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💭Who: Lee Jihoon (Seventeen) x female reader
💭What: Humour. Fluff. Suggestive (18+). Established relationship. Nursery school teacher Jihoon. Single parent reader.
💭Word count: 1.9k
💭Warnings: Reader has a 5-year-old daughter. Wen Junhui is reader’s best friend and a menace. Yes, I want to point that out ahead of time. Reader is thirsty for her boyfriend and it’s very mutual. Some heavy kissing. Jihoon’s strength is mentioned as a point of interest for reader, and I just want to point that out because I think buffhoon needs a warning, okay.
💭Summary:
After almost five months, it’s time to tell your daughter that you’re in a relationship with her favourite teacher. You just hope it goes well.
Minors do NOT interact. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio, or for any of the reasons listed in this post, including blank blogs and blogs without any fics reblogged.
Masterlist
Read the prequel Precious.
A/N - this was originally supposed to be very different, but when I tried to write that I got carried away and it came out at almost 12k, so that will be out at some point in February, and it shows how reader and Jihoon get together! It’s both angsty and fluffy and I really hope you’ll look forward to that! I’ll add the link above when it’s released.
It feels like it’s taken both forever and no time at all for this day to come. Even though you and Jihoon have talked about it at every chance over the past few weeks, you don’t feel at all prepared.
“You’ve got this,” Junhui encourages as he too harshly massages your shoulders once he stands behind you, just to be annoying. You yelp and jerk out of his reach to turn and slap his arm while he snickers and lets you, knowing you’ll never truly hurt him, just like he won’t you, bony thumbs in your shoulders aside.
“Why are you even still here?” You ask, trying to nudge him out of the kitchen.
“Moral support.”
“Bullshit, you just want to eat my food.”
“It’s a symbiotic relationship; I bless you with my presence and you feed me your mediocre cooking.” He cracks up cackling as you return to slapping him and even kick his thigh for good measure. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! I taught you well!”
“Fuck off already,” you grumble and shove him away so that you can turn back to the pan and check on the progress of the contents.
“Fine, I can see when I’m not wanted,” your best friend retorts dramatically as he slinks out of the kitchen.
“Two decades too late!” Without even looking up, you just know that the man has backtracked to look at you from the doorway.
You’re proven right when you look up to see him peering at you from around the doorframe with dramatic puppy dog eyes and an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you wuv me?” He asks in an overly cutesy tone, making you fake a gag. He laughs and straightens up. “Later, loser.”
“Yeah, yeah, text me when you’re home.”
“You’re not, my mama!” He yells back, voice further away signalling he’s in the living room, which is confirmed when you hear him saying goodbye to your daughter with their usual prolonged farewell, including exchanging “I love you”sin multiple languages. Junhui doesn’t even know most of the languages, he just learned the phrases purely to tell your daughter he loves her in every way he can.
Your best friend is a strange, pain in your ass at the best of times, but you adore the everloving shit out of him, which only grew when your daughter came along, and he devoted himself to be the best uncle a little girl could ever want. Even though sometimes you say you wish he hadn’t taught her so many of his weird quirks and habits, you’re always genuinely so pleased to see your best friend in your daughter, and you hope their soul-deep bond never wavers.
When you hear the front door open minutes later, signalling that Junhui is leaving your apartment a whole half an hour later than he said he’d stay for, you hear him loudly and dramatically greeting your boyfriend.
“Juni! Guess who’s here!” Junhui sing-songs, followed by the patter of little feet before your daughter shrieks excitedly.
“Mr Lee!” She yells, and seconds later the door closes, though you hear Jihoon happily talking with Juni and a distinct lack of Junhui, proving that he’s finally gone and left you to handle this important dinner without him looming over your shoulder with a dumbass grin like a lanky, less stable Cheshire Cat.
“Smells good,” Jihoon comments as he enters the kitchen with Juni now somehow clinging to his back. You look over and smile at him in appreciation and greeting before focusing back on cooking, even if you want nothing more than to walk over and grab his precious face to plant the kiss on his lips that you’ve wanted to do since seeing him this morning at the drop off for Juni’s last day in his class.
“Mama maked your favourite!” Juni informs.
“Made,” Jihoon corrects gently and Juni hums and nods. “That’s very kind of her.”
“Yes,” Juni agrees. “You need to say thank you.”
“Ah, you’re right, I do,” Jihoon replies, amusement lacing his tone as he moves closer while effortlessly holding Juni up with only one hand under her backside.
You eye his arm with a squint, half sulking that he can so easily carry your daughter when it takes you both arms to achieve now that she’s getting bigger, but the other half of you is sulking because his usual work attire of casual yet smart, long-sleeved, button-up shirts hides his strong muscles from your gaze.
Jihoon says your name amusedly, making you look up at him instead of practically glaring at his sadly hidden, bulging bicep and find him smirking at you, well aware that you’re trying to burn away his shirt with your intense stare to get a look at your boyfriend’s strong arms.
Of course, he can’t say anything about it with your daughter literally attached to him and observing the pair of you in wait for Jihoon to show his appreciation for your thoughtfulness, so he just smirks around his words. “Thank you for making my favourite for dinner tonight, I appreciate the time and effort it takes to make, and I’ll eat it well.”
“You’re welcome, Jihoon,” you reply, purposely using his first name even though you usually call him Mr Lee in front of Juni so that she doesn’t gain the habit of calling him improperly at school.
As expected, it makes her perk up with a gasp. “Is that your real name, Mr Lee?!”
“Yeah, Nini, my name’s Jihoon, and now that I’m no longer your teacher, you can call me Jihoon when we’re not at school,” he answers and carefully swings her around from his back, with an unfair amount of ease, so that he can plop her backside on the counter in front of him.
“I have to say Mr Lee at school?”
“Yeah, even though Mr Kwon will be your teacher next year, I’m still a staff member and you have to call all staff by our surnames, don’t you.”
“Why?”
“It’s respect. We’re older and in charge of teaching and looking after you, so you should show your teachers and support staff respect.”
“Oh, otay,” she agrees simply and swings her legs a little as she looks over to watch what you’re doing. “When dinner ready, mama? I’m hungry.”
“Not long now, baby,” you promise. “You probably have time for another episode.”
“Yay!” Juni cheers and lifts her arms towards Jihoon, so he picks her up to place on her feet on the tiled flooring and lets her run off to the living room to watch another ten-minute episode of her current favourite show, even if you’re certain she’s already seen each one multiple times at this point.
Jihoon stands at the kitchen doorway to peer through to the living room and wait for Juni to be settled on the couch with her duck plushie, Bubba, in her arms and attention glued to the TV, before he stalks over to you and grabs your face to kiss you passionately.
You can’t help but whimper at the intensity of the kiss while eagerly going along with it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he backs you against the fridge with a firm grip on your hips.
It’s not a long kiss at all, yet you’re both panting when you pull apart and he knocks his forehead lightly against yours before settling there to catch his breath.
“Wanted to do that all fucking day,” he admits in a low murmur.
“I think you would’ve been fired if you kissed me like that on the playground,” you muse, earning a soft chuckle.
Jihoon presses a disarmingly sweet and short kiss to your tingling lips before letting go and backing up, making you pout disapprovingly. Of course, he notices and smirks at you teasingly. “What’s the matter, baby?”
“Get your ass back here, Lee Jihoon,” you demand, pointing to the spot right in front of you.
“But dinner,” he gasps theatrically, and you think he’s been spending too much time with Junhui and Soonyoung aka Mr Kwon.
