from work.

“I was nearby,” he says, every time. You stop asking how nearby is nearby.

He learns your schedule by heart. Your bus times. Your late days. The places you like to stop on the way home. If you linger too long somewhere, his phone buzzes in his pocket before you’ve even noticed the time.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Just checking.”

He sits where he can see the door. Always. Restaurants. Movie theaters. Bars. His body angles instinctively between you and the world. A shield you never asked for, but don’t know how to refuse.

You’re grateful. You tell yourself that over and over. Grateful people don’t complain. Grateful people don’t feel tight in their own chest.

But slowly, the fear changes shape.

It’s no longer Yunho you’re checking for in reflections and windows.

It’s San. 

Not his presence. His absence.

You catch yourself timing things so you won’t worry him. Leaving early so he doesn’t wait. You start explaining yourself before he asks.

“I stayed late.”

“I took a different route.”

“I forgot to text, sorry.”

San never says you have to. He just looks tired.

You wake up to missed calls when your phone dies. You find him outside your building once, pacing, phone clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

“I thought—” He stops himself. Swallows. “I couldn’t reach you.”

Guilt blooms faster than fear.

“I’m sorry.”

He pulls you into his arms. Holds you too tight. Just for a second.

San starts shrinking his life around you. Cancels plans. Leaves early. His world narrowing to the radius of your safety.

He’s exhausted. He’s in love. He’s terrified.

Not of Yunho.

Of failing. Of missing the moment. Of not being there when it matters. Of fact that you’re not his, not really.

Jealous of a danger he can’t punch.

So he holds tighter.

And one night, sitting there with him, you realize your shoulders haven’t dropped all evening.

Your phone is face-up on the table. Your replies already written in your head, rehearsed. His presence is warm and solid at your side, familiar as breathing.

You are safe.

And somehow, you feel watched. Not by malice. By love that’s forgotten how to let go.

The pressure doesn’t explode. It doesn’t demand attention.

It settles.

It lives in the quiet moments. In the way your chest feels tight even when nothing is wrong. In the way gratitude starts to taste like panic. In the fear that if you lean any harder, you’ll disappear into him entirely.

That’s when the space begins.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

You stop reaching for him first. Stop resting your head on his shoulder during movie nights. In the car, your hands stay in your lap instead of drifting toward the console where his always waits, open, patient.

San notices everything. He just doesn’t say anything.

You still smile at him. Still go out together. Still laugh at Wooyoung’s jokes, still walk beside him on the street. But there’s a carefulness now, a new distance that feels intentional even when you don’t mean it to be.

You need air.

Not from him. From the feeling of being held together so tightly you can’t tell where you end anymore. 

Being someone’s center feels dangerous when you’re still trying to remember how to stand on your own.

The distance doesn’t announce itself.

It lives in the almosts.

In the way San’s hand still reaches for yours out of habit, then hesitates when it finds empty air. In the way he shifts closer on the couch and you stay exactly where you are, like movement might start something you don’t know how to finish.

One night, halfway through a movie neither of you is watching, San’s fingers hover near your wrist.

Not grabbing. Never grabbing. Waiting.

You feel it. The heat of him. The quiet question suspended in the space between your skin and his. You don’t pull away.

You just don’t move closer.

His hand drops back to his thigh.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s teaching himself how to swallow something sharp.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Careful. Too careful.

You smile on instinct. “Yeah.”

It’s the same answer you’ve been giving for weeks. It lands between you like a thin sheet of glass. Clear. Fragile.

He nods, eyes back on the screen. He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. You can also tell he’s trying very hard to respect something he doesn’t understand.

The apartment feels smaller lately.

Not physically. Emotionally. Like the walls have learned how to lean. San keeps checking his phone, then glancing at you, like he’s bracing for something neither of you has said out loud yet.

You feel it too. The pressure. The sense that one wrong word might tip everything.

You stand first. The decision arrives quietly, born from self-preservation rather than defiance.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” you say, forcing lightness into your voice. “Just need some air.”

San looks up too fast.

“I can come with you,” he says immediately, already reaching for his jacket.

You shake your head. Small. Polite. Apologetic. “No. I just want to walk.”

“Then I’ll wait outside,” he says. “Or we can just—”

“San.”

He stops.

“Please,” you add, softer. “I just need a minute.”

“Alone?” His voice cracks on the word.

There it is.

You hesitate. Long enough for everything unsaid to rush in and fill the room.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just around the block.”

His jaw tightens. You see him swallow something sharp.

“Why?”

You shrug, already reaching for your jacket, already bracing. “Because I want to.”

The couch creaks as he stands. Too fast. The sound startles both of you.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” he asks, frustration finally breaking through the careful tone he’s been using for weeks.

The words land wrong. Heavy. Like an accusation.

You turn fully this time.

“Because I’m not a problem to manage.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Silence drops between you. Thick. Brittle. The kind that feels like it might shatter if anyone breathes too hard.

San drags a hand through his hair, pacing once. Then again. He looks everywhere but at you.

“You disappear,” he says finally. “You don’t tell me where you’re going. You pull away and expect me to just—what—sit here?”

“I’m not disappearing,” you say, even as something tightens in your chest. “I’m right here.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re leaving?”

Because I am, a voice answers inside you.  Because staying feels like losing myself.

“I need space,” you say instead. “I need to feel like me again.”

His breath stutters.

Fear curdles into something uglier before he can stop it. Old helplessness. Old jealousy. The memory of watching you hurt while someone else held pieces of you.

It slips out, poisonous and precise.

“Maybe you like the attention,” he says. “Maybe that’s why you never really shut him down.”

You freeze.

San realizes it instantly. The moment his words land, his eyes widen, horror flooding in too late.

The silence that follows is brutal. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just dead.

Your face closes in on itself. Something shutters behind your eyes so fast it scares him.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

Your hands are shaking now. Not visibly. Inside. Like something foundational has cracked straight through. You gave him the truth. You trusted him with your fear. And he turned it against you.

“I told you because I trusted you,” you say. “Because I thought you knew me.”

“I do know you,” he says desperately. “That’s not—”

“No,” you cut in, voice breaking anyway. “You know the version of me that needs you. And you hate it when I try to be anything else.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh, sharp and wounded. “Neither was that.”

He has nothing left to say. Words pile uselessly behind his teeth.

“I was scared,” he admits. “I am scared.”

You nod, tears blurring your vision. “So am I.”

You grab your keys. Your jacket. The last pieces of yourself you still recognize.

“Don’t,” he says, voice cracking. “Please.”

You pause at the door. Hand on the handle. You don’t turn around.

“You hurt me,” you say quietly. “And I don’t know how to unhear that.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

San sinks back onto the couch like his bones have been pulled out. The apartment feels wrong without you. Too big. Too empty.

Maybe you like the attention.

The words replay. Over and over. Each time sharper. Meaner. More unforgivable. He presses his palms to his eyes.

He promised himself he’d never be that person. And now the apartment is silent. And he is alone with the sound of himself ruining everything.

San doesn’t move for a long time. The night stretches thin around him, every sound too loud, every memory too sharp. He thinks, stupidly, that if he stays still enough, the moment might rewind. That the door might open again. That you might come back angry instead of gone.

You don’t.

At first, being alone feels temporary.

Like a pause. Like holding your breath between moments. You move through the apartment with the quiet confidence that this is just a reset, that the world will knock soon enough. A text. A distraction. A reason to leave.

But nothing comes.

Your phone stays dark. The hallway outside your door remains empty. The silence doesn’t shift to make room for you. It settles instead, heavy and unmoving, and eventually you realize it isn’t waiting for you to catch up.

So you learn it.

You learn the sound the apartment makes when it’s only you. The way the floor creaks near the bathroom, the way the refrigerator hums at night like it’s aware of your breathing. You learn how long it takes for the air to cool after sunset, how wide the dark feels without another body to break it up.

You learn how to cook without narrating what you’re doing. How to eat without looking up, without expecting someone to comment, to smile, to share. You sit on the couch and keep your hands folded in your lap because reaching out only reminds you of what isn’t there anymore.

You tell yourself this is good.

Necessary.

You tell yourself that being alone is different from being abandoned. That choosing space is not the same as being left behind. You repeat it until the words dull around the edges, until they almost sound believable.

Almost.

The apartment changes once you’ve been alone long enough.

It’s subtle at first. The air feels thicker, like it’s holding its breath with you. The quiet starts to feel intentional, like it’s waiting for something to interrupt it. You catch yourself pausing mid-step, listening, heart ticking louder than the room.

The first delivery makes your stomach drop before you even see it.

The cup sits outside your door, untouched. Same place. Same brand. The coffee he used to order for you without asking, sweetened the way you stopped liking years ago. Your name is written on the receipt. Not printed. Written.

You don’t bring it inside.

You leave it there until the cup sweats through and the smell turns sour in the hallway. When you finally throw it away, you scrub your hands until the skin burns, like whatever touched you might still be there if you don’t.

The letters come next.

Always under the doormat. Always addressed in handwriting you recognize instantly, no matter how long it’s been. You never open them. You slide them into a drawer you don’t use, convincing yourself that containment is the same thing as distance.

You start leaving the apartment less.

Not intentionally. Not at first. You just keep finding reasons not to go. The grocery run can wait. The trash isn’t full yet. You tell yourself you’ll go later, when the light changes, when the street feels safer.

It never does.

Somehow, Yunho adjusts. The timing shifts. Deliveries come earlier. Notes appear closer together. Like he’s listening to the rhythm of your fear and tuning himself to it.

You draw the curtains at noon.

You keep the lights low. You move quietly, absurdly convinced that stillness might make you invisible. When you sleep, it’s shallow and sharp-edged. When you don’t, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, seeing his face every time you blink.

Sometimes it is him.

Sometimes it’s only the memory, warped and persistent, pressing in from the inside until you can’t tell which one is worse.

You stop trusting your own thoughts.

Your phone rings one afternoon.

San.

The sound punches the air out of your chest. You stare at his name on the screen, at the familiarity of it, at the way your thumb hovers just above the answer button, aching.

He wouldn’t be calling to fight. You know that.

He’d be calling to apologize. To explain. To tell you he was scared and wrong and didn’t mean it the way it came out. To say your name the way he always does when he’s careful with it.

You should pick up.

You should let him try.

But the thought of hearing his voice makes something in you fold inward. Because the person you love shouldn’t have to explain why he hurt you. Because apologies don’t pull words back out once they’ve lodged themselves in your chest. Because you didn’t pull away to be chased, you pulled away to breathe.

Because you were being yourself.

And he made that feel dangerous.

The phone stops ringing.

You sit with the silence it leaves behind, hands clenched, heart uneven. You tell yourself this isn’t cruelty. It isn’t punishment. It’s self-preservation, finally pointed in the right direction.

You can love him and still not be ready. You can understand where the fear came from and still refuse to absorb it. You can want him to try and still need time before you let him succeed.

So you stay inside. You lock the door. You let the quiet stand.

Not because you don’t miss him. But because this time, choosing yourself has to mean something.

The fear doesn’t disappear.

It changes shape.

It stops pointing outward and turns inward, starts asking questions in a voice that sounds uncomfortably like your own. Tells you maybe you misunderstood things. Maybe you leaned too hard. Maybe you mistook being cared for as being allowed. 

Maybe love has rules everyone else understands instinctively, and you’re the only one who keeps breaking them.

You think about Yunho.

Only for a moment.

Not with longing. With a kind of sick curiosity. He’s cruel. He’s manipulative. You know that now, know it in the way your chest tightens and your body braces without permission.

But he’s consistent.

He shows up.

The thought makes your stomach twist. You hate yourself for noticing it. For cataloguing it. For letting your brain draw lines you don’t want connected.

You curl deeper into the couch, phone slipping from your hand and wedging between the cushions where you leave it on purpose. Unreachable feels safer. Invisible feels possible. You tell yourself silence can still pass for protection.

You don’t notice when the room darkens. You don’t turn on the lights.

You let the memories come instead.

San’s laugh. His hand steady on the wheel. The quiet comfort of doing nothing together. The smell of laundry soap on clean sheets. Summer nights that didn’t ask anything from you. The way being beside him felt like gravity, constant without pressure.

You hold onto those moments like proof.

Because if that wasn’t real, then you don’t know what is.

The quiet stretches. Doubt settles in. Yunho lingers at the edges of your thoughts, not loud, not sharp. Just present enough to make you second-guess yourself. To make you replay moments you already understand, searching for mistakes that might explain everything.

You sink into the couch.

Not because you want to.

Because staying upright feels like a skill you forgot when you weren’t looking.

The gifts keep coming.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough to register.

A coffee left at the front desk. A small bag with your name written neatly on it. Flowers once, bright and apologetic in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The doorman still smiles at you. Still nods. Still says hello the same way he always has.

You realize, too late, that he smiles at Yunho the same way.

That he lets him in because he recognizes him. Because he trusts him. Because you once did.

The realization lands wrong. Sharp. Violating.

Your apartment stops feeling sealed. The walls feel thinner. The lock feels decorative.

You stop trusting the mirror after that. Stop trusting your own judgment. Stop trusting the version of yourself who thought she knew how to tell the difference between safe and familiar.

You tell yourself you’re overreacting.

You’ve gotten good at that.

Time keeps moving anyway. Not forward. Just through you.

You run out of food on a Tuesday.

The fridge hums, empty and loud. The cupboards echo when you open them. Your stomach twists hard enough to demand attention. Hunger wins where fear hasn’t.

You stand in the kitchen too long, keys clenched in your fist, breathing like you’re about to step off something high.

Daylight feels safer. You tell yourself that.

You leave your phone on the counter. Not because you’re brave. Because you’re tired of it vibrating with a name you don’t know how to answer.

Outside, the world is painfully normal.

Dogs being walked. Cars passing. Someone laughing into their phone. The sun bright enough to hurt your eyes. You keep your head down, shoulders tight, steps quick.

You think you see him once, across the street. Similar build. Dark hair.

Your heart lurches. You stop breathing until he turns, until his face is wrong. A stranger.

You keep walking.

It happens again. And again.

Your brain has learned his shape too well. It keeps offering it up, over and over, like a warning that refuses to shut off.

By the time you leave the small grocery store, plastic bag cutting into your palm, your hands are shaking.

That’s when you feel it.

Not sight. Not sound. A shift.

The space beside you changes, like the air thickens, like something steps into your orbit without asking. Your body recognizes it before your mind does.

“Hello, beautiful,” Yunho says softly, right at your side.

Too close. Close enough that you can smell his cologne. Close enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

You don’t turn right away.

Your muscles lock. Your stomach drops. The street noise dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world.

This is not violence.

It’s worse.

It’s intrusion. It’s familiarity used as a weapon. It’s him acting like he belongs here.

“You shouldn’t be out alone,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. The kind of tone people use when they want credit for caring. “You look exhausted.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grocery bag.

You turn.

It’s really him. Fully. Solid. Real. Not a shadow. Not your paranoia. He’s standing angled toward you, shoulder placed just right to narrow the sidewalk, posture relaxed like he belongs here. Like he didn’t memorize your routine. Like he hasn’t been waiting.

“Don’t,” you say.

Your voice doesn’t shake.

That surprises you.

His smile falters for half a second before settling back into something smaller, tighter. “I was worried about you.”

“I know,” you answer evenly. “That’s the problem.”

He chuckles under his breath, indulgent. “You always do this. You take things too seriously. I’m just checking in.”

“I don’t want you in my life.”

The words land clean. No apology. No softness.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

Then something shifts. Not rage. Calculation.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice cooler now. Firmer. “You’re upset. You’re alone. You always say things you regret when you get like this.”

You recognize it instantly. The rewriting. The way he narrates you back to yourself like he owns the script.

You think of San’s couch. The way he never crowded you. The way his hand was always there without ever closing around you. The way love felt steady instead of watchful.

“I won’t regret this,” you say. “I regret letting you think you still had access to me.”

Yunho steps closer.

You step back.

“You’re alone,” he says quietly. “You pushed everyone away. I’m the only one who actually stayed.”

The lie is almost gentle.

“You’re making a mistake,” he adds. No smile now. “You don’t do well without someone looking out for you.”

“That’s not your job.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, irritation bleeding through the cracks. “You really want to do this here?”

His hand closes around your wrist.

Hard.

Not tentative. Not asking. Fingers digging in with purpose, like he’s claiming something that slipped. The pain is sharp and immediate. Your grocery bag jerks, cans clattering loudly inside.

“I’m trying to help you,” he snaps, voice low and furious. “You don’t get to cut me off like I never mattered.”

There it is.

Not concern. Possession.

“Let go of me,” you say, breath coming faster now.

His grip tightens instead, thumb pressing into a spot that makes your arm go weak. “Stop acting like I’m the enemy.”

You shove at his chest with your free hand.

He barely moves.

Instead, he steps in closer, crowding you back until your shoulder brushes brick. Not pinned. Just enough to remind you he can.

“You always do this,” he hisses. “You provoke, then panic. And then you blame me.”

Something inside you snaps loose.

Not courage.

Not panic.

Clarity, stripped raw by exhaustion.

You twist hard, the grocery bag tearing free and hitting the pavement. Cans scatter. Something glass shatters, sharp and loud. His grip jerks reflexively, yanking you forward, fingers bruising now, control finally slipping.

You don’t think.

You react.

Your palm connects with his face, the sound loud and wrong in the open air.

For a heartbeat, the world freezes.

Yunho staggers back, shock flashing across his features before it curdles into humiliation and fury. His hand flies to his cheek. His eyes are wild now, stripped bare.

“You bitch—”

That’s enough.

You don’t wait for the rest.

You turn and run, heart slamming, lungs burning, feet hitting pavement hard and fast. You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

You already know he’s watching.

You run until your feet barely feel like they belong to you anymore. Until your thighs burn. Until your breath tears in and out of you like it might split you open.

You don’t feel powerful. You feel wrecked.

But his grip is gone.

And for the first time in weeks, the fear isn’t chasing you. It’s behind you, losing ground with every step, thinning into something that can’t quite keep up.

Your body keeps moving anyway.

It turns corners without asking. Crosses streets on instinct. You don’t check signs. You don’t count blocks. You don’t think about where you’re going, only that stopping feels impossible.

Your chest burns. Your hands shake. Your vision blurs at the edges.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, the truth settles in your ribs, heavy and unavoidable.

You don’t want Yunho.

You want San.

Not because you’re afraid. Because now, painfully clearly, you understand what love is not supposed to feel like.

You slow only when your lungs start to protest, when your legs threaten to fold. You stop because there’s nowhere left to run to.

You look up.

San’s building.

The sight of it knocks the breath clean out of you, sharper than the run ever did. Like your body knew before you did where it was going. Like it’s been carrying you here all along.

Your grocery bag is gone. Your hands are shaking so badly you have to knock with your knuckles instead of your fist.

Once.

That’s all you manage.

The door opens and whatever you were holding together caves in on itself.

You’re crying before you can speak. Before he can say your name. Your knees buckle and he catches you on instinct, arms wrapping around you so fast it’s like his body never learned how to do anything else.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking immediately. “Hey, hey—”

You clutch his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you everything. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to make it real.”

San’s hands tremble against your back. His breath shudders against your hair.

He pulls you fully inside and kicks the door shut behind him, hard. The sound echoes. Final. Like the outside doesn’t get to touch you anymore.

You stay standing only because he’s holding you there. Your legs tremble, useless, your weight sagging into him like you’ve run out of structure.

“He cornered me again,” you whisper into his shoulder. “I tried to ignore him. I tried to be normal. I tried—” Your voice fractures. “He grabbed me.”

San goes still.

Not with anger.

With devastation.

His breath leaves him in a rough, broken exhale. His forehead drops against your shoulder, his grip tightening like he’s bracing himself against something unbearable.

“I wasn’t there,” he says hoarsely. “I knew something was wrong and I still let you walk away.”

“That’s not—”

“I should have shut my mouth and pulled you closer,” he cuts in, voice shaking now. “I should have listened instead of projecting my fear onto you. I said the one thing I knew would hurt, and I’ve been living with it every second since.”

You pull back just enough to see his face.

His eyes are red-rimmed, wet. There’s no defense in him. No justification. Just naked guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming fast, desperate. “I’m so fucking sorry. I knew the moment it left my mouth that I’d crossed something I couldn’t take back. I hate that I made you feel alone.”

“I didn’t want to be managed,” you whisper. “I just wanted to breathe.”

He nods immediately. “I know. God, I know.”

Your chest tightens.

“I was alone,” you whisper. “I was so alone.”

He nods, tears spilling freely now. “I know. And that’s on me. I’ve been terrified you’d never come back. Terrified I’d broken the one place you were supposed to feel safe.”

His hands come up to your face, hesitant for half a second, then firm, like he’s finally choosing you instead of his fear.

He swallows. Hard. Like saying this costs him something he’s been guarding his whole life.

“I’ve loved you since before I understood what love was,” he confesses, voice fraying at the edges. “And when I saw you slipping away, I panicked. I thought I lost you forever.”

Your strength drains all at once. Your forehead drops to his collarbone, exhaustion pulling you under.

San adjusts instantly, grounding you, holding you like this is something sacred and fragile.

“I hated seeing the person I love disappear in front of me,” he continues, voice barely holding together. “And I didn’t know how to protect you without smothering you. I didn’t know how to help without losing you.”

You swallow hard.

“We’ve been doing this forever,” you murmur. “Being careful. Not pushing. Not naming it. Because what we had was safe.”

He exhales a broken laugh against your hair. “We were two kids who thought loving each other out loud would ruin everything.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

“You were never going to,” he says immediately. “But I still made you feel like you had.”

San pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping tears with hands that are still shaking.

“I want you to give yourself to me,” he says, pleading now. “I need you to know this. I want you to choose me only if you want to. Not because you’re scared. Not because you need somewhere to land.”

His voice breaks completely now.

“I want you because I love you. Because I always have. Because even when you were gone, even when I thought I’d lost you, loving you never stopped.”

You break, quieter this time.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I never stopped either.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please let me love you right. Let me be here without owning you. Let me protect you without taking your air. Let me choose you properly.”

You nod weakly, tears soaking into his shirt as you curl into him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs over and over. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s ugly. It’s raw. It hurts.

But his arms don’t loosen.

And for the first time in weeks, the fear loosens its grip just enough for you to breathe.

Not healed. But held.

You’re both shaking now. Not just you.

You feel it in him too, in the way his breath stutters against your hair, in the way his hold tightens and adjusts, like he’s afraid you might slip through his hands if he loosens even a little.

You pull back first.

Not far. Just enough to breathe.

Your foreheads touch by accident. A soft knock. Both of you freeze, startled, then stay there anyway. Close enough that your noses brush. Close enough that your breaths tangle, uneven and damp. Tears track down your cheeks and smear against his skin. Neither of you moves to wipe them away.

“So tired,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says immediately. His voice is rough but steady. “I’ve got you.”

Something in you loosens too much, too fast.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” you say, words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I kept thinking if I just handled it better, if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t make it anyone else’s problem—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, forehead still pressed to yours. “You don’t need to—”

“I didn’t want to need you,” you continue anyway, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to become someone who only survives because you’re there, and then suddenly I was alone and I didn’t even recognize myself and I—”

“Stop,” he whispers. Not sharp. Not angry. Gentle. Pleading. “You’re not failing. You’re exhausted.”

Your knees wobble.

San feels it instantly. His arm firms around your back, the other hand coming up to cradle the base of your neck, grounding you, anchoring you.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he says quietly. “Not right now. Not to me.”

Your mouth opens again, instinctively, like there’s still something you’re supposed to confess, something you’re supposed to fix.

San doesn’t let you.

He leans in.

The kiss happens wrong.

Your teeth knock. Your lips miss, then find each other again, clumsy and wet with tears and breath. You sob against his mouth, like you don’t know where else to put everything that’s spilling out of you.

San exhales into the kiss, low and unsteady, and pulls you closer. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers spreading protectively through your hair. The other presses firm against your spine, holding you together like he’s afraid you’ll come apart if he doesn’t.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t pretty.

It’s necessary.

Your breaths tangle. Your lips shake. He kisses you like this is the only way to tell you he’s here. Like words have failed and this is what’s left. Like he needs you to feel him choosing you back.

You cling to him, fingers curling into his shirt, body sagging fully into his now that you’ve finally stopped fighting gravity.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only far enough to press his mouth to your cheek, your temple, your forehead. Anywhere he can reach. His lips reverent and frantic all at once.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

You breathe him in. You let yourself rest against him.

When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Clearer.

“This isn’t me choosing you because I’m afraid,” you say. “Or because you’re here. I need you to know that.”

His brow furrows, attention sharpening.

“I’m choosing you because I want to,” you continue. “Because I always have. I just stopped pretending I didn’t.”

He swallows hard. His thumb presses gently at the base of your neck.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says softly. “You never did.”

A shaky breath leaves you. Relief mixes with grief, but it doesn’t overwhelm you this time.

“I know what comes next might still hurt,” you say. “And I know I’m not fixed. But I don’t want to do it alone anymore.”

San rests his forehead against yours again, solid and sure.

“Then don’t,” he says. “Stay. That’s enough.”

No promises. No vows.

Just truth.

You stay there, close enough to feel each other breathe, the worst of the shaking easing into something manageable. Outside, the world keeps moving. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the street. Nothing pauses for you, and somehow that makes it easier to believe this can exist without breaking.

Whatever comes next will come.

This isn’t starting over. It’s finally choosing what’s been waiting all along.

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“Or watch,” you muttered under your breath, teasing, joking, half testing him which made Yunho’s dark eyes flick up to yours, slow and heated. “Would that bother you?” he murmured, pressing closer, his hand slipping lower now, to your hip. “If he did?” Your breath caught. “You’d be so quiet for me, wouldn’t you?” he said, voice lower now, lips brushing your ear. “So good.” His fingers moved again, slipping between your thighs now, barely touching, just enough to make your whole body ache as his fingers trailed slow and deliberate down the curve of your hip, barely brushing beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“Turn over,” he murmured, voice husky against your temple. You blinked, breath stalling. “What?” He nuzzled closer, lips skimming your cheek, your jaw. “On your stomach,” he whispered. “It’ll be quieter.” You swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward Mingi’s sleeping form. He hadn’t moved an inch, blanket tangled at his waist, mouth slightly open. Dead to the world. Still… “Yunho…” His hand slid lower, palm heavy as it squeezed your ass beneath the sheets. “You’ll keep your face in the pillow, and I won’t let the bed move.” His voice dipped even deeper, dark and slow like honey. “I’ll fuck you slow, baby. You just have to be good for me.”

You hated how fast your body responded, heat pooling between your legs, your breath already shaky. “But….”

“Do you trust me?”

Your heart thudded as you nodded.

“Then turn over.”

The sheets rustled softly as you rolled onto your stomach, cheek pressed into the cool pillowcase. Your pulse fluttered as Yunho eased the covers down your body, his hand dragging them slowly off your back and your hips. He bent low, lips pressing to your spine. “So quiet for me,” he murmured, kissing a trail down your back. “So good…” his hand slid back up your spine, this time bunching the oversized shirt you wore, his shirt, higher and higher until it was caught just beneath your breasts so he could lean over you, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, the weight of his body sinking deliciously against yours.

You felt him shift behind you, the unmistakable brush of him thick and hard, pressing between your thighs as he lined himself up. “I missed this,” he breathed, dragging the tip of his dick through your folds once… twice… before he pushed forward, slow, achingly slow and you gasped because you couldn’t help it as he filled you, the stretch so deep and perfect that your mouth parted in a soft, helpless moan.

Yunho froze for a second, buried inside you to the hilt before he chuckled low under his breath, his lips at your ear. “Baby…” he murmured, amusement laced with warning. “You trying to wake him up?” You whimpered into the pillow, biting your lip as he pulled out just enough to make you ache, then slid back in slow, grinding his hips against you with a low exhale. “I said quiet,” he whispered, his hand slipping beneath your shirt to palm your breast, fingers teasing your nipple until you were trembling. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You nodded into the pillow, your hands clutching the sheets as he started to move again, deep, slow thrusts that lit fire across every nerve. “You feel too good not to be loud,” he teased, his voice smug now, hips rolling smoother, harder. “But you don’t want Mingi to know how good I’m fucking you, do you?” Another quiet moan slipped out and Yunho grinned. “Thought so.”

You whimpered as he buried himself deeper. Every slow thrust had your body trembling beneath him, your legs spread just wide enough under the sheets to let him move the way he wanted, deliberate, controlled and deep. His hand remained curled under your shirt, cupping your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until your hips jerked back into him like muscle memory and another moan slipped from your lips, soft, breathy and desperate. And then Yunho’s hand moved. Smooth and sudden, he slid it from your breast up to your mouth, covering it gently but firmly.

“Shhh,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow whisper of smoke. “I told you to be quiet.” Your eyes fluttered shut. The weight of his body behind you, the heat of his hand over your mouth, the slow press of his dick filling you again and again, it was too much, too good, too risky. And across the room, Mingi shifted in the other bed making Yunho go still immediately, still buried inside you, hand frozen over your mouth. The only sound was the hum of the AC and the thunder in your ears.

Then… nothing. Mingi just turned over, muttered something incoherent in his sleep, and settled back into steady, oblivious breathing as Yunho leaned down, his chest against your back now, voice low and sinful. “Told you,” he whispered, lips curving into a smirk against your skin. “Even if he did wake up, he’d just go back to sleep.” But he didn’t pull his hand away. If anything, he pressed it firmer against your mouth, his other hand gripping your hip as he began to move again, slower, deeper thrusts that dragged along every inch of you.

He fucked you like he had all night, like his best friend wasn’t sleeping just a few feet away. Every time you gasped, he gave you a warning squeeze. Every time your body tightened around him, he whispered praise against your neck. “You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his pace never faltering. “So quiet, even when I know you wanna scream.”

Yunho’s thrusts stayed slow, but they’d grown heavier, more intentional. His hand stayed wrapped over your mouth, palm damp with the soundless moans you kept trying not to let out. The other was anchored at your hip now, keeping you in place, guiding every roll of his hips into yours with precision. He was breathing harder now, quiet exhales brushing your shoulder as he bent over you, his chest pressing to your back, his dick dragging deep with each measured thrust. And you didn’t hear it. You didn’t see it. But Yunho did.

A shift across the room. A faint creak of mattress springs. A sudden absence of snoring. Yunho glanced up from the curve of your spine, eyes lifting just over your shoulder toward the other bed and froze. Mingi. Eyes half lidded, face barely visible in the shadows. Awake and watching. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared across the dark room, one hand resting under the covers, the other loosely curled by his face. His expression was unreadable, half asleep or maybe just mesmerized, but he made no effort to look away.

And Yunho held the stare. His lips curled into the faintest smirk as he gave one slow, deliberate thrust, his hips grinding into you just enough to make your eyes roll back, a soft whimper muffled against his hand. You didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t notice the way Yunho’s attention was split now, half on you, half on his best friend watching silently from the dark as he bent lower again, lips brushing your ear. “You’re doing so good,” he whispered, voice silk and fire. “Being so quiet for me.”

And then, eyes still locked on Mingi’s, he thrust again, deeper this time and Mingi’s fingers twitched beneath the sheet making Yunho’s grin deepen. But you? You were too far gone, blissfully unaware, face buried in the pillow, body arching back into every punishingly slow stroke as Yunho licked his lips, gaze never breaking because he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t look away. Not when Mingi’s eyes stayed on him. Not when the blanket over Mingi shifted just slightly, just enough to catch the movement of his hand sliding lower beneath the sheets.

He watched. Controlled. Kept his rhythm steady. All while you writhed beneath him, unaware that your entire body had become a private performance. For him. And now for Mingi as well. You whimpered again, eyes squeezed shut, back arching helplessly against the slow, possessive drag of Yunho’s dick inside you. His hand was still over your mouth, his other gripping your hip so tight it would bruise by morning. His breath hitched once as he watched the outline of Mingi’s hand begin to move, slow and steady, under the blanket.

Yunho’s lips brushed your ear again, voice low, but there was something else behind it now. A sharpness. “You’re taking me so well, baby,” he whispered, just loud enough for both of you to hear. “So wet for me… always so ready.” You let out a muffled moan, head turning toward the pillow, desperate and overstimulated as Yunho’s gaze flicked back to Mingi. Still watching. Still moving under the sheets, hand clearly wrapped around his own dick. Good.

Without warning, Yunho slowly pulled out of you. You whimpered in protest, wriggling your hips back toward him, but he was already moving, shifting, rolling you onto your back with careful hands making You blink up at him, dazed. “Yunho?” He shushed you with a kiss, slow and soft, one hand brushing your hair out of your face. “Shhh. Want to see you.” Before you could answer, his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open, lifting your legs up, bending them at the knees and hooking them over his broad shoulders.

You gasped. The stretch. The angle. The intimacy of it. Was almost overwhelming as he pushed back in making your hands fly to your mouth, eyes wide as his dick slid back inside you with one slow, perfect thrust. Yunho groaned, quiet but guttural, his eyes never leaving yours. His grip on your thighs tightened, jaw flexing as he pulled almost all the way out and pushed in again, deeper, smoother, harder. “You’re so tight like this,” he rasped. “So fucking perfect.”

You could barely breathe, barely think, caught between the sweet stretch and the shameful thrill of getting fucked just feet away from your boyfriend’s best friend. But he wasn’t sleeping. Mingi’s eyes were wide now, the blanket tugged a little higher up his chest as his hand moved steadily beneath it. He was panting, trying to stay silent, trying not to move the bed. And Yunho was watching every second of it like it was his own personal reward. He looked back down at you, smiling through grit teeth. “Look at you,” he whispered. “Trying so hard not to scream for me.”

You bit your lip hard. Your whole body was coiled tight, legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, your nails digging into the sheets. And Yunho leaned down, folding you in half more, driving even deeper as his voice dropped to a murmur, for your ears alone. But his eyes stayed on Mingi. “You’re mine.” He murmured against your skin, his voice rough, ragged, but controlled just like everything else about him.

You moaned, quiet and ruined, your hands gripping the sheets like you were trying to stay grounded. And then he grinned. That crooked, dangerous grin he only wore when he knew he had all the power. “And my best friend,” he whispered, dipping closer, his lips brushing your jaw as his voice dropped to a low, amused purr, “is getting himself off to us right now.”

Your eyes flew open. “WHAT?” You tried to turn your head, but Yunho caught your jaw, holding it gently, kissing the corner of your mouth like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in your chest. “Mmm mmm,” he murmured, voice like velvet sin. “Eyes on me, baby.” And then he started to really move. Not slow this time. Not soft. He drove into you with one powerful thrust, then another, his hips slamming against the back of your thighs with each stroke, the angle hitting so deep it had your mouth falling open in a silent cry.

“Now you’re being loud,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “What happened to being quiet for me, huh?” You whimpered, blinking through tears as your entire body rocked beneath him as he leaned down again, pressing your legs further up, deeper inside you now, your body stretching around him, made to take him like this. “Can’t help it?” he cooed, taunting, lips curling against your cheek. “Knowing he’s over there watching me fuck you like this?”

You finally turned your head and saw Mingi. His eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast as he sat halfway up in bed now, one hand fisted under the covers, the other braced behind him. He looked wrecked. Desperate. Guilty and aroused all at once. And the sight of it made you choke on a gasp as Yunho kept moving, dragging a hand down your body, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he pounded into you. “Don’t stop now,” he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth. “He’s already seen everything.”

Yunho was a man possessed now, hips driving into you like he was chasing a high he knew only you could give him. Your thighs trembled where they clung to his shoulders, every stroke sending waves of heat rippling through your core. You were clenching so hard around him, gasping with every thrust, your fingers tangled in the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered. He felt it. He knew you were close. And so did Mingi who was still perched in bed, frozen but visibly falling apart, his chest rising and falling fast beneath his tank top, eyes locked on where Yunho was splitting you open.

Yunho turned his head just slightly, lips parted in a breathless smirk. Then, without warning he ripped the blanket off the both of you and yossed it aside like it was in the damn way. The room was dark, but not dark enough. The lights outside bled just enough silver through the curtains to illuminate your slick thighs, the glossy mess coating Yunho’s length every time he pulled out, and the way your soaked pussy clung to him like a vice, starting to squirt as he kept rutting, pounding into you, grunting, digging his fingers into your waist and slamming into you again, harder, deeper, and your body snapped.

You arched, crying out. And then you broke. A wave of liquid shot out of you, soaking Yunho’s lower stomach, the sheets beneath you, everything. “Fuck,” Yunho hissed, head tipping back as he felt you squirt fully around him, your body twitching violently with the force of it. He looked straight at Mingi, his voice smug, breathless, and absolutely filthy. “She always does that when I fuck her just right,” he groaned. “Makes the prettiest fucking mess.”

Mingi’s mouth parted, his eyes wide and dark, jaw slack as he watched your body convulse under Yunho’s, still trembling, overstimulated and leaking. You were panting, wrecked, barely able to process the aftermath as Yunho leaned over you again, licking sweat from your neck and whispering, “You should’ve seen his face, baby.” And then, with a slow, deep thrust that made you whimper. “He’s never gonna forget this.”