Who, apparently, Junhui once knew from his teen dance group and the pair have decided to rekindle their friendship full of dance and theatrics, which they use to tease yourself and Jihoon whenever the four of you get together while Juni is with her sweet as sugar best friend, Danil.
“It’s fine, come here,” you whine, trying to grab his shirt but he remains just out of arms reach and you don’t move your back away from the fridge.
Another dramatic gasp accompanies his next jibe, “But Juni is-” he cuts off with a yelp when you suddenly lean forward enough to grab a fistful of his shirt over his chest and yank him in. He stumbles into place in front of you and catches himself with his forearms on the fridge either side of your head.
“Shut the fuck up and kiss me.”
“So demanding,” he murmurs and slides one hand down the metal surface until he can fit his palm against your jaw before tilting his head forward to slot your lips together.
You keep one hand against his chest, feeling his contently thudding heart against your palm, as your other holds onto his waist and encourages him closer when his tongue swipes teasingly against your lips.
Of course, you don’t hesitate to return the gesture and let your tongues find each other to slide together and make him moan softly in approval and pleasure, causing the warmth beginning to fizzle under your skin to burn brighter.
Maybe Jihoon had been right, even if he had just been trying to wind you up and tease, as a sudden, loud gasp from the doorway sounds and alerts you to the fact that your daughter is suddenly present.
In an instant, the two of you pull apart and try to look like you weren’t just tongue deep in each other’s mouths as you face Juni.
You open your mouth to try to explain and tell her the news you were really hoping to be a post-dinner conversation, yet Juni beats you to the punch.
“Are you boyfriend-girlfriend?!” She shrieks.
“Uhm,” you respond eloquently, then look at Jihoon, who is already turning to look at you. You share a look with your boyfriend, silently deciding that you might as well just get it over with before you look at Juni and nod slightly. “Yeah.”
Juni stares at you with wide eyes for a moment before she excitedly yells then runs over to attach herself to you both at once while blabbering about being happy that you are finally boyfriend-girlfriend. You decide to tell her at a later point that you’ve actually been “boyfriend-girlfriend” with her previous teacher for four months already and dating for a few weeks before that.
You and Jihoon exchange a surprised yet pleased look at how easy this was and how enthusiastic your daughter is about your relationship, though silently just decide to accept this blessing for what it is and simply get to work setting up the table for dinner.
When everything is in place, you both sit down with Juni at the head of the table between you like always, while remaining wordlessly relieved that you don’t have to awkwardly explain exactly what you and Jihoon kissing means.
Before you can help Juni when she struggles to reach her cup, Jihoon silently reaches out to move it within her reach so that she can pick it up with both hands carefully.
“Thank you, daddy,” Juni says innocently, just as Jihoon takes some of his own drink into his mouth, making him promptly choke and spray the liquid over his plate in shock.
Okay, maybe you do need to explain it a bit, after all.
Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖
🦆Who: Lee Jihoon (Seventeen) x female reader
🦆What: Angst. Fluff. Nursery school teacher Jihoon. Single parent reader.
🦆Word count: 11.8k
🦆Warnings: Big ol’ misunderstanding, which technically, is intentional but not designed this way. That’ll make sense when you read. Junhui is reader’s best friend and a menace but also the best friend a person could want. Reader has a 4/5-year-old daughter. One-sided pining that isn’t one sided at all, they’re both just kind of stupid and bad at communicating at first. They learn though, don’t worry.
🦆Summary:
Your daughter absolutely adores her nursery school teacher, Mr. Lee, and it doesn’t take you long to understand why.
I block any blog with no fics recently reblogged, any blank blog that interacts, and for any reason stated in this post.
Masterlist
Read the sequel Thinking about: Nursery school teacher L.JH.
A/N- this was originally supposed to be a little under 3k fluff piece about reader’s daughter adoring her nursery teacher and reader quickly understanding why. But I got ever so slightly carried away :))
If you want to know more about a certain nanny featured in this, you can check out the connected story, Thinking about: Nanny K.MG.
It starts with a meltdown.
You’ve only been home twenty minutes and have barely started the prep for dinner when your daughter runs into the kitchen with tears streaming down her chubby, little cheeks and wails of despair falling from her wobbling lips.
“Oh, baby girl, what is it?” You immediately abandon the rice you’ve been rinsing, to wipe your hands on your work trousers, so that they’re mostly dry when you pluck up your distressed child to hold tight and soothe.
It takes almost ten minutes of rocking and murmuring calming words and sounds before your daughter can blubber out an explanation.
“Bubba lost!” She explains, and although it means nothing to pretty much anyone else, you know. Bubba is her comfort plushie, even if it is perhaps the ugliest looking duck plushie you’ve ever seen.
When your best friend had given it to you when you were pregnant with your daughter five years ago, it had really been a joke. But your strange little angel of a child seems to share her pseudo uncle’s sense of humour; the moment she found the duck shoved in your wardrobe at two-years-old, it was love at first sight. Maybe it’s your own fault for naming her after him.
“Oh, Juni,” you coo before pressing a kiss to each splotchy, tear-sticky cheek. “Bubba’s not in your bag?” You ask as you carry her through to the living room, where her school backpack is on the floor with the usual contents tipped out around it from her frantic search for the plushie for her usual post-nursery, unwind snuggle time.
“Lost!” She wails, a fresh set of tears starting up, so you return to bouncing her slightly as you start wandering around the apartment in search of the toy. Though, you know that she takes it to nursery every single day for the post-lunch nap, and you hadn’t received a call from the school about a tearful, tired daughter, so she clearly had it with her at school today.
Once you’ve confirmed that Bubba is not in the apartment, you go back to the kitchen and grab your phone.
“Okay, baby, I need you to calm down so that I can call your school and ask if Bubba is in the classroom, okay?” You say, and it’s something like a miracle how quickly Juni stops making loud noises, even if she’s still sniffling and crying. “Thank you.” You kiss her head then press the dial button beside the school’s number.
Honestly, you aren’t sure anyone will answer; most of the staff, if not all, will surely have already left the building by this point. But to your relief, the ringing cuts off and a friendly voice answers the call, greeting with the school’s name and asking how he can help you.
“Oh, hello, I’m calling to ask if someone could check my daughter’s classroom to see if she left her duck plushie behind?” You wonder politely, while mentally pleading this man to be as kind as he sounds.
“Ah, of course, of course, which class?”
“Little Lambs,” you answer with the cute name of your daughter’s class.
You’re pretty sure that every class in the whole school is named after an animal, though you do know the other two classes for the youngest children are named cutely too: Darling Ducklings for the younger class and Cutie Cubs for the older class.
Juni had been so upset to have missed the chance to be called a Duckling, but you had been working remotely until this school year and hadn’t wanted to be apart from her so soon. At least she’s excited to be in the tiger themed classroom next year, even if she keeps asking if Mr Lee can still be her teacher instead of Mr Kwon.
Not because she dislikes Mr Kwon; she’s said he’s fun and nice, but she adores Mr Lee and talks about him at the most random times. She’s even asked if he can attend her birthday party and you had to deal with a tantrum when you told her that no, her teacher cannot attend a birthday party for a five-year-old. She still asks though.
“Oh! That’s right next to mine! I was just heading that way to see if Mr Lee is heading home yet, so if you just hold on a sec, I’ll go talk to him and we can look.”
“Thank you so much,” you breathe out in relief.
“Of course! Uhh, I don’t know how to put the call on hold so uhm, just wait?”
You laugh softly. “That’s fine, thank you.”
“Okay, great, be right back!” The phone clatters gently as it’s placed down before you hear the man running away. You find the irony of a teacher running through the school halls amusing; he no doubts spends a good chunk of his day telling the children to walk nicely down the halls.