You were shaking, thighs trembling against Yunho’s broad shoulders, your chest heaving, lips parted in a dazed, fucked out expression. And still he didn’t stop. Yunho dragged his dick out slow, savoring the squelch of your soaked cunt clinging to him before slamming back in again deeper making you entire body jolt. “Y….Yunho…” you gasped, a sob laced with pleasure spilling from your throat. “I…. I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, thrusting harder now, both hands gripping your waist as he rocked into you. “You’re gonna come again for me, baby. Right here. Just like that.” He shifted one hand lower, thumb slipping between your bodies to find your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles as he pounded into you relentlessly. And the pressure…. it was too much. You shook your head, back arching, voice cracking, “Baby….. it’s…. fuck too much”

“Oh, I know,” Yunho breathed, dragging his teeth over your collarbone. “That’s why it feels so fucking good.” You didn’t even hear Mingi anymore. Didn’t notice the way he was breathing harder, the way the sheets rustled with movement across the room as fucked his hand imagining he was buried inside you along with Yunho. But Yunho did. He lifted his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes locking with Mingi’s and grinned. And then, softly… tauntingly, “You gonna come with her, Mingi?”

Mingi froze, just a beat, before his head tipped back, a low moan slipping out, finally, completely involuntary. The sound of him made you blink, dazed and to clench Yunho a little harder as he leaned in again, voice a low, dangerous hum at your ear. “He’s fucking his fist right now watching me fuck you. And I haven’t even really started yet.” Your eyes flew open, the reality hitting you like lightning as Yunho’s hand slid to your throat, not tight, just there. Possessive. Calming. Claiming. “Look at me,” he whispered. “You’re mine. He knows it. He can fucking watch.”

And then he slammed into you again and you cried out, sharp, loud, broken and Yunho groaned as you clenched around him, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, body convulsing beneath him as slick poured out of you, your vision going white behind your eyes and Mingi’s moan hit the dark air right after. He couldn’t hold it back. His release ripped through him in silence and shame and awe, his chest heaving, hand still under the blanket, eyes wide and locked on you.

Yunho didn’t stop moving until your legs fell from his shoulders, until you were trembling and gasping and completely ruined. Only then did he slow, finally leaning down, pressing kisses along your jaw, his voice soft now, intimate. “You’re perfect.” Then, louder. For Mingi. “But she’s not done yet.”

Mingi knew he should’ve looked away. The second he opened his eyes and realized what was happening, what Yunho was doing to you just a few feet away, he should’ve rolled over, closed his eyes, pretended to still be asleep. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He laid there in the dark, heart hammering against his ribs, trying to stay still, to stay silent, as he watched you unravel beneath Yunho, sheets pushed aside, shirt bunched at your ribs, legs shaking, gasping and moaning into his hand like it was the only thing keeping you from screaming.

Mingi’s hand had drifted down before he even registered it, sliding beneath his waistband, fingers curling around himself. Yunho was fucking you slow, deep, possessive. Every stroke was like a threat and a promise, and when your body arched and you squirted, Jesus Christ, Mingi nearly came right then. He’d never seen anything so raw. So fucking real. Then Yunho looked at him. Locked eyes across the room. And grinned. Like he knew Mingi would never forget this. Now here Yunho was like the devil incarnate saying you weren’t done yet.

Mingi blinked. Heart stuttering as Yunho turned his head and looked right at him, still inside you, his voice low, cocky, and utterly in control. “Come on, princess,” he murmured. “You already came once. You might as well come help me wreck her.” Your head turned weakly toward Mingi, eyes hazy, lips swollen and parted. You were still panting, your body a trembling mess, but you didn’t say no. You didn’t say anything. And that silence made Mingi’s pulse slam into overdrive.

“You want him, don’t you?” Yunho whispered, tilting your face toward his. “You’ve thought about it. I know you have.” You didn’t answer with words but your thighs clenched involuntarily around Yunho’s waist and he smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He looked at Mingi again. “Take your shirt off.”

Mingi hesitated, his whole body frozen between desire and disbelief. But then he saw the way you looked at him, tired, wrecked, but eyes flicking down his bare chest when he sat up, pupils blown wide with curiosity. With want. So he stood and walked toward the bed slowly and Yunho leaned down, kissed your throat, then looked up at Mingi with a grin that wasn’t just invitation, it was challenge. “You’ve seen what I can do to her,” he murmured. “Now show me what you want to do.”

Yunho's challenge hung in the air, his voice low and commanding as he kept his dick buried deep inside you, the slow grind of his hips never faltering. Mingi hesitated at first, his face flushed deep red, eyes darting between his best friend’s possessive stare and the way your body trembled beneath him. But the tension built thickly in the dim hotel room, the city lights casting faint shadows across all of you. And slowly, Mingi shifted, his own dick still hard and leaking from the earlier release as he dropped to his knees beside your bed, drawn in despite the disbelief etched on his features, until he was right there beside you both.

Yunho's hand stayed firm around your throat, not squeezing too tight but holding you in place with that dominant grip, while his thrusts remained deliberate and unhurried. He pulled back almost all the way before sinking in again, stretching you open inch by inch, making sure you felt every ridge of him. "That's it, Mingi," Yunho murmured, his tone laced with taunt. "Come taste her. She's dripping all over my dick, and I know you want it."

Mingi swallowed hard, his breath ragged, but he moved, positioning his face near where your bodies joined. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, lapping at your swollen clit with wet, broad strokes that sent sparks shooting through your overstimulated nerves. The sensation layered on top of Yunho's steady fucking, his dick sliding in and out right against Mingi's mouth, and Mingi groaned into you, the vibration rumbling through you. He didn't stop there, his tongue working eagerly now, circling your clit before dragging lower to swipe along the base of Yunho's dick as it plunged into you. The dual sensation was overwhelming, hot, slick pressure on your clit combined with the way Mingi's lips brushed Yunho's dick on every thrust.

Yunho grunted in approval, his hips picking up just a fraction, still controlled but deeper, filling you completely each time as Mingi's free hand wrapped around his own dick again, stroking it with desperate pumps, his fingers slick with his previous cum as he fucked his fist in time with the rhythm. He was overstimulated already, his body twitching from the intensity, yet he couldn't pull away, his tongue lapping messily at both of you, tasting your arousal mixed with the faint salt of Yunho's skin.

Your moans grew louder despite the hand on your throat, muffled only partially as Yunho's fingers tightened just enough to remind you that just because his best friend had joined, you were still his. Pleasure built in waves, your pussy clenching around Yunho's while Mingi's tongue flicked relentlessly over your clit, sucking gently now and then before returning to lap at the spot where Yunho entered you.

Mingi whimpered into you, his hand moving faster on himself, hips bucking into his own grip as overstimulation hit him hard, his dick throbbing, yet he kept going, chasing another release as Yunho watched it all with a dark grin, his gaze locked on Mingi even as he drove into you, the pace dragging out every sensation until your body quivered on the edge again. The minutes stretched on like that, Yunho's thrusts unyielding, each one pushing you higher while Mingi's tongue worked you over, alternating between your clit and the length of Yunho sliding past his lips.

Sweat beaded on Mingi's forehead, his strokes on his own dick growing erratic from the overload, but he didn't stop, his mouth open and hungry against you both. You felt the coil tightening in your core, your walls fluttering around Yunho as another orgasm built, slow and inevitable from the prolonged attention until finally, Yunho's control snapped just enough. His hand gripped Mingi's hair roughly, fingers tangling in the strands to hold him in place as his hips snapped forward harder. "Fuck, that's it," he growled, his dick pulsing inside you as he came, flooding you deep with hot spurts that filled you full.

His throat grip stayed possessive, anchoring you as his release triggered yours, your body convulsed, pussy squeezing him tight while you came hard around him, juices mixing with his own and coating Mingi's tongue who followed right after, his own orgasm hitting with a choked moan, his hand jerking his dick as he spilled again onto the side of the bed, overstimulated and trembling from the shared intensity. Yunho didn't let go immediately, keeping Mingi's face pressed close as the aftershocks rolled through all three of you, the room filling with heavy breaths and ragged gasps.

Then after the silence, a sudden burst of laughter left you, coming out breathless and full of amusement. “What?” Yunho pulled out of you, sitting back on his knees as Mingi moved back on the floor. “Wooyoung and Jongho are right next door.” You snorted because in the end, you were loud, all of you were. “Oh…” Yunho grinned and looked down at Mingi who shook his head, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I hate both of you.”

He absolutely didn’t. And he absolutely was thinking about doing it all over again.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You hum to yourself softly as you lather your legs in moisturiser. You’re perched on the end of the bed, the silk sheets brushing against your skin, your hands run down your body in an almost rhythmic fashion, the motion matching the tune you sing so softly into the air of the empty bedroom.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn, the faint smell of tonight’s dinner creeps into your bedroom, you left some out, you tried to wait until Yunho got home, but your stomach was not even nearly as patient.

You put the lid back onto your body lotion, you stare at the dresser - too far a walk - you decide its not worth it, laying your back onto the bed. Your gown falls open ever so slightly, catching the gentle breeze in the room, which sends a shiver down your body, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, if anything, it was almost exciting. It meant it was getting later in the night, it meant he was coming home.

Yunho had an intense few weeks at work, back to back meetings that stretched for hours, deadlines upon deadlines, insane workloads that kept him up for hours at a time. You told him he needed to rest, but he brushed you off every-time, insisting he works well under pressure, claiming that he can balance everything with ease. You told him you were worried about him, he got defensive, saying there was nothing to worry about, that he was completely fine.

You knew that wasn’t true, you didn’t miss the way he chased your touch every time your hands ran through his hair when you told him off for overworking himself, the way his eyes would flutter closed when you cupped his face to tell him how tired he looked. It was hard to ignore how his face would light up whenever he realised you were still awake when he got home from work, because he could actually spend some time with you, even if it was only brief.

You sighed loudly as you stared at the ceiling, it was getting late, you were getting tired. It was weird having to spend so much time alone recently, Yunho was never really around, and when he was? He was exhausted. He tried though, he really did, but a few moments curled up in the arms of the love of his life sent him to sleep in seconds. You couldn’t help but feel a little neglected, it was a guilty feeling, but one that hung heavy in your heart, you were angry at him for not being able to give you the time of day, you were angry at his work for taking him away form you, you were angry at yourself for just being angry.

Moments passed as you sat with your emotions, getting lost in thought, until you were interrupted by the sound of your bedroom door creaking open.

You sat up with vigilance, feet finding their footing on the floor beneath you.

A familiar head peeked around the door. You chuckled softly.

“I’m awake,” You spoke, Yunho looked almost relieved to see you sat there. He nodded softly, entering the room fully. He gently shut the door behind him, without a word, before he made his way over to you, feet dragging across the floor.

“Whats wrong?” You mutter at him as he approaches you, he shakes his head, not wanting to speak, he looked so fragile your heart sank.

He stood in-front of you for a brief moment before dropping to his knees in-front of you, your brows furrowed but your body moved faster as you were quick to embrace his larger form, spreading your legs to allow him to rest his head on your thighs, your hands automatically tangle in his hair as his arms wrapped around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers “And I’m so, so tired,”

Your heart aches seeing him like this, you run your fingers through his hair as you formulate a response.

“I know baby,” You say, soothing him “I know,”

He nuzzles into you more.

“You’re safe here, you’re home now sweetheart,” You remind him.

He nods, mouth opening to speak yet he couldn’t quite find the words.

“I- I’ve been so shitty…” he starts “Work has just been so overwhelming and I’m responsible for so many people and so many things and i-“ he chokes on his words “I haven’t been the best to you,” he whispers “at all.”

He looks up at you.

“I know I’ve been working late, i know i keep disregarding everything you say when you’re concerned about me, i know its because you care,” He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand before he continues “You’re everything to me, i swear,” He sighs deeply, “I’d move the Earth if you said the sun was in your eyes,”

“Yunho..” You breathe.

“I love you so much,” Yunho whispers “And i know its hard, but i promise, please trust me, it’s alot for you i know, but i’m doing this all for us, so you never need to get your hands wet, so you never have to worry about anything,” he reassures “Please..” He begs.

You nod, thumbing his cheek “I trust you,” you say softly “And i love you, so much.”

Yunho closes his eyes in relief. “Be mad at me when i get home, get upset at me, tell me off, all of it.” He meets your eyes again “Just don’t let go of me,”

You take his hand into yours. “I never, ever planned on it.” You assure him.

A small, grateful smile graces his lips.

“Thank you, for everything you do for me,” His eyes are sincere as he speaks, his lips ghosting over your thighs. “And I’m so so sorry for being such an asshole.”

Your breath hitches as his lips press against your thigh.

“Yunho-“ you gulp, he hums softly as he places another kiss on your other thigh.

“Let me,” He demands, but it comes out sounding like a question, a desperate plea. “Let me return the favour, please.”

“Y- You must be so tired Yu,” you whisper. He chuckled tiredly, shaking his head.

“I’m exhausted,” he hums against your skin “But this isn’t the same thing, i could do this forever.” His hands snake around your thighs “Could worship you for a lifetime,” He sighs deeply “gonna worship you in this lifetime..”

You bite your lip at his words, he always had a way of making you melt, his sheer devotion was more than enough to make you putty in his hands, or mouth, to be more literal.

You should say no, tell him he needs to rest, force him to go to bed and sleep, but his whispered promises trailing up your thighs was beyond distracting, it was sinfully addictive, and before you knew it, your gown had somehow ended up bunched around your waist, and your back against the bed as you gave into his wishes.

The cigarette was gone by the time Danny reached the corner of Valentine and 6th, a grimy little intersection where even the streetlights gave up. The only illumination came from flickers of lightning cracking across the sky, brief flashes revealing graffiti covered walls and busted out windows. He muttered to himself as he stepped over a soggy pizza box and into the narrow hallway of his apartment building, a concrete coffin of a place with peeling paint and that ever present reek of mildew, sweat, and leftover Chinese takeout.

Unit 206. The lock stuck, like it always did. He jiggled the key, cursed under his breath. The moment the lock clicked, Danny shoved the door open, kicking aside a pile of junk mail and stepping into the dark. The building was quiet, too quiet. Most of the tenants worked late or didn’t come home at all. The overhead light in his unit buzzed once and died as he grumbled, tossing his keys onto the counter, peeling off his wet jacket. Outside his window, thunder rolled in the echoing silence until the sound of soft, dragging leather across tile caught his attention.

Danny turned, confused, not yet afraid. Then the door to his apartment creaked open… slowly. But no one was there. He walked toward it and stood in the threshold of his shitty little apartment, blinking into the hallway. No one. Just flickering overheads and the sound of rain dripping through the broken skylight near the stairs. Maybe the wind had pushed the door back open. Or maybe he hadn’t closed it all the way. That’s what he told himself. Still, he locked it this time. Triple bolt. Slamming it shut and turning around only to freeze.

His kitchen light was on now and it hadn’t been before. And standing directly beneath it, like a fucked up painting brought to life, was a figure in a long black robe and a gleaming Ghostface mask. The fabric clung wetly to his chest, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Playful and mocking as a gloved hand tapped a kitchen knife against his thigh, casual, like he was considering how to use it.

Danny stumbled back a step, heart climbing up his throat. “Who the fuck…”

“Oh, Danny boy,” the voice crooned, playful and syrup slick through the modulated distortion. “You didn’t really think that cheap trick would go unpunished, did you?” The mask tilted again, almost amused as Danny’s eyes darted to the hallway. Too far. The window? Nailed shut. The fire escape? Blocked by an old dresser he never moved. “I mean…. powder? Really? What’s next? Thumbtacks in the gloves? Banana peels in the ring?” Ghostface took a step forward, boots squelching on the wet floor. “San could’ve gone blind, you know. Which would’ve been very inconvenient for me. He’s the only one who knows how to make my coffee just right.”

Danny lunged for the drawer where he kept an old hunters knife, but Ghostface was already there, quicker, smoother, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the counter. The distorted laugh echoed in the tiny space, and Ghostface leaned in close, mask nearly touching Danny’s face. “You don’t get to win dirty and walk away, sweetheart. Not in our city.” He brought the blade up to Danny’s throat, not slicing, not yet, just resting it there. Just enough for Danny to feel the cold edge of inevitability. “Any last words for the crowd, champ?”

Danny tried to spit in his face, but the mask tilted back just in time, unbothered. “Cute,” Ghostface said. “But not original.” Danny’s breath sawed in and out of his lungs, raw and ragged. “Y… You’re crazy,” he hissed, cradling his bruised wrist, stumbling back as the Ghostface in the kitchen stalked toward him, blade twirling with flair. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Aw, come on,” Wooyoung said behind the mask, voice light, teasing and mean. “That’s not very gratitude core of you. I did wait until you got home, didn’t I?” Danny’s spine met the edge of the counter as he backed up and kept backing, heart pounding, eyes wide, completely missing the second figure emerging from the hallway behind him. The second Ghostface was silent. Still. Watching and waiting as Danny took one more step and collided hard with something solid. He turned, gasping and the second Ghostface shoved him backward with both hands right into Wooyoung’s waiting arms.

“Gotcha,” Wooyoung purred, plunging the knife deep into Danny’s gut with an elegant little twist, like he was carving a ribbon into a present. Danny choked, a wet, guttural sound as he stumbled back, eyes wide, hands flying to the fresh wound. Blood poured out in thick, dark ropes as he staggered toward the hallway, hand leaving smeared red fingerprints on the wall as he gasped for air and ran, pure instinct, blind and stumbling toward the only thing that made sense, his bedroom. He didn’t even realize he was screaming as his legs barely carried him across the threshold, crashing into the dresser as he scrambled to shut the door behind him but it didn’t click all the way.

And it didn’t matter. Because the soft sound of boots against tile was still coming. Steady. Rhythmic and mocking as Danny collapsed to the floor, crawling now, fingers reaching for the phone on his nightstand because like an idiot he realized he left his damn cell at the bar, he knocked over a lamp, the shade crashing to the ground and just as he wrapped his trembling hand around the phone…..

The bedroom door opened. Two figures stood in the frame, Ghostface masks grinning like death itself had a sense of humor. Danny was gasping now, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his abdomen, the other slick with blood as he tried to crawl backward, away from the figures in the doorway. His legs weren’t working right. His vision was blurring. He could barely hear over the sound of his own panicked breathing as one of them stepped forward. The broader one. Quieter.