“B-Bubba?” Juni questions, looking at you with big, red rimmed eyes.
“The teacher is going to ask Mr Lee.”
In an instant, Juni lights up at the mention of her third favourite human, behind only you and your best friend. “Mr Lee!”
It prompts her to start babbling on about her day with the man as if she hadn’t already told you everything on the drive home, but you don’t mind hearing it again. You love seeing her so animated and happy, even with tear stains on her cheeks.
The phone is still held near your ear so when a different voice greets you five minutes later, you’re ready. “Is this Juni’s mother?”
“It is,” you confirm.
“Oh, good. Hi, it’s Mr Lee, Juni’s teacher. I found Bubba amongst the class plushies, so I assume he got put there accidentally. I’m leaving to head home now, so I can drop him off on the way.”
“Oh, you don’t have to; I can come back, it’s not a long drive. I don’t want to bother you, Mr Lee.” Juni squeaks excitedly at the mention of her teacher, making you hold back a fond, little laugh so that the man doesn’t hear it.
“It’s no bother, I know how important Bubba is to her and that you’ve been at work all day yourself. I think it’s on my way anyway, you live near the park with the elephant slide, right? Juni mentions it a lot.”
“Ah, yeah, her uncle takes her there all the time.”
Mr Lee chuckles softly. “Yeah, she says. She really loves him a lot; talks about nothing but him, and you, of course.”
“Funny, she talks about nothing but you at home.”
There’s a moment of silence and you start to wonder if you should’ve kept that to yourself but then his soft, disbelieving voice comes back before you can backtrack and try to apologise for overstepping. “Really? She talks about me?”
“Yeah, she adores you.”
“Oh,” he says on a puff of an awed exhale. “That’s…I didn’t realise any of my students like me that much. That’s really…it means a lot to me to hear, thank you for telling me. I’ll be by in about twenty minutes with Bubba, if that’s okay?”
“Are you sure it’s not too much for you?”
“No, no, not at all. Really. I’m more than happy to do this, I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
“Ah, okay, thank you, Mr Lee, we really appreciate your kindness.”
“You’re both welcome. I’ll see you soon.” The call ends and you lock your phone to place it back on the counter.
“Bubba?” Juni asks.
For a moment, you debate not telling her exactly what is happening because you know how she’ll react, but you also don’t like to hide things from you daughter unless entirely necessary.
So, you take a breath and put her down on the floor before answering. “Mr Lee is bringing him.”
As expected, Juni starts to yell and jump excitedly. You chuckle fondly and get back to preparing dinner, while hoping that she will calm soon enough.
Almost half an hour after ending the call, the doorbell rings and you practically have to tackle your daughter on the couch, so that she doesn’t run off to answer the door.
Usually, she never tries to answer the front door, or even touch it, though you still keep it locked with the chain across just in case; but she’s been bouncing and excitedly prattling on about Mr Lee visiting for half an hour now, so you’re not sure she’ll remember the safety rule.
“Okay, be calm. Remember, he’s just bringing Bubba,” you remind your daughter as you get up and walk to the door with her. Juni nods emphatically in understanding, though you’re not convinced she’s absorbed your words any of the times you’ve said them because she has already said multiple times that she’s going to show Mr Lee her favourite toys.
After peering through the spy hole and finding who you can only assume is Mr Lee when he’s bundled up so well with his scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face as his dark hair half obscuring his eyes as it sticks out from under his beanie, you unlock the door and open it.
“Mr Lee!” Juni shrieks as soon as the door is open enough to see the man in the hall. You notice his eyes curve, chill pinkened cheeks bunching up under his scarf before he pulls it down to tuck thickly under his chin so he can smile at your daughter.
“Hi, Nini, I brought you someone,” he greets, surprising you with the nickname you were unaware anyone, other than you, calls her, but you don’t mind. It somehow sounds even cuter from the man. He crouches down as he pulls his messenger bag around to his front and you spot Bubba’s head sticking out of one side.
“Bubba!” Juni gasps and bounces forward to pat the duck’s scruffy yet soft fur.
“We had a nice walk, and he had fun seeing all the sights on the way, but I think he’s more than ready to be back with you now,” Mr Lee says as he unzips his bag to gently pull out the duck to offer. Juni immediately takes it to hug tight and bury her face in its pale yellow and splotchy grey body.
“What do you say, Juni?” You prompt, tapping Juni’s head gently.
“Thank you, Mr Lee!” Juni all but yells, then launches herself forward to hug the man. Clearly, he’s already used to her abrupt and intense affection as he doesn’t falter in catching her and hugging her back.
The sight of this sweet man with his cute, pink tipped nose and cheeks embracing your daughter and looking genuinely happy to be here and accepting her enthusiastic love, makes your heart flutter.
The only man who has ever shown your daughter love is your best friend, but that’s entirely different; you and Junhui fooled around once as teens and decided it was gross and swore to never touch one another like that again.
Just as you manage to get your heart under control, by reminding yourself that this is your daughter’s teacher; someone who you can’t get involved with even if you wanted to, he looks at you and you’re pelted with the full force of his precious smile. Your stomach somersaults and your heart takes up breakdancing, or at least it feels like it by how it suddenly erratically thumps against your ribs.
“Thank you,” you say, forcing yourself to be normal, even if your voice comes out soft and a little breathy.
Something in Mr Lee’s expression changes, the smile lessens a little but not in an unhappy way, more like a thought is running through his mind as his head tilts ever so slightly. It takes him a second too long to respond. “You’re welcome.”
“Mr Lee, see my toys!” Juni encourages, grappling for the man’s glove clad hand as she backs towards the open door, trying to tug him, but she’s only a tiny four-year-old and he’s a grown adult; he doesn’t even wobble in his crouched form.
“Ah, baby, remember, Mr Lee is on his way home; he only came to drop off Bubba. He can’t come in and see your toys,” you explain.
Juni immediately pouts and looks at you with pleading eyes. “Peas, mama?”
“Please,” you correct gently. She pouts harder.
“How about we have a show and tell soon?” Mr Lee suggests, drawing your daughter’s attention back to him.
“What that?”
“Show and tell is where you bring something in to show the class. You can bring in your favourite toy and show the whole class, so long as your parents let you bring it, of course. You can only bring in something mama says is allowed to come to school, okay, Nini?”
“I bring Hector!”
“No!” You argue quickly, earning another pout from your troublesomely cute daughter. “Hector cannot go to school with you, Juni, that is a firm no.”
“But Hector best toy.”
“Hector is twice the size of you,” you remind.
“Now I’m curious about Hector, I won’t lie,” Mr Lee admits with a little chuckle.
“See Hector!” Juni enthuses, once again tugging the man.
“Juni,” you sigh. “Mr Lee needs to go home.”
“Well, I can spare five minutes to meet Hector, if that’s okay?” He replies, looking at you from where he’s still crouched with one hand in Juni’s and actually holding her instead of just letting her hold onto his much larger hand. Surprisingly, there’s a hint of pleading in his slightly rounded eyes and you’re too stunned by this man actively wanting to indulge your daughter that you just nod dumbly.
“Yay!” Juni squeals and scrambles to walk backward while tugging Mr Lee, who gets up now and lets her. He has to stop though when although Juni can fit past your body, the gap isn’t enough for him.
There’s a moment where you’re face to face and so close that you can feel the chill of the winter still clinging to his clothes, and you just hold eye contact with one another silently as a sudden tension fills the little gap between you.