Ghostface didn’t speak. Just crossed the room in slow, even strides and then without ceremony, dropped to a knee in front of him and Danny flinched, eyes wild as the knife in the masked figure’s hand came down, not into him, but into the floorboards. Buried there with a sudden crack, the blade quivering in place beside Danny’s shaking leg. And then, slowly, purposefully, the figure reached up and pulled the mask off.

It was San. His dark hair was soaked, sweat and rain glistening on his jaw, and his eyes, those soft, sweet eyes the crowd always underestimated, were dark and unreadable now. Calm. Cold. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at Danny, head tilted, watching him squirm as Danny’s expression crumpled with shock, disbelief crawling over his features. “No…” he breathed, shaking his head. “No fucking way…”

San’s voice was steady. Quiet. Almost gentle. “You could’ve fought clean.”

Danny’s lip curled, rage flaring like a last ditch defense mechanism. “You serious? You’re gonna kill me over a fight?”

San’s mouth twitched just slightly as Danny barked out a bitter laugh. “What the fuck….” He nodded toward the second Ghostface still standing in the doorway, knife gleaming. “That your boyfriend under that one?”

“Why does everyone think we’re dating?” Wooyoung’s voice snapped through the modulator, dripping with exasperation and theatrical offense. He stepped into the room with a dramatic flair, unbothered by the gore or tension. “Is it the matching masks? The coordinated kills? The cohabitation? We only fucked a few times. Calm down.” He peeled his mask off as he walked, revealing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and a smudge of blood on his cheek like war paint. He crouched beside San, elbow brushing his as he glanced down at Danny like he was barely more interesting than a popped tire.

“Anyway,” Wooyoung added, tone light, “if I was gonna date someone, it wouldn’t be a guy who wears camo to dinner.” San didn’t react. He just reached over and yanked the knife from the floor, jaw set as he wiped a thumb across his knuckles methodically, like someone tidying up after dinner. “I don’t… like dirty players,” he said, voice low and even, the kind of voice that made the room feel colder even though the apartment was still thick with humidity and the smell of hot cigarettes. He never shouted. He didn’t need to.

Wooyoung moved before Danny could draw a breath. Fast, practiced, an arm wrapping around Danny’s chest, pinning him as if the man were already a coat to be shrugged off. Danny thrashed, fist and elbow flailing, panic making him clumsy and loud as San stepped forward, the knife gleaming dull under the single buzzing bulb. He didn’t hesitate. There was no flourish, no dramatic pause, just the brutal efficiency of a man who knew exactly how to end something and had done it before.

One movement and the blade found the first eye. Danny’s scream tore out of him, a raw, animal sound that bounced off the cheap plaster and disappeared into the stairwell. He clawed at San’s hand, fingers scrabbling for purchase on wet tile. His hands left frantic streaks across the counter as he tried to push away, to shove, to move. San’s face didn’t change. He pushed the knife again, the second time more deliberate, and then the first eye stilled in Danny’s face like an impossible, awful punctuation. He blinked when there was nothing left to blink with, a wet, ragged blink that made him choke.

Wooyoung’s grip tightened and his free hand found Danny’s jaw and tilted the head up so San could reach the other side. There was a mechanical calm to the way the two of them moved together, one holding, one finishing, ritualized and cold. When the second movement came, Danny’s scream broke into a wet, keening sound. He slammed backwards, palms skidding against the floor, knees giving out. For a frantic second his hands clawed at the doorway, at the floor, at any texture that would anchor him as he stumbled to his feet with the disoriented momentum of someone trying to wake from a nightmare.

Blood and rain slicked the tiles, but everything else was a jagged, muffled world. He lurched toward the bedroom window like a man trying to find the exit in darkness, boots slipping on the plastic that had been tracked in from the hallway. He fumbled with the latch, hands trembling so badly they couldn’t form a coherent motion. San and Wooyoung followed, shadows advancing with them, Wooyoung’s laugh was soft, almost conversational, like someone commenting on weather. San kept his face angled down, his breathing measured as Danny threw the window open and there was air, wet and sharp, and instinct, and the stupid bright idea that maybe the fall would jar him back to sense.

He didn’t look down. He tried to climb, tried to pull himself up on the narrow balcony rail, but his balance was gone. The world spun. He crashed through with a flailing, desperate momentum, the lattice tearing like paper. There was a horrible, single instant of suspended weight as his body cleared the sill and then dropped, a graceless, terrible arc and hit the pavement below with a finality that sucked the sound right out of the rainy night.

On the balcony, San didn’t move for a long, steady breath. Wooyoung looked down once, face unreadable for a heartbeat, then turned back toward the doorway like they were leaving a party they hadn’t enjoyed. San slid the knife back into his boot as if it were an inconvenient utensil as Wooyoung clipped the mask back on and offered San a crooked half smile, a private thing between them, before they folded back into the hallway’s shadow and disappeared down the stairs, leaving the apartment to the buzzing light and the rain.

Down below, the street absorbed the body without ceremony. The city, which had been trying to wash itself clean, simply kept on raining.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

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He was mid deal, low murmurs exchanged with a guy slouched in a black Altima idling at the curb. The window was rolled halfway down, and the customer’s face was mostly obscured, but you could see cash flash between fingers. Quick, efficient, clean. Yunho’s hand slipped into his hoodie pocket, traded something unmarked in a small bag, and pulled the cigarette from his mouth as he leaned forward to say something you couldn’t hear.

Your chest clenched, not from fear, not even from judgment. Just from the sheer… existence of him. God, he looked good in the dying light. Hood up, casting part of his face in shadow. Gray sweats low on his hips. A plain black hoodie unzipped just enough to show a sliver of skin at his collarbone. That stupid necklace he always wore, black braided chord with a chipped shark tooth that glinted when he moved.

You didn’t stop. You were exhausted, sticky, annoyed, and pretending you didn’t notice him was easier than dealing with the way your stomach flipped every time he looked at you. But you should’ve known better.

“Y/N!”

His voice came as you passed, rough around the edges from the smoke. Lazy and deep, making you pause, turning, already knowing what you’d see. Yunho was watching you. His deal was done, car door shut, engine pulling away into traffic. He stood up straighter, still holding the cigarette, watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You look like you just murdered someone.”

“Not yet,” you muttered, stepping closer without meaning to. “Give me five minutes and a blunt.” That made him smile. Barely. Just the corner of his mouth tilting up like he knew something you didn’t. He held up a hand, tapping the back of his ear where the blunt was tucked. “Shower first,” you added, pointing a warning finger at him as you trudged toward the front door. “Or I’ll actually cry.”

“Couch’ll be ready,” he said casually, taking another drag. “You want food?” You stopped in your tracks, turning back with a squint. “What kind?” He shrugged, exhaled smoke. “Whatever keeps you from catching a felony charge tomorrow.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You knocked once, then let yourself in. Yunho’s apartment was dim and warm, the way it always was, lights low, one candle burning on the coffee table, the scent of sandalwood and weed wrapping around you like a blanket. You knew he wouldn’t mind. You’d showered back in your own place, dressed down into soft pajama pants and a tshirt, hair damp and tied up loosely on your head. Comfort mode activated.

Ghost, Yunho’s spoiled rotten grey persian cat, sat perched on the back of the couch, her yellow eyes narrowing as you walked in like she hadn’t spent the last week curled against your side any time you stayed too long. Ungrateful little princess.

Yunho was already on the couch, blunt between his fingers, hoodie unzipped over a black tank top and gray sweats low on his hips. One leg stretched out, the other bent casually beneath him like he had no idea how good he looked. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. “You want first hit?” he asked, nodding to the blunt.

You flopped down beside him with a sigh, legs folding under you as you leaned into the cushions. “Please. If I don’t, I’ll scream. I was one per my last email away from catching a case today.” He chuckled and passed it over, watching you take a long, grateful drag. It hit smooth, warm, a little sweet, your favorite mix. Of course he remembered.

You let the smoke curl from your lips, then handed it back. “You spoil me.”

“I like when you’re not homicidal,” he said, taking it between his fingers again. “Less paperwork.”

You were both mid laugh when the knock came. Three sharp raps. You froze. Your smile slipped as Yunho looked toward the door, jaw tightening. “Fuck,” you muttered, already standing. There was only one person you knew who knocked like that.

Yunho didn’t move. He just leaned back, arm on the couch, still holding the blunt as he watched you walk across the room and opened his door. Chris, your boyfriend for the last year, stood there, looking like Wall Street’s worst export in a wrinkle free shirt and overpriced cologne. His expression twisted the second he saw you, casual, comfortable, relaxed, like you’d committed some betrayal by being cozy without him. “What are you doing here?”

You rolled your eyes. You would ask him the same thing but that’s how you met. Yunho was his dealer. “I’ve been calling you,” he said, stepping into the apartment like he owned it. You backed up automatically, shoulders stiff. “Phone’s charging. I was decompressing.”

Chris’s eyes shifted past you, to the couch, to Yunho, still lounging like a storm waiting to happen. “You were decompressing with him?” he asked, voice sharp. “I live across the hall, remember,” you snapped. “It’s not like I flew to Cabo with the guy.”

Chris’s jaw worked. “You’re high?” Yunho finally moved. Just a slight shift of posture, sitting up straighter, ash flicked into the tray, blunt balanced between his knuckles. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. “She came over after a long day,” Yunho said evenly. “I’m her friend, remember?”

Chris ignored him. “You got off work and came straight here?”

“Chris,” you warned, “I’m not in the mood.” He turned on Yunho instead. “You really think it’s okay to get high with someone else’s girlfriend?” That was it. Yunho stood. Not fast. Not loud. Just stood, all six feet plus of calm fury in a black hoodie and sweats, smoke curling past his lips like a warning sign. “I think it’s not okay,” he said lowly, stepping forward, “for you to walk into my apartment like you own her.”

Chris took a step back and Yunho didn’t stop. “You came to buy pills, right? Or just flex?” Chris flinched. “I… whatever, man. I’ll get what I came for.” Yunho pulled a small bottle from his hoodie pocket and tossed it toward Chris without a word.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” You didn’t even look back just followed Chris across the hall to your own apartment, Chris stood there, arms crossed like he had something important to say, but when he looked at you, really looked at you, it wasn’t with concern.

It was accusation. “You gonna tell me what the fuck that was?” You blinked, stunned. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t act like that didn’t look bad,” he said, brushing past you into the apartment like it was his. You turned to follow, eyes already burning. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were in his apartment,” he snapped. “Getting high, in your pajamas, laughing with him…”

“I went over for food and a blunt because I had a shitty day,” you shot back, louder now. “And you showed up like a fucking warden…”

“I am your boyfriend,” he said, stepping closer. “You think I’m just gonna be cool with you spending the night over there?”

Your heart slammed once, hard. “First of all,” you said through clenched teeth, “I wasn’t spending the night. And second, maybe you should focus less on me being around Yunho and more on why you need to pop two percs just to get through a Monday.”

That one landed. Chris’s face went still. His voice, when it came, was colder. “So now you’re judging me?”

“I’m exhausted,” you hissed. “I had one fucking hour to myself and you ruined it. Again.”

“Oh, I ruined it?” he scoffed, throwing his hands up. “You’re acting like I caught you cheating!”

“Cheating?” you repeated, laughing once without humor. “You think I’m the problem? You…. you buy drugs from my neighbor, barge into his apartment, embarrass me, and then act like I’m the one sneaking around?”

He stared at you. Then shrugged. “I don’t trust him,” Chris said simply, like that settled it. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.” You stared at him for a long, stunned second. Then shook your head and walked toward the door. “Get out.”

“What?”

You grabbed the handle, opened it wide. “I said get out.”

“You’re kicking me out? Over this?”

“Over everything,” you said, voice shaking. “I’m tired, Chris. I’m tired of explaining basic respect to a grown man.” He hesitated, just for a moment. But your face said you weren’t bluffing. He muttered something under his breath, grabbed his keys, and stormed out.

You shut the door before the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall. And for a long time… you just stood there. Not angry. Not sad.

Just empty.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You should’ve seen it coming. The way your boss called you into her office without a real reason. The way she wouldn’t meet your eyes. The way your badge was deactivated before you even made it back to your desk. “We’re downsizing,” she’d said.

You didn’t buy it. But what could you do? You packed your things, rode the subway in silence, and walked the final three blocks home through rain so heavy it felt personal. No umbrella. No coat. Just your hoodie soaked through, hair plastered to your face, bag clutched to your chest like it could protect you from anything other than everything.

You hit the building’s steps at the same time Yunho did. He was dressed for the weather in his own way, hood up, cigarette tucked between his lips, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. His sweatpants were soaked halfway up the leg. He looked at you, blinked once, and immediately flicked the cigarette into the street. “Hey,” he said, voice calm like thunder wasn’t rattling the city behind you. “You good?”

You didn’t answer. Just shook your head once and kept walking, Yunho following you silently. The two of you made it to the front door at the same time, and as soon as Yunho keyed in the code and swung it open, the building groaned. The lights above fizzled once and went black.

You both paused. “Shit,” he muttered as you let out a breath and took the first step up the stairs. “Come on. Ghost’ll panic if the power stays out.” He huffed a small laugh and followed because of course you remember his cat hates thunderstorms.

It was dark, humid, the air thick with storm and silence. His footfalls matched yours as you climbed, heavy and unhurried. You were halfway up the second floor when lightning lit up the windows for half a second and then came the sound. A zipper. You turned the corner and froze.

He didn’t see you right away. Chris. Standing just outside an apartment door, not yours, not even close. His back was to you, shirt half untucked, zipper just sliding up as a familiar voice giggled from inside. Donna. A girl Yunho has turned down multiple times. Same girl who flirted with Chris right in front of you once.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling through the floor as Chris turned. His eyes met yours and he froze, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Yunho was two steps behind you, and he came up short the moment he registered what you were staring at.

Chris opened his mouth. Closed it. His face drained of color. “Baby…. I…”

You blinked as Donna called lazily from inside, voice echoing down the stairwell. “Hey, you left your belt…” She stopped short when she saw you.

“You fucking asshole,” Yunho muttered, stepping forward. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were shaking. Wet. Fired. And now humiliated.

Chris finally tried to speak again. “It’s not what it…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Yunho snapped, loud now. “Don’t say one more word to her.” Chris squared up, but it was weak, defensive and guilty. “This isn’t your business.” Yunho laughed. But it wasn’t funny. It was the kind of laugh people give when they’re one wrong word from swinging.

“She is my business,” Yunho said, stepping closer. “She always fucking has been.” That made Chris stop cold as Yunho looked at you. “Come on,” he said softly, holding his hand out. “Let’s go.” You didn’t take it. But you did turn away. One step. Two. Yunho followed, silent again, letting you feel it. Letting you hold it. Because he knew if he touched you right now, you’d fall apart, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Your apartment was pitch black, the air thick with humidity and silence. You didn’t bother turning on your flashlight. Just leaned back against the closed door and exhaled for the first time since you saw Chris outside Donna’s. Zipping up his pants like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. Your breath came out shaky, but no tears followed. Not this time. You didn’t feel sadness. You didn’t even feel rage. What washed over you, slow and warm and terrifying, was something simpler.

Relief. He made it easy. After all the gaslighting. After all the guilt tripping. After making you question yourself for months… He made it so easy.

You pushed off the door, stripped as you walked, clothes wet and clinging. The rain had seeped through everything, down to your skin, into your bones. In the bathroom, the darkness was nearly complete. You lit a candle on the edge of the sink, then stepped into the shower, letting the warm water hit your neck, your shoulders, the back of your skull.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stood there, steam rising into the black, hands braced against the tile as the rain from outside continued to pound against the building. But it couldn’t reach you here. You were done. Done being made to feel small. Done being someone’s accessory. Done hiding in other people’s shadows.

Chris made it easy. And Yunho… Yunho never asked you to be anything but yourself.

You toweled off slowly, letting your hair stay damp and wild. Pulled on a pair of pajama shorts, soft and worn. A tank top, no bra. Bare feet. Clean skin.

The apartment was still dark. The hallway was darker as you opened the door without thinking and padded across the hall, body warm from the shower but still buzzing with something else. Need, maybe. Or clarity. Yunho’s door wasn’t locked. It never was. Not for you. You pushed it open gently, and found the apartment lit by nothing but the flicker of the same candle he’d always had burning, low, honey toned, barely lighting his living room.

He was on the couch, hoodie off, hair damp too now like he’d also showered. A second blunt was burning in the ashtray. Ghost was curled on the far cushion, tail flicking slowly. He looked up the second you stepped in. And didn’t say a word. He just… waited.

You stopped in front of him, looked down. And without a word, you reached up and pulled the blunt from behind his ear. His eyes followed your fingers the entire way. You didn’t light it. You sat down next to him, sinking into the couch like your bones had finally given out, like this was the only place your body trusted.

Ghost purred at you before jumping down and padding her way into the kitchen. The silence stretched as you exhaled, one short breath. Dry. Bitter. “So,” you said, eyes on the unlit blunt. “I got fired today.” Yunho blinked slowly, posture still, unreadable.

“And I found out I’ve been getting cheated on,” you continued, a hollow laugh catching in your throat. “So now I’m single. Unemployed. And apparently Donna’s sloppy seconds.”

Yunho’s head turned toward you, sharp and fast. But you weren’t done as you finally looked at him. “That’s a pretty solid Friday, right?” His jaw clenched. You saw it, just barely, in the flicker of the candle. But his hands stayed relaxed, resting on his thighs, like he was keeping himself still on purpose. Like one wrong move might make you bolt.

He didn’t speak.

You didn’t either.

You just looked at him, really looked, for the first time in a long time. At the way his throat moved when he swallowed. At the way he looked at you like this, you, broken, barefoot, smelling like sandalwood and stormwater, was the most important thing he’d ever seen. And you wondered why the hell it took this long.

You lit the blunt with Yunho’s silver lighter, your thumb finding the groove worn into it from years of use, and took the first hit. It was smoother than you expected. Warm in your chest. Calming in a way nothing else had been all week. You handed it back to him without a word.

He didn’t speak still, just took it between his lips, leaned back, eyes half lidded, and exhaled like it was a release he’d been holding in for days.

One hit turned into two. Then a second blunt. He rolled it in silence, hands skilled and calm, and you watched him, watched his fingers, the press of his thumb, the flick of his lighter. Like a ritual. Like therapy. He passed it to you as you curled your legs underneath you, leaning into the arm of the couch, letting the high settle low in your belly, fog your brain just enough to let your shoulders drop.

The candle burned lower. The storm outside got louder. By the third blunt, you were gone enough to let the words tumble out. You turned to him slowly, eyes heavy, mouth soft, “You’re quiet.”