It’s Juni that breaks the moment, even if she doesn’t realise. “Scusey, mama!” She nudges your leg, prompting you to blink back to reality and step aside to allow the man into the apartment. “Thank you!”
Mr Lee only stops when he realises that he’s wearing winter boots, which are a pain to undo. “Oh, uh, my shoes are a lot to get off,” he admits sheepishly. “I forgot I’m wearing these and not my work shoes, sorry, Nini, can you bring Hector out here, by any chance?”
You eye his boots as you lean against the front door and hear it click to a complete close under your weight.
“Otay, wait here!” Juni agrees and lets go of Mr Lee to scramble off to her bedroom.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, just loud enough for the man and not your daughter to hear.
He turns to look at you, blinking innocently from behind the strands of dark hair in front of his eyes. “Huh?”
“Indulge her; you must have to get home.”
He shrugs. “I’m in no rush. As I said on the phone; I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.” He reaches up to try and move his hair out of his face, but between his beanie trapping it and his thick gloves making it hard for him to accurately touch his hair as he can’t really feel it, he just uselessly swipes over his face a few times. It’s oddly endearing.
“Do you want some help?” You offer, pushing off the door and motioning to his hair loosely without trying to get any closer.
“It’s okay-”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” you repeat his own words back at him.
He stares at you dumbly for a second, pink lips parted in surprise before they curl up at one edge as he laughs softly. “Touche. I uh, I’d appreciate the help, I don’t want to take my gloves off because they’re tucked in past my wrists and it’s a pain to tuck them without removing my coat.”
“Past your wrists?” You wonder as you move closer and lift your hands to carefully move the strands of his hair from out of his face, baring his eyes directly to you from only a few feet away. “Where did you get those? That sounds useful.”
“Oh, uhm, I got them abroad. My friend got married at a ski resort for some reason despite not knowing how to ski nor having ever been to a ski resort in his life, but yeah…I bought them in the town there.”
“Bet it was beautiful though.”
“Mm, yeah. Could’ve done without having to wear a suit in the snow for the sake of photos. They had to photoshop the pink from my face; it was very cold.”
You giggle at the thought of Mr Lee standing pink faced in a suit amongst beautiful, snowy mountains and part of you wants to see the original photos, but you know that would be weird to ask.
So instead, you simply finish tucking his hair neatly into his beanie to keep it in place without entirely exposing his forehead and temples to the cold. You’re entirely unaware of the way he’s staring at you in awe; blown away by how precious your giggle is and wondering if he can make you do it again.
“There,” you say when you’re done. “You can see clearly again, Mr Lee.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs as you lower your hands and step back while smiling at him. “You can call me Jihoon when it’s just us,” he blurts in offer.
You almost ask him if he plans to create situations where it’s just the two of you but the familiar sound of Hector’s wheels rolling on the laminate draws both of your attention away from one another and in the direction of Juni’s bedroom. Which is a good thing too, because you’re pretty sure your retort would’ve been an inappropriate flirtation.
“That’s Hector?” Jihoon mutters with wide eyes on the half mechanical, half plush creature on wheels.
To the best of your abilities, all you can describe it as is cyborg Godzilla in need of a better plastic surgeon because it truly is a monstrosity. Once again, it’s something that Junhui gifted to your daughter, and she loves wholeheartedly.
“My best friend is a menace, and he passed it on to her,” you deadpan and count it as a win when Jihoon snorts a laugh in response.
“Like Hector, Mr Lee?” Juni asks once she’s just about managed to stop the remote-controlled lizard creature before it collides with the man.
“He’s very impressive,” Jihoon replies diplomatically and now you’re the one barely catching a laugh in time and instead letting out an almost snort at his answer. He side-eyes you amusedly and presses his lips together to fight his laugh, as evident by the upturned corners of his mouth and crinkles next to his eyes before he looks back at Juni. “But your mama is right; Hector should definitely stay at home.”
“Otay, I shown tell ‘nother toy,” Juni declares simply.
“Show and tell,” Jihoon corrects gently before you get the chance. Juni just nods as if that’s exactly what she had said, making the pair of you smile fondly at her little figure focused on the large remote in her tiny hands to try and turn Hector around. “Hey, can I have a turn?” He requests.
Juni’s head jerks up to look at her teacher before nodding enthusiastically and bouncing over to offer the control while pointing out the joystick and buttons to tell him how to use it.
For a few minutes, you watch as Jihoon squats down in the entrance hall with Juni standing between his knees and her back to his chest in the circle of his arms as they both watch Hector roam around under Jihoon’s direction.
“Roar! Do the roar!” Juni says, in the exact same voice Junhui does to quote the little boy in the fourth Shrek movie.
Jihoon doesn’t manage to catch his laugh in time, and it comes out in a sudden bark before he manages to press his lips together, turning his laughter into strange, sputtered “pffts” that make you laugh silently.
Juni looks over her left shoulder at her teacher with the dirtiest side-eye you have ever seen, and you can’t help it; you burst into laughter, which sets Jihoon off laughing, making him turn his head so he’s not laughing in the child’s face. Now you’re also getting the side-eye from your four-year-old, but you’re doubled over with your hands on your knees and don’t even notice.
It takes the pair of you over a minute to stop laughing, though one look at the other’s laughter-teary eyes sets you both off again. Juni huffs in impatience and takes the controller from her teacher to press the button that makes Hector roar, while you and Jihoon continue to laugh away together.
The trill of your alarm going off in the kitchen is the only reason you manage to collect yourself. “Oh,” you sniffle, wiping under your eyes as you straighten up, a few giggles still slipping past.
“Dinner!” Juni exclaims eagerly and turns to look at Jihoon. “Dinner time, Mr Lee!”
“Ah, I suppose it is. You eat well, okay, and I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he says as he gets up, wiping the wet marks from his own cheeks.
Juni frowns at him. “Stay dinner.”
“I can’t, that’s your family time. I’ll eat lunch with you tomorrow instead, okay?”
“Pomise?” She asks, lifting her hand, and almost dropping the controller in the process, so she holds it close to her chest, to extend her adorable, little pinkie finger to the man.
“I promise,” he agrees, linking his glove clad pinkie with her tiny one. It’s a precious sight, but not as precious as how your daughter glows with joy then hugs the man before rushing to the kitchen to turn the alarm off, yelling goodbye as she goes.
“I hope you’re a man of honour, Jihoon,” you comment as Jihoon turns to the front door while you open it.
He pauses mid step for a split second before exiting the apartment and turning to look at you with a shy smile. “I am. I’ve never gone back on a promise.”
“Ah, good; I’d hate to have to think badly on you for breaking my daughter’s trust and heart.”
“I won’t ever intentionally hurt her, I promise,” his words are entirely sincere, and you find yourself unable to doubt him, yet you still extend your pinkie to him without breaking eye contact. Jihoon glances at your offered hand and smiles a little before lifting his hand to link his pinkie around yours without hesitation as his gaze returns to your own. “She’s safe with me.”
“I know,” you assure and slowly unhook your pinkie, so he copies, and you both take your hands back.
“Mama!” Juni yells impatiently from the kitchen.
“Is she this loud at school?” You wonder amusedly.
“She’s certainly easy to hear, I can say that much,” Jihoon replies with a chuckle and starts adjusting his scarf to pull over his chin yet keeps his mouth free to talk. “Enjoy your dinner, I’ll uh, see you at drop off tomorrow?”
“Yeah, see you then. Have a safe journey home, Jihoon.”
“Thanks.” He shoots you a smile and wavers, swaying in place before pulling his scarf up to cover his mouth, waving goodbye then walks down the hallway.
You wait until he’s out of sight before shutting and locking the door.