Yunho didn’t look at you at first. Just took another slow pull and let the smoke curl from his lips, rising into the dim air like a question. “I’ve been trying not to say the wrong thing,” he said finally, voice low and rough, laced with that edge you’d only ever heard when he was defending you. “Because if I do… I won’t be able to stop.”

You blinked, the high sharpening the sound of his voice like it had teeth as he passed the blunt back, but didn’t move closer. “Chris never deserved you,” he continued, eyes locked on the floor. “Not for one second. Not the first time he showed up here pretending he owned you. Not the first time I heard you crying through the wall. Not the night you fell asleep on my couch holding my hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you together.”

Your breath caught.

“I should’ve told you,” he said. “But I didn’t want to be that guy. The one waiting for his moment. I didn’t want to use your pain as an excuse to say what I’ve wanted to say for almost two years.”

You swallowed. “Which is?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. “That I’ve been in love with you since the night you knocked on my door barefoot and furious and didn’t apologize for either.”

Your chest cracked open. There were no fireworks. No music swell. Just the silence between you stretching thinner and thinner until it couldn’t hold anymore.

You moved slowly. Not rushed. Not unsure. You crawled into his lap like you’d always belonged there, one leg over his thigh, hands finding his jaw. He froze, like he didn’t believe it. Like this was another one of his dreams as you took the blunt from his mouth. Took a hit. Held it. And then leaned in, close enough to brush your nose against his, and exhaled into his mouth just before your lips touched his.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Like a question neither of you had dared to ask until now. But when his hand slid up your back, slow and firm, and your fingers fisted in the front of his tank,

that question became a promise. The kiss deepened faster than either of you expected. What started soft, your lips ghosting his, that lazy exhale of smoke between you, became a slide, a grip, a need.

Yunho’s hands found your thighs first, fingers pressing into bare skin just beneath the hem of your pajama shorts like he couldn’t help himself. You moved instinctively, rolling your hips forward just enough to make him groan into your mouth. “Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “You’re high. We should stop…”

You kissed him again before he could finish. “So are you.” Your tongue dragged against his as your fingers threaded through his hair and tugged, just enough to make him tilt his head back, exposing the curve of his throat. You mouthed along it, lips brushing the skin just beneath his jaw.

His hands slid up your sides, tank top bunching beneath his palms, and he pulled you flush against him, the bulge in his sweats pressing hard between your thighs. Your bodies slotted together like a secret neither of you could keep anymore. You felt his hand reach blindly toward the ashtray, grabbing the blunt, burnt nearly to the end now. He brought it to his lips, lit it again, and took one last pull, eyes still on you. Then he handed it back.

You took it between your lips, hit it slow, watching his mouth as he watched yours. You didn’t blow the smoke away this time. You kissed it into him. Your mouth open over his, smoke curling between tongues, lips sliding messy and perfect and greedy. His hands were everywhere now, your waist, your thighs, your back, like he couldn’t choose, like he was starving.

You dropped the blunt into the tray without looking. And then you started rocking. Slow at first, just a tease of friction between your bodies. Yunho’s head dropped against the couch cushion, eyes half lidded as he hissed through his teeth. “Jesus,” he whispered. But you didn’t stop. You kissed him again, harder this time, lips dragging, teeth nipping, hips grinding down like you’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day you met him.

He growled low in his chest, hands gripping your thighs tighter. “You’re torturing me.” You smirked, breath hot against his cheek. “You like it.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough and reverent. “I really fucking do.”

You finished the blunt together in slow, stolen breaths, legs still straddling him, fingers lazily tangled in the hem of his shirt, mouths brushing in between every pull. By the time it burned down to ash, the air around you was thick with heat and smoke and everything unsaid. You felt weightless. Feral. Like you could crawl inside him and still not be close enough.

Your hand moved to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where your kiss had already smudged the remnants of ash and affection. And Yunho just… watched you. His eyes darker now. Hooded. Lips slightly parted, breath shallow, chest rising a little too fast for someone trying to keep control.

Then he moved. Quick and quiet and sudden, he flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion, your body sinking into the cushions beneath you before you had a chance to gasp. But you did gasp. Because now he was over you. One hand beside your head, the other firm on your thigh, keeping you spread beneath him. His hips pressed down just enough to make you feel how hard he’d been, how hard he still was. But he didn’t grind. He didn’t rut.

He held back. Barely. His mouth found your neck like it belonged there, lips warm and open, tongue dragging slow along your pulse before he kissed like it was his only way of staying in control. You moaned before you could stop yourself, hips twitching up into him. That’s when you felt it. The shift. Yunho groaned, a low sound buried against your skin, and his hand on your thigh tightened. He breathed you in like he was trying to memorize you. And when he pulled back just enough to look at you, it wasn’t soft anymore.

Not fully. His voice dropped, deeper, slower, like he was trying not to say something. Like he was biting down on instinct. “If you knew the shit I think about when you sit on my couch like that…” His hand slid under your tank top, fingers rough against your bare skin, but he still didn’t touch where you wanted.

Not yet.

“I’m not soft, baby,” he murmured, dragging his lips back to your throat. “Not like this.” Your breath caught. Your hands grabbed at his shirt, at his back, trying to pull him closer as he kissed you again, harder this time, tongue sweeping against yours as his body pressed down into yours, making you feel the full weight of what he was holding back.

His tongue slid against yours, heat crashing between your bodies like it had been waiting years to finally break free. His hands were on your thighs, your hips, under your tank, gripping like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you. And then he stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough to pull back, eyes locked on yours, voice low and rough and dangerous as it dropped into the space between your lips. “Tell me what you want.”

Not needy. Not desperate. A command disguised as a question as you stared up at him, breath catching, heat pooling low in your stomach like lava. And you didn’t flinch when you reached for his face, thumb brushing his jaw. “I want you to ruin me.”

The sound Yunho made wasn’t human. It came from somewhere deeper, darker, pulled straight from the part of him he’d buried since the day you moved in across the hall. His mouth crashed back into yours like he’d been starved, tongue claiming, hands no longer hesitant, gripping your hips like handles, grinding down into you now, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was through the thin barrier of sweats and your shorts.

He kissed you like he meant to wreck you. And this time? He wasn’t holding back. Kissed you hard, deep, almost desperate, and then he pulled back just enough to grip your waist and drag you up with him. You moved together like gravity didn’t matter anymore, like the air had shifted in your lungs and the only thing keeping you grounded was him.

Your body pressed to his, chest to chest, your breath hot against his jaw. He didn’t speak. Just reached for the hem of your tank top and pulled it up slowly, his fingers dragging along your sides like he was learning you by touch. He didn’t rush, didn’t tear it away, he wanted this moment. Wanted to see you. All of you.

The second it was over your head, his eyes dropped. His hands followed. And you watched his mouth part, just slightly, like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him even though he’d imagined it a thousand times. Then he reached for the waistband of your shorts. Still no words. Just the slide of his knuckles against your skin as he dragged them down, slow, his palms brushing the sides of your thighs until you were in front of him in nothing but your panties, flushed and high and buzzing.

Your hands shook just a little when you reached for his shirt. But you didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the hem, tugged it upward, and he let you. His arms lifted, slow and controlled, and you pulled it off over his head revealing sweat slick skin, lean muscle, the soft trail of hair beneath his navel that made your mouth go dry.

His chest rose and fell with each breath, and god, he was beautiful. But it was the way he looked at you that wrecked you. Like he wanted to devour.

Like he wanted to worship. Like he wanted to do both and never stop.

He leaned back in close, lips brushing your jaw, your ear, his voice low and thick with hunger. “Still want this?”

You didn’t answer his question. Didn’t whisper yes.

Didn’t give him permission. You just looked up at him, his flushed chest rising fast, lips parted, pupils blown wide, and reached down. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching you with a hunger so sharp it cut right through the haze of weed and heat. His hands flexed at his sides, knuckles twitching like it physically hurt not to touch you while you undressed him.

You dragged the sweats down his hips slow, savoring it, teasing him without even meaning to. And when they dropped, you froze. Fuck. Your breath hitched just enough for him to catch it.

Because there was no ignoring it. Yunho wasn’t just big. He was thick, long, heavy against his thigh, already hard and twitching slightly like he’d been barely keeping it together this whole time. You blinked. And maybe, for a second, he thought you’d hesitate. But all it did was make your thighs press together.

You looked up at him again, and he was smirking now. Not cocky. Not smug. Hungry. Like he just saw something crack in you and couldn’t wait to slip into the space it left behind. “Not what you’re used to?” he asked, voice rough with restraint, lips brushing your temple as he leaned in, one hand finallyfinding your hip again.

You didn’t answer that either. You didn’t need to. Because when your hand reached out and wrapped around him, testing the weight, the thickness, the way his breath stuttered in his throat… You both knew. This was about to ruin you. Exactly like you asked for.

Your head was spinning in the best way, hazy from the blunt, skin buzzing, mouth dry and aching to be filled. You could feel everything. Every inch of him against your palm, the heat radiating off his body, the tension humming under his skin like a coil about to snap. And you didn’t want sweet. You didn’t want slow.

You wanted him to fuck your mouth until your knees gave out.

You dropped to the floor without a word, the carpet soft beneath your knees as your hand trailed down his thigh. Yunho froze, one hand still hovering like he wasn’t sure this was really happening. “Y/N,” he breathed, voice wrecked already, like just the sight of you on your knees had short circuited his brain. “You sure?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Then you leaned forward and licked a slow stripe up the length of his dick, heavy, hot, already leaking for you, before you wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked, hard, making Yunho groan, his hand flying into your hair, fingers curling tight like he couldn’t stop himself. “Fuck…”

You smiled around him. Because that’s what you wanted. You bobbed your head slow at first, letting yourself adjust, feeling the stretch, the weight, the heat and god, he filled your mouth so deep it made your eyes sting. But it wasn’t enough. Not for either of you. You pulled off with a wet pop, spit clinging to your chin, and looked up at him. “Don’t hold back.”

His jaw clenched. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, then grabbed your hair tighter and said, “Open for me.” You did. Wide. Tongue out. Eyes locked on his like a challenge. And Yunho? He snapped as he slid his dick back into your mouth in one smooth thrust, deeper this time, his grip tightening in your hair as he began to move, slow at first, testing your limits. But when you moaned around him, when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked like you wanted it rough, he growled low in his throat and picked up the pace.

“Fuck… look at you,” he hissed, hips rolling into your mouth now, each thrust more desperate. “Been thinking about this for so long. You on your knees, lips stretched around me…. mine.” You moaned, nails digging into his thighs as he used your mouth just how you wanted, deep, controlled, filthy. The drag of his dick against your tongue, the way your throat tightened with every thrust, it was dizzying, addictive, perfect.

You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t care. You needed this. Needed him. Yunho’s rhythm faltered just slightly as your hands slipped up, nails scraping his hips, pulling him deeper, begging without words. “Fucking… baby,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Gonna cum down your throat if you keep doing that.”

The second you moaned around him, Yunho’s whole body shuddered. He wasn’t breathing steady anymore. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He tightened his grip in your hair, hard, and his hips snapped forward on instinct, his dick pushing deeper into your throat with a strangled groan.

And you fucking whimpered around him. It vibrated up his dick like lightning. “Shit… don’t…. fuck, baby,” he panted, voice wrecked, body shaking. “You want it like this?” You blinked up at him with watery eyes, cheeks flushed, and let your tongue flatten beneath him as he fucked your mouth harder, deeper, now with rhythm, now with purpose. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

Every thrust of his hips made your throat tighten, your jaw ache, your body clench around the tension growing deep in your core. Your eyes stung, spit running down your chin, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. You welcomed it. And then you reached down. Still kneeling. Still being used. Still so full of him you could barely breathe. Your fingers slipped under your shorts, panties soaked through. One press and you gasped around his dick, lips stretched, throat full, and now two fingers sliding inside yourself like you needed it to survive.

The way Yunho choked on his moan when he saw that?

It was primal. “Holy fuck,” he growled, looking down at you, wrecked, wet, high out of your mind, fucking yourself while he used your throat like it was his. “You’re getting off to this?” You couldn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Your whimpers around him said it all, needy and high pitched, every thrust of your fingers syncing with the thrusts of his dick in your mouth.

Yunho couldn’t take it. He snapped. He gripped the sides of your face, holding you still, and started thrusting in earnest, deep, hard, fast, your throat stretching around him as your fingers moved faster, wetter, your hips rocking forward against your hand like you were chasing it and you were gone. High, fucked, full, and right there on the edge as Yunho looked down at you, chest heaving, watching your body tremble.

“Come,” he growled. “Fucking come for me, baby…. come with my dick down your throat.” His words made you moan so hard around him it nearly made you choke, fingers plunging deeper as your orgasm hit like a goddamn wave, your body jerking, thighs clenching, your whole world going white hot as you came with his dick still buried in your throat.

Yunho’s head dropped back with a groan so low it sounded like it tore out of his chest. “Fuckfuckfuck…. fuck…” he gasped, thrusting deeper one more time as his dick pulsed hard in your mouth and he came down your throat, your name ripped from his mouth like a prayer and a promise in one.

You swallowed every drop and didn’t stop until his grip loosened, his hips stilled, his body trembling over yours. When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your chin slick, your eyes glassy and wet. And you smiled. Wrecked. Glowing. Completely, perfectly ruined already, still kneeling, breath shallow, legs trembling from how hard you’d come, lips shiny and swollen, spit and cum still clinging to your chin.

And Yunho? He looked at you like a man absolutely fucking ruined. But instead of stepping back, instead of cooling off, he reached down, slid his fingers beneath your chin, and pulled you up to him with a slow, firm grip. Your body followed on instinct, weak in the knees, chest rising fast as he dragged your face to his, his eyes locked on your mouth like it had just destroyed him.

Because it had.

He kissed you. Tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting himself on you, and moaning into it like he couldn’t get enough. The low, broken sound that left his chest was pure filth, like the taste of his own cum on your tongue had just snapped whatever thread of self control he had left. His hand moved down, caught your wrist. The one you’d had buried between your legs. And without hesitation, Yunho brought it to his mouth.

You gasped, lips still slick from the kiss as he stared into your eyes and sucked your fingers into his mouth, deep, slow, messy. His tongue slid between them, tasting the cum you’d pulled from yourself, the proof of what he’d done to you, and he moaned again, louder this time. His eyes rolled back for a second like it was too much. Then they snapped back to yours, wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, still sucking. “You taste so fucking good.”

You whimpered as he pulled your fingers out with a wet pop, held your hand against his cheek, then leaned in and kissed you again, deeper, slower, like now that he’d had you once, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. “You’re mine now,” he murmured against your lips. “You know that, right?”

You didn’t get a chance to reply as he kissed you like he meant it. Like he owned it. Like claiming your mouth wasn’t enough, he needed more. Needed all of you. And you? You were barely standing. Your legs still shaky, breath short, your body oversensitized and aching again. But Yunho caught you. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you like nothing, and he guided you back down onto the couch.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at you for a second, lips swollen, jaw tight, pupils blown wide, and then he dropped to his knees. Slow. Purposeful. Predatory. You watched as he grabbed your thighs and dragged you down the cushions, your hips meeting the edge, legs spread for him like it was instinct.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t kiss around it. He grabbed your legs, strong hands curling behind your knees, and threw them over his shoulders, hooked them there, holding you open for him as he pressed his mouth to your pussy like he’d done it in dreams for years. His tongue thrusted into you. Deep. Unrelenting. Filthy, making you gasp, back arching as the wet slick sound of him fucking you with his mouth filled the room. He moaned into you like your taste was drowning him and he wanted to go under.

His tongue dragged out and pushed back in, over and over, fucking you, hard and rhythmic, lips locked to your soaked core like he was staking a claim. Your fingers flew into his hair. You pulled hard and Yunho groaned, the vibration of it tearing through your cunt like lightning. You ground your hips down against his mouth, chasing it, chasing more, your voice cracking on a moan as he gripped your thighs tighter, holding you in place while he fucked you with his tongue like his life depended on it.

“Yunho…. fuck… oh my god,” you gasped, grinding against his face, his tongue still pumping, his nose bumping your clit, his moans getting louder the messier you got. He never slowed. Didn’t stop. He was growling now, his whole face wet with you, tongue thrusting deep like he was going to make you come on nothing but his mouth. And you were close. So fucking close.

Your thighs trembled around his head, your hands tangled in his hair, and you couldn’t stop it, you didn’t want to. You rode his tongue like it was his dick, grinding down with reckless desperation as his grip bruised your skin and his tongue dove even deeper. “Don’t stop,” you whimpered, high and broken, “Don’t fucking stop…. Yunho…”

And that’s when he growled into you again, loud, his mouth now sliding up, tongue flattening against your clit, lips sucking as his fingers replaced where his tongue had been, two of them sinking deep, thrusting fast and hard, curling, making you scream as you came, shaking under him, sobbing out his name as he held you there, fingers still moving, tongue lapping every drop of your orgasm like he was starved.

Your legs were still shaking when he finally pulled his mouth back from you. His lips were wet. His chin slick with you. But his eyes? Ravenous. He didn’t move far. Just leaned up, slow, controlled, dangerous, and slid two fingers into you without warning. Deep, making you gasp, head falling back, but he caught you, pressed his forehead to yours, eyes locked onto your dazed, fucked out expression as he began to thrust his fingers.

Hard. Rhythmic. Perfect. And he watched. Like it was art. His lips brushed yours, voice raw and deep and filthy. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” You moaned, breath hitched as he curled his fingers just right, pressing into that spot like he owned it. “How many nights I laid in my bed across the hall, hearing your laugh, wondering what you’d taste like when you’re moaning my name?”

You whined, grinding down into his hand, his thumb just barely brushing your clit now, teasing, like he knew how close you were again already. “I thought about this pussy every time I heard your front door open. Thought about your thighs wrapped around my head every time that fucker made you cry.”

Your eyes rolled back. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips barely brushing, your breaths tangled, wet and shaking. “I’d jerk off with the lights off, eyes closed, imagining your mouth, your voice, the way you’d beg when I finally got my hands on you.”

His thumb pressed harder. His fingers moved faster making your hips jerk beneath him. “I knew I’d wreck you. Knew you’d fall apart for me,” he growled, kissing the corner of your mouth, breath hot against your cheek. “But nothing…. prepared me for how fucking perfect you feel.”

You sobbed out his name, eyes glassy, hands fisting the cushions as his fingers plunged into you harder now, wet slick sounds filling the room, your body clenched tight around him. “You gonna come again?” he whispered, filthy and reverent and all you could do was nod.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your jaw, voice velvet filth. “I want you to come so hard you forget that asshole’s name. I want you to soak my fucking hand, baby.” You shattered. With a broken cry and your body seizing, you came harder than you ever have, squirting all over his hand, your thighs twitching uncontrollably as his fingers kept moving, pushing you through it, over it, deeper into it.