Even though Juni is once again calling you from the kitchen, you take a moment to will your fluttering heart to calm before going to join your daughter and hope that you’re not developing a crush on her teacher.
As it turns out; your hoping was in vain.
After that evening, every time you see Jihoon at drop off and pick up for the following two months, he smiles at you and wanders over if he’s not busy with another student or parent, to make small talk in the morning and tell you about Juni’s achievements and quirks of the day in the afternoon.
It’s the most you’ve ever conversed with the man in the handful of months he’s been Juni’s teacher, and as much as you truly love the attention that you’ve noticed he doesn’t go out of his way to other parents, you’ve also noticed something else. The silver band on his ring finger.
Once you notice the wedding ring, you try to not engage in conversation as much. You even send Junhui on pick-ups when you know your hormones are too excitable to remember that you can’t enjoy the attention of the man.
Though there’s only so much you can do when Jihoon approaches you one morning looking more awake than usual, with his eyes sparkling in the early spring sun and excitement stretching his smile wide on his pretty face.
He calls your name in a way that makes other parents look between you suspiciously, yet the man doesn’t notice. “Guess what!”
“Uhm, what?” You ask, awkwardly shuffling your weight from foot to foot and hoping he calms a little, as much as you love seeing him so animated, because it’s drawing attention. More attention than usual due to his clear favouritism towards you and your daughter every morning and afternoon.
“Are you okay?” He suddenly frowns in concern, noticing the way you’re trying to make yourself a little smaller as if that will stop the parents eyeing you. “Are you ill?”
“No, just…I should really get to work.”
“Oh, uhm, okay. Sorry, I probably keep you a lot, huh?” He reaches out towards Juni’s backpack in your hold, your daughter off somewhere with her friends on the playground until morning bell rings to tell them they must go into the class to get ready. “I won’t keep you; I can take Juni in so you can get to work on time.”
“Oh, right, yeah, thanks.” You hand over the bag then step back and look around for your daughter.
You hear her before you see her; squealing happily as she runs around with a little boy you can never remember the name of; you just know that his nanny always brings him to school and picks him up. Even if the nanny looks at him so adoringly you thought for the longest time that he’s the boy’s father, not full-time babysitter.
The pair are running circles around the tall man, who is moving his gaze between the two to watch over them, and the collection of mothers hovering and trying to flirt with him. It’s not an unusual sight at all, even when you know some of the women are married, but at least the nanny never seems to be interested and only replies politely.
“I’ll go say goodbye,” you say, motioning over to your daughter while looking back at Jihoon.
“Of course, I’ll see you at pick up.”
“Oh, uh, I think Junhui is picking her up today. Park trip,” you say, even though you’re very certain Junhui planned to get home on time to conveniently meet his cute neighbour in the car park and hit on her, and maybe even finally ask her on a date. But you know he’ll drop any plan for the sake of your daughter, though you make a mental note to pick up his favourite takeout on your way home from work tonight.
“Ah, I see. Well, have a nice weekend and I’ll see you Monday morning.”
“Yep, see you then,” you agree, then turn and approach your daughter. “Juni!” She immediately comes to a stop and looks at you, but the little boy doesn’t stop in time and collides with her, sending them both to the floor. “Oh, shit,” you whisper and rush over to kneel beside the nanny, who is already cooing over the pair and checking them over.
“We otay!” Juni assures and the little boy looks at her with tears in his eyes and a wobbling lip but noticing her smile, he sniffles, wipes his eyes then grins himself, making you and his nanny chuckle.
“We otay,” he agrees.
“Well, I’m glad you’re both otay,” the nanny says as you both help the children to their feet.
“Mama, can DanDan come my party?” Juni asks, looking at you with her trademark puppy dog eyes.
“Sunday is a bit close notice to ask someone to your party, most parents want more notice,” you point out softly. “I’d have to call his parents, and I don’t have their number.”
“You can take mine,” the nanny offers, drawing your attention.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a few of the mothers behind him baulk and you assume he’s avoided giving his number to any of them. You feel a little ping of pride in your chest at effortlessly getting the attractive man’s number, even if you truly don’t want it for the reasons they do.
“If you text me the details, I can talk to Danil’s mother about it and pass on your number when she gets home from work. Then she can call you herself. I don’t feel right giving her number to you without her consent.”
“No, no, that’s completely understandable. I’d really appreciate that,” you assure, taking your phone from your pocket to unlock and open a new contact. You hand him the device, so that he can input his details himself and not risk the too-nosey mothers overhearing the digits.
“Where bag, mama?” Juni asks, noticing the lack of her backpack in your grasp.
“Mr Lee took it, I’ve got to get to work now so he’s taking over from me,” you reply.
“Oh, otay. See you later.” She moves over to hug you tight and kiss your cheek noisily, which you return theatrically, making her giggle happily.
“Uncle Jun is going to pick you up today, Nini, okay?”
“Jun-Jun time!” She shrieks happily and starts bouncing around Danil, who watches her with giggles tumbling from his lips. “DanDan come park too?!”
“That’s really not my decision, baby,” you remind as you accept your phone back and notice that the man has saved his number as ‘Danil’s nanny’. You look at him funnily.
“Hm?” He wonders, noticing your expression.
“You didn’t put your name.”
“Oh, well, I just thought that would make more sense, because you only want my number because I’m Danil’s nanny.”
“Well, yeah but it’s a big derogatory, is it not? Just referring to you as nothing more than his nanny; you’re your own person, you know?”
“I know,” he chuckles and smiles at you softly. “I’m Mingyu, I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked before; you’re one of the only mothers who’s never approached me.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed you draw a certain kind of attention,” you scoff amusedly and side-eye the lingering mothers, who abruptly look away and fail at playing innocent. Mingyu glances over and giggles quietly as he turns back around. “They don’t much like me. I’ve told them all off for various things; mostly trying to chat up my best friend when he picks up Juni and making him uncomfortable.”
“Best friend? Not partner?”
“Ew, gross!” You fake a gag that makes him laugh.
Suddenly, you realise you’re both still kneeling on the rubber tarmac, even if the kids are running off again, so you get to your feet, brushing off your knees as you go and Mingyu copies, extending to his full height and towering over you.
“Anyway, I’ll text you the details when I get the chance.”
“Mm, okay, I look forward to hearing from you. Between you and me, Danil’s never been invited to a party or anything before. Juni is really his only friend, he sings her praises, seriously, so I’m really happy she wants him there and you’re willing to accept him.”
“Of course, I’m not great with remembering who is who amongst these kids, but I know she’s mentioned him a bunch of times, especially lately, and he sounds like a great kid. I’ll be happy to have him at the party, and you and his parents, if you all want to come. It’s a picnic party, because apparently my child thinks the beginning of March is the perfect time to sit outside when it’s likely to rain. So maybe bring spare clothes and be prepared to abruptly move to my apartment if that happens.”
Mingyu chuckles. “We’ll bring raincoats and towels.”
“Perfect!” You beam and he laughs again. “Alright, I really should go, but nice to officially meet you, Mingyu, talk later.” You start walking backwards and hope you don’t crash into a parent or even worse, a child with your ass.
“You too! Wait, what’s your name?!” You call your name out and he smiles brightly. “Have a good day at work!” You give him a thumbs up then turn and jog off out of the school grounds to get to your car, where it’s parked down the street, and head to work.
In the midst of eating dinner, with Junhui and Juni seeming to silently compete in who can shove the most noodles in the mouths judging by their matching, bulging cheeks, the doorbell rings. You choke on your laughter at the way they both turn their heads towards the hallway with wide eyes and dangling noodles, like a pair of greedy, chubby cheeked dogs.