Yunho, fingers still deep inside you, dripping with your release, smiled, his mouth right at your ear. “Atta girl.”

Your whole body was still trembling, nerves raw, inner thighs soaked from your orgasm and his mouth, his fingers, his fucking words. You were gasping for breath, flushed, barely able to think. But you knew what you wanted. You always had.

You reached for him, fingers curling at his shoulders, dragging him closer and climbed into his lap, one knee at a time, legs shaking as you straddled his thighs. His dick was hard beneath you, angry and twitching, soaked in precum from how long he’d been watching you come undone.

He looked up at you like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming as you settled into his lap, body hot, aching, needing him inside you now. And you reached between you, wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick, guiding him to your entrance, slick and open and ready. But before you could sink down…

“Wait,” Yunho breathed, eyes wide, voice wrecked and tight as his hand caught your waist. “Let me… fuck…. let me grab a condom…”

And that’s when you shocked him as you leaned forward, kissed him once, slow, messy, claiming, and then you wrapped your hand around his throat. Not hard. Not choking. Just enough pressure to make him freeze. To make his eyes go wide and dark and wild when you leaned in until your lips brushed his ear, voice soft but firm as your hips pressed down just enough for him to feel how wet you still were.

“I’m on the pill.” A beat of silence. Then your voice, softer. Deadlier. “I just never let Chris have me like this…” Your fingers tightened just slightly against his throat.

“but I want you to.” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, panting, pupils blown, sweat at your hairline. “I want it raw.” Another pause. “I want you.”

Yunho snapped. His hands gripped your hips so tight you gasped, and his head dropped back against the couch like he was trying not to come from just those words alone. “Fucking hell, baby,” he groaned, voice guttural, grip on your hips tightening, his breathing ragged as he looked up at you, completely stunned, completely wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost in disbelief. “You really want it raw?” You just nodded, still holding him, still hovering over him, soaked and aching and so full of need. That was all he needed. He grabbed the base of his dick for you, lined himself up, and whispered, “Come here, baby. Let me feel you.”

You lowered yourself slowly, and the second his head pushed into your soaked entrance, you gasped, sharp, your body jolting as your thighs trembled on either side of his. He was big. You knew it. You’d seen it. You had it in your mouth. You choked on it.

But now?

Now you were feeling it. Stretching you, spreading you open so slow you felt everything, every ridge, every vein, the pressure mounting inch by inch. You bit your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but a moan broke through anyway as you sank lower. “Shit… Yunho,” you whined, voice shaking, body clenching around him. “You’re… f… fuck, you’re big….”

His hands slid up your waist, grounding you, soothing you. But his voice? His voice was filthy. “Yeah?” he breathed, eyes locked on where you were taking him. “You feel that? That stretch, baby? That’s me.” You whimpered, barely able to breathe as you sank down further, halfway now, and your hips jerked instinctively at how deep he already was making Yunho groan loud, head falling back.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “So tight, so wet…. fuck, baby, you were made for this. Made for me.” You were shaking now, hands on his shoulders, nails digging in as you finally took him all the way, your body settling onto his, dick fully sheathed inside you, walls fluttering around him. You couldn’t hold it in. Your moan was raw, deep and aching, tears burning behind your eyes.

Yunho’s hands were all over you now. One at your waist, the other sliding up your back as he pulled you forward, pressing your chest against his as he started kissing your neck, your jaw, your temple. “Look at how good you take me,” he whispered. “So fucking perfect, baby. You fit me so good…. so deep.”

You clenched around him and he groaned, hips bucking just slightly into you. “God, I’ve wanted this,” he confessed once again, voice rough and low in your ear. “I’ve wanted to feel you like this. Nothing between us. Just you.” You nodded, whimpering as his mouth moved to your ear. “Go ahead,” he rasped. “Move, baby. Ride me.”

You started to move slow. Testing the feel of him inside you, deep, thick, the drag of every inch making your walls flutter, your jaw slack, your thighs already burning. Yunho was panting under you, eyes blown wide as he watched you lift your hips and sink back down again, a broken curse falling from his lips. “Fuck… fuck, baby…. you ride me so good…”

You rolled your hips just right and his head dropped back against the couch, a full bodied moan tearing from his chest as you braced your hands on his shoulders harder, found your rhythm, your pace, the way he filled you perfectly with every slow thrust down. But it wasn’t enough. Not for either of you.

You saw it in the way his hands gripped your waist too tight. The way his hips twitched, trying to thrust up but holding back. The way his lips parted like he wanted to beg. So you leaned forward again, hand sliding up his chest. To his throat. You wrapped your fingers around it, lightly at first, just enough pressure to make him freeze.

His breath hitched. His eyes opened wide. And then he growled. His hips slammed up into you suddenly, so hard it knocked the air out of your lungs. “Harder,” he snarled, voice deep and wrecked. “Don’t be soft now… fuck me harder.” You gasped, moaned, eyes locked as you gripped his throat tighter and started slamming down on his dick, rhythm shifting from sensual to savage.

Your thighs slapped against his, your ass bouncing as you rode him hard, grinding down with every thrust until his hands flew to your hips to steady himself. “Just like that,” he growled. “Just like that, baby…. fuck, you feel so good…. I’m gonna lose my mind.” You tightened your hand around his throat again, just enough to make his breath catch, and his eyes rolled back as his hips thrust up to meet yours.

“Use me,” he groaned. “Ride me like I belong to you. Choke me, baby.” And you did. With your hand around his throat, your body slamming down onto his dick, your soaked pussy clenching every time he bucked up into you, you ruined him. And Yunho? Yunho let you.

Your grip tightened. Just a little more. Just enough to make his breath catch again, that beautiful throat flexing under your fingers as you rode him even harder, slammed down onto him again and again, hips snapping, thighs shaking. And then you clenched. Right as he hit that perfect spot.

Your pussy gripped his dick like a vice, and Yunho choked, hips jerking up into you, one large hand flying back and cracking down on your ass.

Smack.

You moaned. Loud. Eyes fluttering, your body jolting forward from the impact as your walls pulsed hard around him again.

Smack.

Another slap. This time rougher. The sting bloomed hot across your skin, and you clenched again, harder. “

“Fucking…. fuck, baby… don’t do that,” Yunho groaned, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving like he was trying to hold back a storm. “You’re gonna make me come…”

But you didn’t let up. You were too far gone now as you rode him like you were trying to tear the orgasm out of yourself, like it was buried deep inside where only he could reach. And he did making you scream. His name, a prayer and a curse all in one as your body locked up, back arching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Yunho!”

The sound of it shattered through the room as you came, violently, gushing all over him, soaking his thighs, your walls clenching and pulsing around his dick like you were trying to milk him dry. But he didn’t come. He couldn’t. His muscles were tight, jaw clenched, breath ragged as he held you through it, eyes locked on the mess you’d made of both of you, still inside you.

Throbbing. Rock hard. Twitching every time your walls fluttered around him in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Sweat slicked your skin, your body limp in his lap as you breathed against his shoulder. You had just screamed his name, shattered all over him, and he still hadn’t come.

He growled. Low. Dangerous. Possessive. And then he stood up. His arms slid under your thighs and back, lifting you with zero warning, your legs wrapping around him out of instinct. You gasped when he shifted, still inside you, the thick stretch making your legs jerk around him. Every muscle in his body tensed as he adjusted his grip, holding you tighter, your cunt still hot and soaked and wrapped around his dick like it belonged there.

Every step down the hallway had you trembling. Every slight sway of his hips sent a jolt of overstimulated heat through your core. You could feel him, feel everything.

He kicked the door to his bedroom open. The room was dark, lit only by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp outside the window, and it smelled like him, woodsy cologne, weed smoke, clean laundry, and something deeper. Like sweat and sex and barely leashed want.

He laid you down in the middle of his bed, your back hitting cool sheets, his hips never pulling back, never even thinking about pulling out. He hovered over you, muscles tight as cables, his hands braced beside your head, dick still buried deep. And then he growled again, low and breathless. “You said you wanted me to ruin you?”

You barely had time to breathe as Yunho shifted above you, his hands gripping your hips before he pulled out and flipped you over. “Face down,” he muttered, voice thick with heat as his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, gently pressing until your chest melted into the mattress.

Your breath hitched. Your ass was up, arched and exposed, while his dick buried itself back inside you, deep, stretching you so perfectly it almost hurt. Yunho cursed under his breath, hips twitching as he stared down at the sight of you. “Fuck,” he breathed, dragging his hand down the slope of your spine. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You felt the press of his lips next, soft, kissing down your back. Starting at the nape of your neck, he worked his way lower. Each press of his mouth against your skin was hot, wet, deliberate. “You’ve been driving me crazy for two fucking years,” he whispered between kisses. “Coming home in those tight skirts, those little heels… that laugh… that fucking laugh…”

You moaned, fingers curling into his sheets. “And he had you?” Yunho’s voice dropped, dark and lethal. “Chris got to touch you? Sleep next to you? He didn’t even know what the fuck he had.” His hand smoothed down over your ass, then smacked it, hard. The slap echoed through the room.

You gasped, eyes wide, your body jolting from the impact. The sting bloomed instantly, delicious and sharp. Your hips twitched against the sheets, cunt clenching around him, needy for more. Yunho groaned. “Fuck…. say something, baby.” You whined, voice muffled against the pillow, “Do it again.”

Another smack, harder and your mouth fell open, a broken moan tearing from your throat as he rubbed the tender skin after, soothing you with one hand while the other held your hips in place.

You tried to move. Your hips shifted, just slightly, just enough to try and pull back, just enough to feel something. But Yunho didn’t let you. He gripped your waist tight, fingers digging in as he slammed back into you with one deep, brutal thrust, all of him, buried to the hilt. You gasped, your mouth dropping open, arms trembling from the force of it.

He didn’t move. He just stayed there. Deep. Heavy. Pressed inside you like he lived there. You whined, grinding down, chasing friction, chasing anything, but Yunho’s hands locked you in place. “Ah ah,” he said, voice low, gravel rough. “You don’t move unless I say.” Your walls clenched around him out of instinct, and the groan that tore from his throat sounded almost pained.

“Fuck… that’s it.” He leaned down, his chest flush with your back, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “Clench, baby. Come on…” You whimpered, biting your lip, your body twitching under his command. “Clench for me so tight I don’t ever wanna leave. So tight I forget my own name and all I know is you.”

He rolled his hips the tiniest bit, not thrusting, not yet, but pressing even deeper somehow, like he wanted to ruin every inch of you from the inside out. “I’ll fill you up so good, baby. So deep you’ll be tasting me for days. So full you’ll forget you ever fucking dated that asshole.”

You moaned, wrecked and breathless, and Yunho growled against your neck. “Don’t you dare run from me now. Not when you finally let me in. Not when you feel this fucking good.” Your whole body was trembling, your nails clawing into the sheets, your walls fluttering around his dick. And he still didn’t move. “Now be a good girl,” he said darkly, lips brushing your cheek, “and beg me to make you forget him.”

You were shaking. Writhing. Your breath hitched in your throat as your walls kept clenching, fluttering around him in desperate waves, but Yunho still didn’t move. Still buried deep. Still holding you there, stretched and aching and starving for more. “Yunho…” It came out broken, your voice cracking like you’d been sobbing for hours. And maybe you had. Maybe your body was crying for him even if your eyes hadn’t caught up yet.

“I know, baby…” he whispered behind you, brushing his mouth over your shoulder blade. “I know it’s too much… but it’s not enough yet, is it?” You whined, almost sobbing now, a choked noise bubbling up from your throat as your hips twitched again.

You were so full you could barely think, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fast or hard or filthy enough to match the hurricane inside your head. “Please,” you whispered. That one word, cracked and breathless, did something to him. Yunho exhaled hard through his nose… and then his hand slid between your thighs.

Two fingers, rough, a little shaky, found your clit and rubbed slow. “Fuck,” you gasped, forehead hitting the bed as your back arched involuntarily. He rubbed circles, lazy ones at first, then faster, and every time you clenched around him, he grunted like he was hanging on by a thread. “That’s it… good girl,” he growled, pressing harder against your clit, voice thick. “That’s what I wanted. Cry for it.”

Your thighs trembled, your fingers clawing the sheets as your whole body locked up, heat exploding outward in a wave of unbearable release. You came clenching him so tightly he groaned through gritted teeth, and that’s when he snapped. His hand left your clit. And he started moving. No build up. No teasing. No warning. Just brutal, deep, punishing thrusts that knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Your cries turned into shattered gasps, little screams, each one punched from your chest with every thick, devastating snap of his hips. Your whole body jolted with every movement, slick, hot, soaked from your orgasm and already building again. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was take it. Take all of him as his hand tangled in your hair, fist tightening as he yanked you up against his chest, your back arching with a gasp. “Don’t fucking run from it,” he growled into your ear, breath hot and ragged as he thrust into you, hard, fast, punishing. “Take it.”

And you did, God, you tried. your cries bouncing off the walls as his hips slapped into the backs of your thighs, each thrust deeper than the last. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel, the stretch of him inside you relentless, addictive, cruel in the best way.

“You feel that?” he groaned, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you through it. “Feel how fucking tight you get when I’m this deep, when you know you’re mine?” You were crying again. From the pressure, the pleasure, the way your body was unraveling, falling apart in his grip. You clenched around him, your core fluttering uncontrollably as your orgasm ripped through you, violent and perfect, shaking your entire body.

And then, just as you were crashing, he pulled out. You barely had time to whimper before he shoved you forward, your face pressed to the mattress, ass in the air, thighs trembling. You could feel his cum dripping out of you, your body still twitching, still clenching as he groaned behind you. “Fucking look at you,” Yunho muttered, voice rough with wrecked arousal. “Still milking me. Still not satisfied.”

Before you could catch your breath, his hands gripped your ass and spread you open and his tongue dove back in. You screamed. It was filthy, the slick sound of him eating you out from behind, tongue thrusting into your overstimulated hole like he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion. His moans were obscene, vibrating into you, his grip bruising on your thighs as he kept you open for him, devouring you like a man starved.

And you were gone, sobbing his name, grinding back on his face, hands fisting the sheets as your entire body convulsed. You didn’t know if you were going to survive this. And maybe you didn’t want to.

Yunho pulled back from between your legs, your body limp, spent, and shaking. But he wasn’t done with you. Not even close. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting you as you whimpered, already sensitive, as he flipped you onto your back, the room spinning for a heartbeat before you landed against the sheets.

He kissed you. Not your lips, not yet. No, he started at your ankle, trailing slow, reverent kisses up your calf, the inside of your knee, the dip of your thigh. His lips were soft, warm, careful… worshipping. Like he was tracing a map he already knew by heart. By the time he reached your breast, your chest was rising fast again, your breath catching as his mouth closed around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking, his hand massaging the other.

You moaned, head thrown back, hips rising, needing him again. And when you wrapped your legs around his waist, he didn’t tease. He let you pull him back in with a low groan and a look in his eyes like he’d die for this as he sank back inside you. Slowly. Stretching you all over again, dragging a broken cry from your throat as your nails clawed at his arms. You were too sensitive, too full, and yet it felt so right, like your body would never forget the shape of him again.

He took your hands, intertwining your fingers with his, and pressed them into the mattress above your head, his forehead resting against yours. His thrusts were deep, slow, almost unbearable in how intimate they were. “Mine,” he whispered between shallow breaths, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re mine.” You nodded, eyes glassy, heart pounding. “And I’m yours,” he added. “If you’ll have me, baby… I’m already yours.”

That broke something inside you. Your body locked around him, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as you clenched tight, your final orgasm crashing over you like a wave, sharp and emotional, shaking you to your very soul. “Yunho…” you gasped, voice catching on his name like it meant everything.

He groaned, hips stilling as he buried himself to the hilt, holding your hands tighter as he came, deep inside you, his body trembling as he filled you, staying right there, his weight settling on you as your legs stayed locked around his waist, your fingers still tangled with his.

No thrusts. No words.

Just his heartbeat against yours.

And the soft sound of rain against the window.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It was Sunday. The kind of lazy, hazy Sunday that bled into afternoon without either of you noticing. You’d barely left the bed all weekend, except for food, water, and the handful of times Yunho had carried you to the shower only to ruin you against the wall instead of actually letting you get clean.

And right now was no exception. Your palms slammed against the tile as Yunho’s hips snapped into yours from behind, water cascading down both your bodies, steam curling around you like it couldn’t even escape the heat between you.

“Fuck, Yunho…” you choked out, head pressed to the slick wall, your body bouncing with every thrust. He was relentless. One arm around your waist, the other braced against the wall, his mouth dragging filthy praise across your shoulder blade between gasps.

“You’re still so fucking tight,” he growled. “I could fuck you all day…”

“You have been,” you whimpered, and he only laughed, deep and cocky, before shoving in even deeper until you were crying out, legs shaking, the world going white as you clenched and came around him.

He followed seconds later, groaning against your skin, burying himself to the hilt, his fingers bruising on your hips as he stilled. You stayed like that for a second, both panting, dripping wet, blissed out and exhausted.

Then, you shoved at his hip with a breathless, “Get out. I actually need to shower this time.” Yunho chuckled, pulling out and slapping your ass on his way out of the steam. “Yes, ma’am.”

He grabbed a towel, lazily wrapping it low around his hips, water still running down his chest as he padded barefoot into your apartment. Hair wet and messy, smile half lazy, he walked straight to the coffee table, grabbing his pack of cigarettes. He was heading for your balcony when…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Firmer than it needed to be. Angry. Yunho’s hand was already inside the pack, pulling out a cigarette as he walked to the door. No rush. No panic. Just calm, dominant confidence as he lit the end with a flick of the lighter, that first inhale curling out of his mouth as he swung the door open.

And there he was.

Chris.

Standing in the hallway, red faced, chest heaving, the kind of man who clearly hadn’t been fucked or loved properly in years. Yunho tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face as he exhaled smoke through his nose straight past him. Didn’t even flinch.

Chris sneered, his voice low and bitter. “You fucking my girlfriend now?”

Yunho’s grin widened, tongue flicking across his teeth as he leaned against the doorframe, towel low, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “No,” he said smoothly, eyes sharp and unbothered.