“I swear it’s like she takes after you more than me,” you comment as you get up after putting your cutlery down. “Never should’ve named her after you.” Junhui just grins at you, so you roll your eyes and leave the kitchen to approach the door.
When you peer through the spyhole, you’re genuinely surprised to find a familiar figure standing on the other side.
Confusedly, you unlock the door and open it just enough to look directly at Jihoon, who once again has his hair in his eyes; though at least now, thanks to the warmer weather, he’s no longer hiding half of his face in a thick scarf, even if his coat is done up all the way to his chin.
“Hi,” he greets a little awkwardly.
“Hi,” you reply and put the latch on the door to step outside and pull the door up so that Juni doesn’t hear her teacher’s voice and excitedly abandon her dinner. “Is something wrong? Did Juni forget Bubba again?”
“No, no, I just asked her to give you a note, but I found it on her desk after class, so I guess she forgot it.”
“A note?”
“Yeah, so uhm, as a teacher I sometimes get invitations to new child-friendly exhibits and stuff before they open to the public; so that I can try things out and give feedback from a teacher’s perspective. And it’s also like free publicity for them because then I can see if it’s worth booking a class trip or something.”
“Right?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard about the new interactive science museum opening like an hour’s drive away?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
Jihoon’s tongue darts out to lick his lips quickly and you kind of hate yourself for tracking the movement with your eyes despite knowing he’s a married man. You rapidly lift your gaze back up and hope he hasn’t noticed.
“I received an invitation last night to the open day on Sunday; I can take up to two children so long as there’s another adult so that’s one adult per child for the open day. And well…I was wondering if you and Juni would like to go with me?”
“What?” You blink at him. “Me and Juni?”
“Yeah. I don’t have any children in my life, just my students, and I thought it’d be nice to get a child’s perspective; so I know if it’s fun and interesting enough for them. And well, I just…I thought of you. And Juni! I mean I thought of Juni and you. Her-her first, of course. As the child.”
“Of course,” you mumble, still looking at him with furrowed eyebrows from your surprise and confusion at the man turning up at your door to ask you and Juni to do something outside of school hours. “Is that something you usually do?”
“Huh?”
“Ask students and their parents to go to these events with you?”
Jihoon’s cheeks prickle a soft pink and his gaze flickers away quickly, then back at you. “No. I just…I don’t really like the other parents, honestly.”
“They’ve noticed.”
“What?”
“You really didn’t see the way they looked at us this morning?”
Jihoon’s expression turns down and pinches a little in confusion. “What do you mean, looked at us?”
“When you called me; multiple parents looked at us suspiciously and it’s not the first time. They often give me dirty looks; like I’m some kind of homewrecker just because you approach me and not anyone else, at least not smiling like you do me.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawns on his expression. “I didn’t realise; I didn’t even think of how it may seem. I just…”
“I think it would be inappropriate and only worsen their suspicions to be seen with you outside of the playground, Mr Lee.”
Jihoon winces. “You can still call me Jihoon.”
“It’s probably for the best I don’t. It’s too familiar to call my daughter’s teacher by his first name.”
“Right.” He chews on his lip as he nods slowly, eyes downcast to look at his own hands as he laces them together tightly in front of himself. “I understand. I’m sorry for overstepping, I didn’t mean to get too familiar and make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable, I’d just rather not have homewrecker pinned to me, you know?”
“You’re not, it’s not like that,” he lifts his head to look at you imploringly. “You’re not a homewrecker.”
“I know; nothing has happened, nor will it. We were just talking. But you probably shouldn’t turn up at my apartment unannounced like this.”
“Ah, yeah, I just…it’s on Sunday so I couldn’t wait until Monday, for obvious reasons.”
“I understand.”
“Well, uhm, I just like…it’s in another town and we can meet there if you want? It could be like coincidence. We don’t have to explore the museum together, just go in together because it’s under my name and all that. Nobody can say anything and it’s not inappropriate to just exist in the same building at other ends.”
“It’s Juni’s birthday party on Sunday.”
“Oh, right,” his eyes widen a little. “I forgot. She tried to invite me, but I said it’d be inappropriate.”
“Yeah, she asked me too, multiple times.” You chuckle a little. “I told you; she loves you.”
“I love her too, in a like…professional teacher way. I love all my students but she’s special. She just has so much love and joy in her that it’s impossible not to favour her, even though I shouldn’t. You’ve done a really good job raising her; I’d be proud if I ever have a child anything like her.”
“Ah, thank you,” you flush softly with the praise. “She’s a good kid.”
“The best.”
There’s a moment here, with your eyes locked and something hanging in the air; it feels anticipatory in a way that brings back the same tender violence as before in your chest.
You want to look away, but you’re stuck in place, unable to turn even though your mind is yelling at you that this is a married man, and you can’t have him the way you yearn to. But your heart beats louder than logic and your apparently fragile morals.
It gets louder still when he takes a half step forward, only stopped by the door pulling open behind you and Junhui’s tall figure looming over you concernedly. Jihoon shuffles back and glances away with something that looks like guilt on his face.
“Mr Lee, what are you doing here?” Junhui asks, putting his arm around your shoulders to pull you back to him.
Being your best friend, Junhui knows all about the feelings you’ve developed for your daughter’s teacher over the past two months of sparkly eyed attention and beautiful smiles. He had slapped your limbs a few times when you confessed to him that you can’t stop thinking about Jihoon, even once you noticed the ring on his finger. Which is half of the reason Junhui has been so willing to do school runs in your place; so that you don’t fall prey to your own heart and become the homewrecker the other parents clearly think you are.
“Just had to discuss something time sensitive but we’re done, so I’ll go now. Have a nice evening. I’ll see you on Monday,” Jihoon replies, giving Junhui a curt smile and one a little lingering to you, before he turns and rushes off down the hall.
“The fuck did he want?” Junhui grunts, tugging you into the apartment and flicking the latch off to securely push the door up and let you lock it back up.
“Just a thing; I’ll explain later, let’s just eat.”
“Mm, alright.”
Junhui is not impressed at all when he learns the information that Jihoon asked you to go with him to the museum, even if Juni was supposed to be the reason for the invitation in the first place.
Your best friend’s disapproval is made more obvious than his rant on Friday night, once Juni was in bed, when you go down to your car on Monday morning with Juni to take her to school and find Junhui sitting on the bonnet of your car chewing on a pastry, which he immediately shares with Juni.
Without him even explaining his presence, he gets in the car with you both to go to the school, munching away and spilling pastry flakes all over the interior, but you’re too silently glad for his presence to berate him. You know he’s only here as a tall, crumb covered buffer in case Jihoon tries to approach you, and you appreciate that a lot.
In the playground as you stand with Junhui and Mingyu, who seem to have become friends since the picnic less than 24 hours ago, you spot Jihoon glancing in your direction multiple times, yet he keeps his distance with a tiny, almost imperceptible frown.
When you leave work the same afternoon, you find Junhui once again sitting on your car, despite the fact he works across the city so had to have left early to get here. Neither of you say a word, even if you want to call him an idiot for ditching work early, but you appreciate your best friend far too much to even pretend to scold him for silently supporting you in your mission to not fall for a married man.
For two straight weeks, Junhui appears every morning and most afternoons for the school run. The only afternoons you don’t leave work to see him waiting are the afternoons where he picks up Juni alone to take for their after-school park trips.
It seems that Junhui is the perfect deterrent because Jihoon doesn’t approach you once in those two weeks.