“My girlfriend now.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Which was technically true. Because before this, Yunho had at least been pretending he had his feelings under control. That illusion died three nights ago. It had been late. Almost one in the morning. You and Yeosang had come back from closing the campus café together smelling like coffee beans and sugar syrup, both of you exhausted and slap happy in that way people only got after working customer service too long. Yunho had been half asleep already, stretched across his bed with one airpod still in when he heard your laughter echo from the kitchen. Normally he tuned it out. He’d learned how to live around you a long time ago.

How to ignore the way your voice carried through walls. How not to think too hard when you wore his hoodies around the apartment and he wanted to hurt himself inside you with just said hoodie on. How not to stare when you sat cross legged on the couch beside him with wet hair after showers smelling like vanilla and coffee. He’d gotten good at surviving you. Mostly.

But that night he got up for water. And then he heard Yeosang say, “So your thing is just emotionally unavailable tall guys?” Your laugh came immediately after. “No, my thing is blondes unfortunately.” Yunho paused in the hallway going completely still. “I’m serious,” you continued. “Blondes are actually my weakness. It’s embarrassing.” And that was it. That was the moment his brain apparently vacated his body permanently.

Because the next morning he woke up thinking about it. Then he thought about it during class. Then during basketball practice. Then while brushing his teeth. Then at three in the morning while sitting cross legged on his bed researching hair bleach like he was preparing a dissertation.

Can dark hair go platinum in one session?

Will bleaching destroy natural waves?

Best blond shades for warm undertones.

The worst part? He knew it was pathetic. You’d all been friends since freshman year. Back when the three of you were living in tiny dorms with broken AC and surviving off instant ramen and campus vending machines. Back before Yunho had learned every version of your laugh by memory. Before he’d memorized your coffee order. Before the two of you ended up splitting rent on a shitty off campus apartment at the end of sophomore year because housing prices near campus were criminal.

Two years. Two years of shared grocery trips. Shared laundry. Shared late night study sessions. Shared space. Two years of wanting you so badly sometimes it physically hurt to look at you too long. And somehow you still had no idea. Or maybe you did. Yunho honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes he thought you had to know. Especially when your eyes lingered on him too long or when you’d fall asleep against his shoulder during movie nights without thinking twice about it.

Other times you treated him so casually he felt insane for even hoping. So yes. Maybe bleaching his hair because of one overheard conversation was humiliating. But Yunho had reached a point where he’d do a lot worse if it meant seeing you look at him differently for even half a second.

“Alright,” the stylist said finally, returning to his chair. “Ready to see it?” No. Absolutely not. But Yunho nodded anyway.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time you finally made it home, your entire body felt held together by caffeine and spite. Your café visor was shoved into your tote bag, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, technically it was Yunho’s hoodie, as you unlocked the apartment door with a tired sigh. The hallway outside still smelled faintly like somebody’s burned microwave dinner, and all you wanted was a shower and unconsciousness.

The apartment lights were dim except for the living room glow. A video game soundtrack echoed softly through the space, one you recognized from how many times Yunho plays it. Mortal Kombat. “You alive in here?” you called, kicking the door shut behind you. “Barely,” Yunho answered from the couch.

You smiled automatically at the sound of his voice. “Good. I brought your favorite croissants before they tossed the leftovers.”

“Chocolate ones?”

“Obviously.” You stepped into the living room, already pulling the paper bag from your tote. “Yeosang tried to steal one and I told him I’d…” The rest of the sentence died instantly and your footsteps stopped as Yunho looked up from the couch. Blonde. Your brain fully disconnected from your body for a solid three seconds. He was sprawled lazily across the couch in grey sweatpants and an oversized black shirt, one arm hooked behind his head while the PS5 controller rested loosely in his other hand. The TV painted shifting colors across him, catching against pale blonde hair that fell messily over his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.

Your mouth opened. Closed and then opened again. “What did you do to your hair?” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Dyed it.” Like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually altered your brain chemistry. You stepped closer without meaning to, still staring at him. “Why are you blonde?”

Yunho shrugged, eyes flicking back toward the tv too casually. Way too casually. “Wanted a change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when?”

“Since today?”

You made a disbelieving noise under your breath, still frozen in the middle of the living room while your heartbeat started doing deeply embarrassing things. Because Yunho had always been attractive. That was the problem. You’d spent years trying very hard not to think about it too much. But this? This felt targeted. Like a personal attack he had no idea he was doing. His hair looked soft enough to touch. The blond made his eyes look darker somehow. Sharper.

And the worst part was how relaxed he looked about it, stretched across the couch like he had no idea he’d just walked straight out of every bad decision you’d ever made. Yunho glanced back at you again finally, slower this time because you were still staring. Not subtly either. Your fingers tightened around the paper bag slightly as your eyes dragged over his hair again before you could stop yourself and a tiny flicker of satisfaction crossed his face so fast you almost missed it. “You hate it?” he asked.

You laughed once in disbelief. “Hate it?” you repeated. “Yunho, you look insane.” His eyebrow lifted. “Insane bad or insane good?” The apartment suddenly felt very warm. Very small. You swallowed once and completely betrayed yourself as you mumbled. “Unfortunately insane good.” You tore your eyes away from him with actual effort and shoved the paper bag toward him before you could continue staring like a Victorian man witnessing an exposed ankle.

“Here,” you muttered. “Your croissants before I decide you don’t deserve them anymore.” Yunho snorted softly, setting the controller down on his stomach so he could take the bag from you. Your fingers brushed for barely a second, just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You’re so generous,” he said dryly.

“I know.”

You dropped onto the opposite end of the couch quickly, mostly because standing near him suddenly felt medically unsafe. The cushions dipped under your weight while Yunho pulled one of the croissants from the bag immediately, peeling the paper back. You watched him take a bite. Unfortunately that was somehow attractive too. This was a nightmare. You exhaled through your nose, trying very hard to regain control of yourself before saying something humiliating. “Your postseason championship tomorrow,” you said, tucking your legs beneath you. “You ready?”

Yunho’s expression shifted slightly then, the teasing easing into something softer. Their intramural basketball team had somehow made it all the way to finals. Which normally wouldn’t have mattered much except Yunho was annoyingly good at basically everything. Half the campus showed up to games just to watch him play. “Mm,” he hummed around another bite of croissant. “Kinda nervous.”

You blinked, shocked. “You? Nervous?”

“A little.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Coach has been acting like this is the NBA finals all week.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s because you’re carrying the entire team.”

“That is actually true.”

“There he is.” You pointed at him. “Arrogant again.”

Yunho grinned and, God, the blonde hair made his smile worse somehow. Brighter. You hated this. “You’re coming though, right?” he asked and you softened immediately. “Of course I am. I even switched shifts for it,” you added. “Yeosang’s covering close tomorrow.”

Yunho stared at you for a second too long. Something warm flickered behind his eyes. Then he looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Cool,” he said quietly. And suddenly the apartment didn’t feel casual anymore. Not with his blonde hair glowing gold under the tv light.

Not with the way he kept glancing at you between bites of croissant.

Not with the heavy feeling sitting low in your stomach every time he smiled.

You were in so much trouble.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next afternoon was somehow worse. You’d spent the entire morning telling yourself you were being ridiculous. It was hair. Just fucking hair. People dyed their hair every day. Millions of people probably woke up blonde every morning and somehow society continued functioning. So why had you spent half your shift replaying the image of Yunho sprawled across the couch in your head?

Why had you almost poured whole milk into an iced americano because you’d gotten distracted thinking about it? Why had you caught yourself staring into space while wondering if it was as soft as it looked? You were losing your mind.

By the time your shift ended, you practically threw your apron into your locker and headed for the employee bathroom. The game started in less than an hour. You’d been going to Yunho’s games ever since freshman year when he’d somehow convinced you to attend one “just this once.” That had turned into every home game. Which had turned into wearing his jersey number. Which had turned into you owning a black and red fitted shirt with a giant white 08 on the back.

You absolutely refused to examine how that happened. The shirt was already folded in your bag. You changed quickly, pulling it over your head and fixing your hair in the mirror. The familiar number stretched across your back with JEONG right above it. A small smile tugged at your lips before you jumped as a knock sounded on the doorframe.

Yeosang stood there holding a box of pastries, immediately narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look guilty?”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

You grabbed your bag. “I’m leaving. Have fun closing.” Yeosang stepped directly into your path. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Unfortunately, after years of friendship, he had developed an almost supernatural ability to tell when something was bothering you. Or when you were lying. The café had mostly emptied out now, most like you, were heading to the game. You finally signed, groaning. “It’s Yunho.”

“See? I knew it.”

“You always know it.”

“What’s he done now?”

You hesitated. Because somehow saying it out loud felt embarrassing. Extremely embarrassing. Yeosang waited patiently. Then impatiently. Then dramatically until you blurted it out.

“He dyed his hair.”

Yeosang blinked. “What?”

“He dyed his hair.”

“And?”

“He dyed it blonde.”

Yeosang laughed. A little too loudly. “Oh my god! Are you serious?”

You groaned. Then immediately regretted opening your mouth at all. Because once you started talking, everything spilled out. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Yeosang barked out another laugh. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I know.”

Yeosang looked delighted as you looked miserable. “Every time I close my eyes,” you complained, “I just keep thinking about running my fingers through it and pulling on it while he…”

Yeosang immediately held up both hands. “Nope. Don’t need your nsfw details.”

You laughed despite yourself. “I wasn’t even going to say anything.”

“That sentence was headed somewhere awful.” Yeosang jokingly physically shuddered. “Please save that conversation for literally anyone else.” You laughed harder now, the tension easing slightly from your shoulders as Yeosang pointed toward the door. “Go.” He grabbed a towel and started wiping down a nearby counter. “Go watch your blonde basketball player.”

You rolled your eyes and headed backwards toward the exit. “He’s not my basketball player.”

Yeosang’s laugh followed you all the way out the door. “Sure he isn’t.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The gym was already packed by the time you arrived. Not professional sports packed. Not thousands of people screaming packed. College packed. Students crammed into bleachers. Friends holding homemade signs. The marching band warming up in one corner. The scent of popcorn and sweat and polished hardwood filling the air. The noise hit you immediately and you loved it.

You slipped through the crowd, making your way toward your usual section. A few people recognized the shirt you were wearing and smiled knowingly. Yunho’s number. As usual but you ignored the looks. At this point half the athletic department had apparently decided you and Yunho were dating years ago. The fact that neither of you had corrected them probably wasn’t helping.

The teams were already on the court warming up. And then you saw him and your feet almost stopped moving. God. That wasn’t fair. The basketball uniform had always looked good on him. That wasn’t new. The black and red jersey stretched across broad shoulders you’ve spent years pretending not to notice. His shorts hung low on his hips. His long legs seemed to take up half the court whenever he moved. Normally that was already enough to make maintaining a friendship feel like an Olympic sport. Now add the blonde hair and you were finished. Absolutely finished.

The bright gym lights caught the bleached strands every time he moved. Against the uniform it stood out immediately, making him impossible to miss even among dozens of players. Several girls nearby were staring and you immediately hated them. Then realized you were doing the exact same thing. Which somehow made it worse.

A whistle blew and warmups ended and the game began. You tried, you really did, to focus on the actual basketball. For maybe five minutes. Then Yunho stole the ball and the crowd erupted. You found yourself leaning forward automatically as he moved with an ease that always fascinated you. Confident. Fast. Certain. The version of Yunho most people knew was relaxed. Sweet and easygoing. Basketball was different. There was a sharpness to him here. A confidence. An intensity. Every movement looked deliberate. Every play looked effortless. And apparently blonde hair made all of it ten times more distracting.

Halfway through the first half he scored again and the crowd exploded all over again as Yunho jogged backward down the court breathing hard. Sweat glistening along his neck. You immediately looked away. Then immediately looked back. Which was a mistake. Because once again your brain had decided to imagine what that hair would feel like beneath your fingers. Pulling….. gripping…..

You shifted in your seat, clenching your thighs together and knew if this was one of those omegaverse stories Yeosang likes to read, the whole gym would smell how turned on you were right now. By halftime you had learned three things: One, Your roommate was going to win this game. Two, The blonde hair somehow looked even better than it had last night. And three….. You desperately needed to get your act together before he noticed the way you kept staring or wet you are as he glanced up and smiled at you.

Yunho had always been good at pretending. That was probably the only reason he’d survived the last few years. Because if he hadn’t learned how to hide things, you would’ve figured him out sometime during freshman year. Back before there was an apartment. Before shared rent. Before he realized he was completely screwed. The game should have had his full attention. It was the championship. The biggest game of the season. The final game of his college career.

And yet every few minutes his eyes drifted toward the bleachers anyway. Toward you. They always did. The first time he’d looked over after warmups, he’d almost forgotten what play they were running. Because there you were as always wearing his name and number. And Yunho hated how much he liked it. Actually, hate wasn’t the right word. The truth was much worse. He loved it. Loved it in a way he would absolutely never admit out loud.

Because the second he started examining why seeing you wear his number made him feel the way it did, he’d have to confront some very uncomfortable truths about himself. Like the fact he was possessive. Not in an unhealthy way. Not in a controlling way. Just… Yours. His brain immediately corrected. No. Not yours. You weren’t his. He knew that. But every time he saw another guy talking to you for too long, something ugly twisted in his chest.

Every time someone flirted with you at parties. Every time some idiot from one of your classes made you laugh. Yunho had to sit there pretending he was perfectly normal about it. So yes. Watching you wear his name and number did something to him……

Yunho snapped back into the play when the whistle blew again. He intercepted a pass, pushed the ball down court, and scored. His teammates slapped his shoulders as they ran back and the crowd cheered but he barely heard them. Because his eyes were already looking toward the stands again and you were watching him. A smile pulling at your mouth and his chest tightened immediately. God. He was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He immediately turned away. Then looked back three seconds later because apparently he had no self control anymore.

He kept glancing at you for the rest of the half. Through every possession. Every timeout. Every basket. Until finally midway through the second half he ended up at the free throw line and the gym quieted as Yunho bounced the ball once. Twice. Then glanced toward the stands out of habit again and immediately regretted it. Because you were looking right at him. Your chin resting against your hand. Looking at him like he was the only thing in the entire gym worth paying attention to. The shot nearly rimmed out but Yunho caught himself at the last second and the ball dropped through the net.

You weren’t even pretending to watch anyone else anymore. The scoreboard overhead glowed brightly against the gym lights, the numbers changing every few possessions. The opposing team was better than expected. Every time Yunho’s team started pulling away, they clawed their way back. The tension in the building kept rising. Students stood. The bench stood. Even the coaches looked stressed. And through all of it, Yunho somehow looked completely composed.

His blonde hair was darker now with sweat, the strands sticking slightly to his forehead as he moved across the court. The jersey clung to his back. His breathing had become heavier over the course of the game, but he never seemed to slow down. You’d watched him play dozens of times. Maybe a hundred. But tonight felt different. Everything felt different. Every glance toward him and him towards you lingered a little longer than it should. Every smile he gave a teammate made your stomach flutter. Every time he pushed his hair back from his face, your brain short circuited.

The scoreboard buzzed. Two minutes remaining. The game was tied and the entire gym seemed to collectively hold its breath. You shifted forward on the bleachers, elbows on your knees now. Nobody around you was sitting anymore. The student section was practically vibrating as the opposing team scored and groans erupted. Then thirty seconds later Yunho answered with a three pointer that nearly blew the roof off the place and you found yourself shouting before you even realized it but the sound was swallowed by hundreds of other voices.

Yunho pointed toward a teammate as they ran back down the court. One minute left. Then forty seconds. Then thirty. The score stayed tied and every possession felt life or death. You could see the exhaustion on every player now. The way they bent slightly when the play stopped. The sweat soaking through uniforms. The desperation. Twenty seconds. The opposing team missed. The rebound bounced loose and one of Yunho’s teammates grabbed it. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. You stood fully now, heart pounding as the gym felt deafening.

Yunho sprinted across half court and the ball found him immediately. Everyone in the building knew who was taking the final shot. Even the other team. Two defenders closed on him instantly. Five seconds. Four. The noise became unbearable. Three. Yunho stepped back, just enough space to aim as time seemed to slow. You saw the ball leave his hands. Saw the arc. Saw the blonde hair falling into his eyes as he watched it fly and the entire gym froze……

For a split second there was silence. Pure silence. Then absolute chaos. The buzzer sounded. The scoreboard flashed. His team had won and the gym exploded. Boomed. Students screamed. The bench stormed the court as teammates tackled each other. People jumped onto the hardwood from the stands and the sound hit like a wave. And through all the madness, all the celebration, all the movement… Your eyes found Yunho immediately. He was laughing. Head thrown back. Arms spread as his teammates nearly knocked him over as they swarmed him.

For a moment he disappeared entirely beneath the crowd before he emerged again. Breathing hard and grinning. Flushed from exertion and adrenaline. You got up and made your way down the bleachers and onto the court and for a split second, you considered leaving.

The idea hit you the moment you reached the court through the chaos of celebration. Students were spilling onto the hardwood. Teammates were hugging each other. Coaches were getting drenched in water bottles. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Then you saw her. Standing beside Yunho. Red hair. Pretty. One of the cheerleaders. And not just any cheerleader. You knew exactly who she was. Brandy. Unfortunately. Because sophomore year, long before you’d let yourself admit your feelings for Yunho, he’d gotten drunk at a Halloween party and disappeared upstairs with her.

You’d spent the rest of that night pretending it hadn’t bothered you. Just like you’d spent the next years pretending a lot of things. Now she was standing entirely too close to him. Laughing. Touching his arm. Looking up at him with the kind of smile that made your stomach immediately sink. The championship high vanished from your system so fast it was almost impressive. You stopped walking. The noise of the gym suddenly felt distant. Stupid. This was stupid.

Yunho wasn’t your boyfriend. He could talk to whoever he wanted. He could fuck whoever he wanted. He’d done exactly that for years. And yet all you could think about was the way she’d reached up a second ago and touched his shoulder while laughing and how you wanted to break her hand for doing it.

Your jaw tightened and before you could stop yourself, you turned. You’d just leave. Nobody would notice. The team would celebrate. Yunho would celebrate. You’d text him congratulations later. Simple. Except apparently the universe had decided you weren’t getting away that easily. Because before you’d taken more than three steps, you heard your name and you froze.

“Y/N!”

You looked back as Yunho was already jogging toward you leaving the conversation with Brandy entirely.She looked confused as he disappeared and your heart did something deeply embarrassing as Yunho reached you a moment later, slightly out of breath from both the game and weaving through the crowd. The smile on his face hadn’t disappeared since the winning shot. “Where are you going?”

You shoved your hands into your pockets. “Nowhere.” His eyes narrowed immediately. The same way they always did when he knew you were lying. “Uh huh.” You shrugged. “You were leaving.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally turned around.”