The only time you talk is when you approached him first to tell him that another child had said things to Juni that makes you think their parents have said something nasty about you in front of the child. So, you wanted to warn Jihoon that Juni will hit the child if they say another bad thing about you, just as Junhui taught her to. “Once can be let go, but twice deserves punishment”, are his exact words and honestly, you don’t even mind that he’s trained her in such a way, with the baby fighting skills to match. It’s taught her to be understanding, while not letting others be endlessly cruel or walk all over her.
Junhui may give your daughter odd habits and interests, but he at least teaches her to have a backbone, and you will forever be grateful to him for that.
Although it’s weird for you to go from being blessed with Jihoon’s direct attention and precious face twice a day for almost two full months, it’s much better for your heart to yearn with the distance than up close.
You had hoped that it will continue and you can gradually get over Jihoon, but a little over two weeks since enforcing the break, your phone rings while you’re in the middle of cooking dinner and the school number appears on your screen.
Somehow, you know it’s Jihoon before even answering. “Hello,” you greet.
“Bubba is with me; I found him under my desk, for some reason.”
“Oh,” your tone is confused and without thought, you walk through to the living room, expecting to find Juni on the couch watching her after school cartoons but they’re playing to an empty room.
“Mm, so I thought I should drop him off. Professionally. I know she can’t sleep without him.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.”
“Okay, I’ll uhm see you in twenty minutes then.”
“Yeah, see you then,” you agree distractedly and hang up before stepping into your daughter’s room to find her drawing a picture at her little table. “Nini?”
“Yes, mama?” She replies, looking up at you innocently.
“What are you doing?”
“Draw picture for Mr Lee.”
“You’re drawing a picture for Mr Lee?” She hums and nods her head as she looks back down to her paper and returns to colouring. You approach and peer suspiciously at the drawing of who you know is you, because she always draws you the same way, and what vaguely looks like Jihoon, smiling and holding hands. “Baby, what’s this drawing about?”
“You hold hands and be happy.”
“Right, okay and why are you drawing that?” You crouch down beside her and lean your arms on the table to watch her carefully work on her masterpiece.
“Mr Lee sad.”
“What?” Your face falls and you look at your daughter. “Mr Lee is sad?” She nods. “Why do you say that? Did he tell you he’s sad?”
“No. He smiles little bit now.”
“He smiles less?” She nods. “Oh…” You turn your focus to the picture, not sure what to say.
“Mr Lee smiles with you,” Juni states a few seconds later when she puts her crayon down, signalling she’s finished with her drawing. “So, I make picture to make Mr Lee happy and smile because you are hold hands and happy.”
“Oh.”
“I did good picture, mama?” She asks, looking at you with hope in her eyes. “Mr Lee will be happy?”
“It’s a very good drawing, well done, baby,” you answer, carefully avoiding responding to her second question, and kiss her head.
“Mr Lee be here soon?” She wonders as you get up, making you look at her in alarm. “With Bubba?”
Then, it suddenly makes sense; just why your daughter, who is usually so stuck to her post-nursery routine, isn’t sitting on the couch with Bubba or screaming the place down because her comfort plushie is lost. “Juni, did you hide Bubba under Mr Lee’s desk, so that he’ll have to come here?”
Juni’s eyes slowly widen in the way they always do when she realises that she’s done something wrong and is feeling guilty all of a sudden. Her cheeks pinken slightly and you sigh, knowing that you have your confirmation, even as she remains silent.
“That’s not good, baby; you can’t do things like that, okay?”
“But Mr Lee sad!”
“I know you care about Mr Lee, but he is an adult, and it isn’t anyone’s business but his own. You can’t trick him to come here to give him a picture.”
“And see you.”
“What?”
“You make Mr Lee happy, mama. You no talk anymore, only talk to Mingoo and Uncle Jun and not Mr Lee.”
“Wait, is this why you don’t like Mingyu lately?” You baulk, only now having an explanation to your daughter no longer liking to be near the kind man and always dragging Danil off in the mornings, while you and Junhui talk to Mingyu as you all wait for the doors to open for the children to be let in for the day.
“He steal you tenshun.”
“My attention?” She nods. “Baby, Mingyu hasn’t stolen anything; he’s mine and Uncle Jun’s new friend.”
“Mr Lee friend too! Have to be equal to all friends!” She repeats words that you and Junhui have both told her multiple times in gentle reminder when she talks about one child more than others, just so that she doesn’t leave any of her friends out unintentionally.
“Mr Lee isn’t my friend,” you inform. “He’s your teacher, not my friend.”
The way Juni frowns at you can only be described as painfully lost. “But you smile together. You make him happy; he make you happy. Like friends.”
“Mr Lee doesn’t make me happy.”
“Not now, you no talk because Mingoo,” she huffs.
“It’s not because of Mingyu. Mr Lee is your teacher and has other parents and students to give attention to; I’ve stepped back to let him do that.”
“Well don’t!” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Step not back.”
“Forward is opposite to back.”
“I know! I’m not stupid.”
“I never said-”
“You stupid,” her grumbled words cut you off mid-sentence to gawp at her in astonishment. Never before has your daughter called you stupid.
Even though you shouldn’t take it to heart, knowing she’s just upset and still learning, it stings.
“Excuse me?” You ask, putting your hands on your hips when you manage to gather your wits to retort. She looks at you and upon taking in your firm expression, she immediately looks away again. “You do not talk to me or anyone like that, Juni. That is not a nice thing to say.”
“Mr Lee your friend.”
“Don’t change the subject. This is about you calling me stupid.”
“You be stupid for saying not friend. He is.”
“Juni-”
“No! You be stupid! Mr Lee your friend, and he need you! You make him happy, but you ditch for stupid, stupid, stupid Mingoo!”
“Alright, that’s enough, you need calm down time,” you declare, packing up her art supplies quickly to put back on the shelf, while she watches you with rapidly saddening eyes. “When you’ve calmed down and are ready to apologise for being mean, you can come to me, and we will talk properly.”
“You being mean!” She doubles down and abruptly gets up to storm over to her bed and throw herself on top of, where she start to cry.
As much as you want to soothe your distressed child, you know she needs time alone, and frankly so do you, so you turn and leave her room without another word.
It breaks your heart to return to making dinner as if you can’t hear Juni’s crying turn from angry wails to unhappy sobbing down the hall, but you stay firm and wait for her to be ready and come to you.
By the time the doorbell rings, you can only hear the occasional hiccupped inhale and sniffles when you listen carefully over the noises of making dinner.
When you open the door to Jihoon already standing with Bubba in arms against his chest as if he’s been using the toy as his own comfort plushie, you suddenly see why Juni thinks she needs to trick Jihoon to stop by in an attempt to cheer him up.
The man looks paler than usual, with dark smears under his eyes badly hidden with concealer, which isn’t even his shade, and his lips look bitten half raw. He looks like he needs a hug.
“Oh,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
“Oh? Were-were you expecting someone else?” He asks, looking down the hall with widened eyes as if he expects this mystery visitor to suddenly appear.
“No just…you uh…is it rude to say you don’t look good?” You wince at your own words, but he doesn’t.
Jihoon looks back at you and sighs a little. “It’s the truth.”
“You look like you need a hug, or a strong drink.”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Oh…” He hums vaguely in response and awkwardly looks at the floor between you while tightening his hold on Bubba. “Do…Do you want a hug?” You offer.
Jihoon’s head snaps up to look at you with bulging eyes and a slightly dropped jaw. “Wh-what?”
“A hug? Do you want one?”