“I changed directions.”

Yunho stared at you and you stared back. Then, to your horror, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew exactly what had happened. Like he was enjoying it as you kept glancing at his sweat damp hair. “I’m gonna go shower real quick,” he said. “We’re all going to Murphys to celebrate.” The little sports bar was only a few blocks from your apartment. Close enough that most students walked there. You nodded. Trying very hard to act normal. “Okay.”

His smile widened slightly. “Then we can go together.” The words landed harder than they should have. Because he could’ve gone with teammates. Or literally anyone else. Instead he’d said we. Like it was obvious. Like of course he was going with you and a warmth spread through your chest despite your best efforts. “You sure?” you asked and the question came out before you could stop it and something flickered across Yunho’s face. Confusion. Then amusement. Then something softer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Because you couldn’t exactly say because Brandy looked like she wanted to climb him like a tree. So instead you shrugged. “Just asking.” Yunho watched you for a second. A long second. The kind that felt dangerous. Then one of his teammates shouted his name from across the court and the moment broke. “Give me twenty minutes,” Yunho said, backing away. “Don’t disappear.”

Your stomach flipped as the grin he gave you was quick. Easy. Familiar. Then he turned and headed toward the locker rooms as you kept standing there watching him go. Watching the blonde hair. Watching the way students stopped him every few feet to congratulate him. Watching three separate girls try to get his attention in the span of thirty seconds.

And for the first time all night, a realization settled heavily in your chest. The jealousy wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Murphys was exactly what every college sports bar eventually became on a championship night. Packed and overly loud. Impossible to move through without bumping into somebody. The moment you and Yunho stepped through the front doors, a roar erupted from somewhere near the back where most of the team had already claimed several tables. Someone immediately started chanting his name. Another teammate nearly spilled a beer trying to get his attention. You couldn’t help smiling. This was his night. The culmination of four years of practices, games, injuries, early mornings, and everything in between. And somehow, despite all the attention immediately being directed at him, Yunho still glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were following.

The small gesture shouldn’t have affected you but it did unfortunately. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, the blonde strands softer than before and pushed loosely back from his forehead. A few pieces had already fallen forward again, framing his face in a way that should probably be illegal. He’d traded the basketball uniform for black jeans and a dark grey henley that fit entirely too well across his shoulders. You hated how aware you were of every detail and the way half the women in the bar immediately noticed him.

“Over here!” one of his teammates yelled. The team occupied nearly an entire section of the bar now, pitchers and baskets of food already covering the tables. The second Yunho approached, someone shoved a shot glass into his hand. Then another. Then another. And another. “Champions drink free tonight!” someone shouted. The chanting started almost immediately and Yunho rolled his eyes then knocked back the first shot anyway.

You found yourself laughing despite everything. For a little while, it was easy. The energy was infectious. Everyone was celebrating. The game replayed on televisions mounted around the bar and every few minutes somebody brought up the final shot again. Every single retelling somehow made Yunho look more embarrassed.

You were watching him grin through another round of congratulations when your stomach suddenly dropped. Her. Brandy. She’d arrived sometime in the last ten minutes. You hadn’t noticed until now. Until she stood near the opposite side of the table talking to a few people from the athletic department and entirely too interested in Yunho. You tried ignoring it. Really. You focused on your drink. Focused on conversations around you. Focused on literally anything else. Then you looked up again and she was moving closer.

Your jaw tightened as she stopped right beside Yunho who didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. You couldn’t tell as someone handed him another shot and he accepted it with a laugh as Brandy laughed too. At something that wasn’t even funny. Your grip tightened around your glass as she kept finding reasons to move closer, reaching out and touching Yunho’s arm while saying something. The movement lasted barely a second but it still made something unpleasant twist in your chest.

You immediately looked away and moved towards the bar having no idea Yunho was trying. He really was. He’d spent the last ten minutes being cornered by teammates, congratulated by professors he barely knew, handed enough shots to tranquilize a horse, and somehow Brandy had attached herself to his side like a particularly persistent barnacle. Ordinarily, he would’ve felt a little bad. Brandy was nice enough. Kind of. Not really.

They’d hooked up exactly once nearly two years ago after a Halloween party, discovered they had absolutely no chemistry beyond mutual attraction, and never did it again. Since then they’d been friendly. Casual. At least, Yunho thought they’d been casual. Apparently Brandy had different ideas. Because she kept laughing at things that weren’t funny. Kept touching his arm. Kept finding excuses to lean closer. And Yunho kept trying to politely create space without making a scene.

His attention wasn’t even on her. It hadn’t been all night. The problem was that his attention was currently locked on the opposite side of the bar. Specifically on you. And the guy sitting beside you. Sean. Of course it was Sean. Yunho knew Sean. Everybody knew Sean. Another player. Not on the basketball team, but one of the soccer guys. Tall. Built. Annoyingly good looking. And blonde. Naturally blond and that realization hit Yunho like a personal attack.

Of course. Of fucking course. The universe apparently had jokes tonight. Because there you were, sitting at the bar with Sean occupying the stool beside you. Laughing and smiling. Looking comfortable. And all Yunho could think about was that stupid conversation he’d overheard about blondes being your weakness.

His jaw tightened as Sean leaned closer to hear something you said over the music and you laughed and Yunho immediately hated him. Not rationally. Not fairly. Just instantly. “You even listening to me?” Brandy’s voice snapped him back for half a second. “What?”

“You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said.”

And he still wasn’t as a fresh wave of irritation rolled through Yunho. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You could talk to whoever you wanted. You could date whoever you wanted. Fuck whoever you wanted. The same rules he’d been reminding himself of for years. The problem was they weren’t working anymore.

Yunho immediately looked again. And hated that he looked again. Because the second he saw your smile directed at someone else, that ugly feeling in his chest returned. Stronger this time. Possessive. Frustrated. Dangerously close to becoming something he couldn’t keep hidden much longer. And judging by the way Sean had started leaning even closer, Yunho was rapidly running out of patience.

Sean was halfway through telling some story about getting thrown out of an intramural soccer game when Yunho finally reached his limit. “Fuck it.” Before he could talk himself out of it, Yunho started walking towards you and the moment you felt his presence, you turned. And immediately forgot how to function.

Yunho had one hand braced against the bar behind your stool. The other settled on the counter beside your drink. In one smooth movement he’d essentially wedged himself into the tiny space behind you. Not touching. Technically. But close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that his shirt brushed the back of your shoulder when he shifted. Close enough that the familiar scent of him immediately invaded your senses and your brain completely short circuited.

Sean looked up and grinned immediately. “Jeong!” Yunho nodded once and to Sean’s credit, he didn’t seem remotely threatened. Or aware. “Hell of a game,” Sean continued. “That shot was ridiculous.”

“Thanks.”

“You saved your whole team.”

“Someone had to.”

Sean laughed and Yunho smiled politely. Meanwhile you sat frozen between them. Because while Sean was carrying on a perfectly normal conversation, Yunho remained exactly where he was. Behind you. Practically looming as his arm still rested along the bar behind your stool. You grabbed your drink then immediately regretted it because your hand was shaking slightly. Wonderful.

“You guys still living together after graduation?” The question landed like a grenade. Sean looked genuinely curious when you looked startled and Yunho looked calm. “Yeah,” Yunho answered before you could and your eyes immediately flicked toward him as Sean nodded. “Nice. Makes life easier.”

“It does.” The answer came instantly. Like Yunho hadn’t even needed to think about it and something warm stirred in your chest as Sean smiled. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two do it. I’d kill most of my roommates after two years.”

This time you laughed. “So would I.”

Yunho looked down at you immediately. “You wound me.”

“You leave dishes in the sink.”

“They soak.”

“They rot.”

“They marinate.”

Sean barked out a laugh and you laughed too as Yunho smiled. And for a brief second the jealousy disappeared entirely. Because this felt familiar. Comfortable. The two of you slipping into the easy rhythm you’d built over years. Then Sean smiled at you again and the jealousy came roaring right back. Yunho’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes lingered on Sean for a moment longer than necessary then dropped to you.

“Oh, there he is.” You followed Sean’s gaze to see another soccer player waving him over from a crowded table near the back as Sean stood. “My roommate is going to drink himself into a medical emergency if I leave him alone any longer.”

“Probably a good idea then,” you said as Sean pointed toward Yunho. “Again, congrats on the win.”

“Thanks.”

And just like that, Sean was gone and the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the space beside you was empty for approximately half a second before Yunho sat down. Like he’d been waiting for the opportunity. The stool Sean had vacated hadn’t even stopped spinning before Yunho claimed it. You stared into your drink to hide your smile as the bar remained loud around you. Students celebrating. Glasses clinking. Music playing overhead.

But suddenly all of your attention narrowed to the person sitting beside you as Yunho leaned forward against the bar. His blonde hair had dried almost completely by now. Which somehow made it worse as you heard him mumble almost to himself. “You really do like blondes, don’t you.”

You froze. The words weren’t loud. But they were loud enough and Yunho froze too, his eyes widening slightly and for a second neither of you moved before you furrowed your brows. “What?”

Yunho stared straight ahead. The picture of regret. You could practically see him replaying the last five seconds in his head. Trying to decide if there was any possible way to pretend he hadn’t just said that.

“What did you just say?”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck and his ears turned red and the realization hit you immediately. Yunho was embarrassed. Genuinely embarrassed. And somehow that made your pulse jump even harder.

“You told Yeosang you like blondes.” His words landed between you and your brain stopped working. For a moment you weren’t even sure you’d heard correctly. “You… heard that?”

Yunho rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Your jaw dropped. “Yunho.”

“It was an accident.”

“You eavesdropped on us?”

“I was getting water.”

“You were eavesdropping while getting water.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You dyed your hair.” The words slipped out before you could stop them and Yunho finally looked at you. “You dyed your hair because of that?” you asked quietly and Yunho let out a short laugh. Not amused. More like someone caught red handed. “Maybe.” His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around an empty beer bottle. For a moment he looked like he was debating whether to keep hiding. Then something in his expression shifted.

“I wanted you to look at me.” The words landed like a punch and your breath caught as Yunho laughed once. “Actually, no. That’s not true.” He shook his head. “I wanted you to want me. I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he admitted and you could have swore your heart stopped beating. “Since freshman year, probably. You remember when you got sick during finals?” You stared at him. Of course you remembered. You’d spent three days miserable in your dorm while Yunho kept showing up with soup and notes. “I remember.”

“I skipped practice for that.”

Your chest tightened. “I know.”

“You don’t.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I skipped practice because I couldn’t focus knowing you were sick.” Yunho looked away briefly before continuing. “I tried getting over it.” A small laugh escaped him again. “Didn’t work.” Your throat felt tight. “I dated other people. Didn’t work.” The noise of the bar washed around you but neither of you seemed to notice anymore. “Then we moved in together.” He smiled faintly. “Which was probably the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you as Yunho’s gaze softened. “Do you know how hard it is living with someone you want?” The air left your lungs because of you did. “You wear my hoodies.” His voice was lower now. “You fall asleep on my shoulder. You wear my name and my number.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the black shirt and when you looked back up, Yunho was already watching you. “I like when you wear it.”

Your heart nearly stopped. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Yunho’s jaw flexed. Then he admitted the thing he probably never intended to. “It makes me feel like you’re mine.” The words settled heavily between you and Yunho immediately looked away. Like even after everything, that confession felt too revealing. Too possessive. Too honest. But it was already out there now. And suddenly so many things made sense. The way he’d always noticed when you wore the shirt. The way he’d smiled every time. The way he’d looked at you during games. The way he’d dyed his hair. The way he’d looked at you tonight and slowly, Yunho looked back and his expression was completely open now.

“I want you.” The words were barely above a whisper, yet somehow they hit harder than anything else he’d said. Your heart was beating so hard it hurt and for a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. You simply stared at each other before you stood and the movement made Yunho blink, eyes following you immediately. Confused, hopeful and a little worried.

“You want me.” It wasn’t a question but your words made Yunho’s throat bob as he nodded like he couldn’t trust his voice anymore and the look in his eyes nearly destroyed you as a tiny smile tugged at your lips. “Then come have me.” And for a second, Yunho simply stared. Like his brain had completely stopped functioning.

Then his chair scraped against the floor so loud heads turned to stare a little as he followed you out the bar.

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The front door of your apartment barely clicked shut behind you before the tension that had been building all evening, for years, snapped like a live wire. Yunho’s hands were already on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wood paneling as his mouth found yours in a deep, hungry kiss finally. His tongue slid against yours with urgent need, tasting faintly of the drinks you’d had and the shots he downed. He pulled back just enough to breathe the words against your lips, voice low and rough. “You want me?”

You laughed softly, the sound turning into a gasp when his hips rolled forward to pin you tighter. “Obviously, blondie.” He grinned and then moved. Both of you pulled and tugged at each other’s clothes not wasting anymore time because you already waited years and both of you were impatient now. Shirts tugged over heads, pants shoved down legs, socks kicked aside, Yunho almost tripped once, until both of you stood in nothing but underwear, breathing hard as Yunho’s gaze raked over your body, pupils blown wide, before he bent and lifted you effortlessly.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you down the short hallway, mouth never leaving yours except to nip at your jaw, tongue gliding against your skin as he shouldered open the door to his bedroom and lowered you onto the edge of the bed wasting no time to start kissing his way down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to suck lightly at the swell of each breast still covered by your bra. You reached behind yourself and unclasped it, letting the fabric fall away and Yunho’s hands immediately replaced it, palms warm as they cupped and squeezed, thumb stroking over one nipple before he leaned down to take it into his mouth. “Fuck….” You gasped as groaned against you, sucking harder, letting his teeth graze before moving to do the same thing to your other one as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your thighs, slow and deliberate.

He gave one more little nip at your nipple before sliding down and dropping to his knees between your legs, hooking one over his shoulder as he kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, working higher with open mouthed presses of his lips and your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping the bleached strands as he finally reached your center and his tongue dragged a long, flat stripe up your folds before circling your clit.

He took his time, licking and sucking with focused attention, occasionally dipping lower to push his tongue inside you in slow, deliberate little thrusts. A low groan vibrated against you when his own hand slipped into his boxers to wrap around his dick, stroking in time with the rhythm of his tongue just enough to edge himself as your hips started rocking against his face and the wet sounds of his mouth to fill the room. “Yunho…. I’m….” You could feel it, between the way he would rotate plunging his tongue insult to moving back up to suck your aching clit into to his mouth. You could feel your wetness, juices leaking against his chin, smearing, covering his face.

“FUCK!” Your orgasm slammed against you, coming with a sharp cry, thighs trembling around his head while he kept licking through every pulse and your grip tightened in his hair, eyes rolling back a little as he kept going until you couldn’t take it anymore. You tugged him upward by his hair and didn’t miss the way he moaned at his hair being pulled. “I need you inside me now.”

Yunho stood in one fluid motion, you certainly did not have to tell him twice. He shoved his boxers down, catching your ankles and pulling you toward the edge of the mattress, lifting you into his lap as he sat back on the bed, kissing you as you both could feel his tip aching against you, precum smearing at your entrance. “Look at me.” His voice was rough, raspy, as he pressed his forehead against yours. “You want this?” He held you up, giving enough space for the head of his dick to just barely slip inside you. “You want me to bury myself inside you and make you mine?”

“Please….” You hated that it sounded as if you were desperate and begging but you literally were and it was enough to make him groan as held you, sinking you down onto him in one smooth glide and both of you moaned at the stretch, at the years of wanting finally released. He held you there for a moment, forehead staying pressed to yours, letting you adjust to the deep fullness until you began to move, rising and sinking in steady bounces.

Every downward stroke seated him fully, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you. It didn’t take long before the pressure crested again, you were to full, the knowledge of him taking you almost too much and you could feel it already, hitting you to fast. You clenched around him and felt yourself squirt, wetness spilling over his thighs and Yunho’s control fractured. “Holy shit, baby….” He laid you flat on the bed and drove into you harder, hips snapping forward while you kept coming in messy pulses around him. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your cries as your hands yanked at his hair which only fueled him to pound into you faster.

Another orgasm rolled through you, legs shaking uncontrollably, your moan formed into a cry of his name and Yunho pulled out, mouth returning to your pussy to lap at the fresh slick while you were still coming, tongue slipping inside you again as your walls clenched with aftershocks, and the moan he let out like you watching and having you come apart was the best thing to ever happen to him almost made you come again if he hadn’t pulled back and flipped you onto your stomach.

His hands gripped your hips to pull you back onto your knees, pressing you down into the mattress with one big hand between your shoulder blades, gripping his dick in his other hand, teasing his tip at your ass for a minute before moving it back down and thrusting back inside your overstimulated pussy from behind, going a little slower now, savoring the way you gripped him. “Always wanted this,” he murmured, voice thick. “Wanted you like this, taking every inch.” One hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your swollen clit. “Whose pussy is it?”

You tried to answer but all you could manage for a moment were whimpers, small little cries. “Yours,” you gasped, pushing back to meet him. “It’s your pussy.” The words seemed to ignite something in him. His pace quickened, hips slapping against your ass with each deep thrust as he pulled you upright against his chest, one arm banded across your waist to hold you steady while he continued pounding up into you. The new angle keeping him buried to the hilt, and the steady friction soon had you coming again, body arching back into him.

“Fuck…” Yunho reached up, hand wrapping around your throat, tilting your head back as he could feel his dick twitch. “Mine.” He groaned, thrusts frantic and gone as held you there right, coming, groaning your name as he filled you, hot pulses flooding deep inside you while his arms tightened around you, keeping you close through the aftershocks, pressing kisses along your shoulder and neck as both of you caught your breath, the room quiet except for the sound of your mingled breathing.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the sound of your breathing slowly finding its rhythm again. The adrenaline that had carried you from the bar to the apartment was finally beginning to settle, leaving behind something warmer. Softer and real as Yunho rolled onto his back with a groan, one arm immediately reaching for you before you’d even fully settled beside him. Like it was instinct. Like after spending years wanting you, he couldn’t quite convince himself that this wasn’t some elaborate dream his brain had invented.

Then, after a moment, Yunho smiled. Dangerously teasing. The same look he always wears whenever he knows he was about to win an argument. He tilted his head slightly and chuckle escaped him. “You really do like blondes, huh?”

You laughed immediately, then reached up and pushed the hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering there and the teasing expression disappeared from Yunho’s face as he watched you. Watched the fond smile pull at your mouth.

“Mhmmm,” you hummed then you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “But I like just Yunho too.”

And for a second, he simply stared before the biggest smile you’d ever seen spread across his face. And somehow, impossibly, that smile was better than the blonde hair.

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