“Yes,” he blurts, then shakes his head and steps backwards before you can even try to move closer. “I mean no, no, that’s inappropriate. You’ve made it very clear that you want a strict teacher-parent relationship with me, and I will respect that.”
“I’m offering as a parent, for the sake of my child.”
“Why would hugging me benefit Juni in anyway?” He looks utterly bewildered.
“She hid him under your desk, so you’d have to come here,” you inform, pointing at his chest, where he’s hugging Bubba tight.
Jihoon looks down at the creepy duck, then up at you even more puzzled than previously. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s noticed that you’re sad and apparently, I make you happy.”
“Oh…” he mutters and shrinks into himself a little further while no longer making eye contact with you, focusing on Bubba again as he mindlessly strokes his fingers over the fluff. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be obvious.”
“Wait, she’s right?” You baulk. “I thought she was just being a kid.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m the reason you look like this?” You motion to him vaguely, though he doesn’t look away from the duck and just nods in confirmation. “Fuck. Why? This isn’t right, Jihoon. You can’t look this pitiful because I put boundaries that should remain in place so that our lives don’t get fucked up.”
“I wasn’t aware being my friend would fuck up your life but thanks for letting me know,” he grunts and thrusts the duck towards you one handed. “I’ll leave and stop being a bother.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” you assure, naturally taking the toy ready to give back to your daughter. When he tries to lower his empty hand as he turns to leave, you grab it. “This is why. You-” you cut off when you realise that although it’s his left hand you’re grasping, there isn’t a single piece of jewellery under your touch.
Confusedly, you tuck Bubba under your arm to free your own left hand to take his wrist to prevent him from walking away, like you fear he will, when you let go with your right hand to reveal his bare fingers to your sight.
“Where’s your ring?” You mutter and look up to find Jihoon staring at you with wide eyes and frozen in place. “Jihoon?” You prompt when he continues to stare with parted lips.
“H-Huh?” He blinks a few times to try and bring himself back to reality.
“Where’s your ring?”
“Ring? What ring?”
“Your wedding ring.”
“I’m not married,” he mutters, eyebrows pulling together as he too looks at his hand.
“No, no, you are,” you insist while dropping his hand to move Bubba from under your arm to your chest to squeeze slightly as you mind starts to whirl. “You wear a fucking wedding band every day, I saw it earlier. I know you wear one. Jun’s seen it and Juni drew it on her picture! You’re married, Jihoon!”
“Oh,” his eyes slowly widen in understanding. “That’s just a trick.”
“What?”
“Last year, a lot of parents were really inappropriate towards me, so I faked an engagement and came back this year wearing the ring; to stop them bothering me for reasons that aren’t about their children.”
“What?”
“I’m not married, I’m not even seeing anyone. I’m single, like really single,” he emphasises. “I haven’t even been on a date in years.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah…”
An awkward, slightly tense silence comes over the pair of you as you try to stop your mind from spinning and heart racing with hope and a brand-new dance routine.
“That’s why you stopped talking to me?” Jihoon manages to get out in such a quiet voice that you barely hear him over your pulse thudding in your ears. But you hear and look up at him. “You stopped talking to me because you thought I’m married?”
“You wear a ring,” you reason.
“Yeah, but I thought…I just thought that you don’t want to be friends with me, not that you’re…fuck,” he exhales and lifts his hands to put his face in them. “The one person I didn’t want it to work on,” he groans into his palms, making your stomach flip with fresh hope that he means that he might possibly feel the same way you do.
You watch with anticipation dancing amongst your internal organs, while he scrubs his hands over his face with a few strange groans, then abruptly pushes them up into his hair despite his beanie, resulting in knocking it off to the floor, yet he either doesn’t notice somehow, or simply does not care.
Jihoon looks directly at you with his fingers in his hair before dropping his arms and taking a step closer while opening his mouth to say something with a painfully sincere expression on his face, but a sniffled voice from behind you stops him in his tracks.
“Mama?” Immediately, you turn to look at Juni, where she’s standing down the hall looking miserable with her precious little face swollen with sadness. “I-I’m sorry for call you stupid,” she apologises, lip wobbling.
As soon as you lower to your knees, Juni runs over to throw herself into your open arms and clings to you tightly. “I know, baby, I know. Thank you for apologising; I appreciate it a lot.”
“Never call you stupid again,” she promises, even if you know she likely will forget that promise as she grows, especially as a hormonal teenager. Though you won’t hold it against her.
“Thank you.” You kiss her head and hold her tighter as you get to your feet, stuffing Bubba between your chests for her to immediately grab, while you turn to look at Jihoon.
He’s got something tender in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you and your daughter, and you realise that it’s not the first time that he’s looked at you two like this; like the sight of you settles his very soul.
“Do you like lasagne?” You blurt.
Jihoon slowly looks at you instead of watching Juni rub her face into the almost bald patch on Bubba’s belly, where fur is missing from all the times that she’s done exactly this after an emotionally exhausting cry. “What?” He mutters dumbly.
“Lasagne, do you like it? And garlic bread.”
“Uh, ye-yeah,” he confirms with a nod and shuffles on his feet as both of his hands grip the strap of his bag, where it’s crossed over his chest.
“Do you maybe want to join us for dinner? I made too much for just us because I thought Jun would be here, but he went home with an upset stomach from once again eating out of date yogurt because he doesn’t want to waste it. It wasn’t even his yogurt. I don’t know where he got it from.” Admittedly, you’re rambling with sudden nerves at the thought of Jihoon rejecting your invitation, but you can’t stop yourself. “Only if you don’t have plans. Not that I’m assuming you don’t, because you could be very busy and-”
Hearing your name on his tongue for the first time in two weeks cuts you off immediately, lips pressing together as you blink at him with widened eyes. “I don’t have plans. I’d love to have dinner with both of you.”
Juni perks up as your tense posture deflates a little with relief. “Mr Lee eat dinner too?!” She shrieks, then squeaks and leans towards him when he nods in confirmation.
Jihoon smiles, lighting up in that truly precious smile you haven’t seen in weeks as he steps forward to take your daughter from your arms. Juni immediately cuddles up to him and leans her head contently on his shoulder.
You can only watch as you step back to let him into the apartment and shut the door after him. He’s not wearing winter boots now, just trainers, which he easily slips off beside the shoe rack without putting Juni down or removing his caring hold on her.
“I show Mr Lee picture now?” Juni asks and you just nod so she wiggles, prompting the man to put her down.
Jihoon takes the chance to remove his bag and coat to hang on the hooks, then accept her offered hand to toddle after her down the hall to her bedroom as she rabbits on, about you have no idea what, you’re too focused on the sight of the man happily going along with your daughter as if there’s nowhere that he’d rather be.
Though before he disappears into her bedroom, he looks over at you and smiles in a way that makes you believe that perhaps, there’s one other place he’d be just as happy to be.
Although you had assumed Jihoon would make excuses to leave after dinner is over, he doesn’t. He stays to help clean up. He stays to sit on the couch with Juni on his lap to watch far too much TV for a school night. He stays to read Juni a bedtime story with you, both of you sitting either side of her on her double bed that dwarfs her but fits the three of you perfectly. And he stays to return to the couch with you and look at you with a soft, content smile that hasn’t left his features all evening.
“I think she might’ve been right,” you comment after you’ve both just been sitting for a couple of quiet, peaceful minutes curled up facing one another, knees almost touching with the sides of your heads on the back rest.
“About what?”
“I’m stupid.”
Jihoon chokes out a surprised laugh at your words, making you smile. “I think you’re far from stupid but I’m clearly missing something here, so please do elaborate.”
“You look happy now.”
“I feel happy now.”
“Because of me?” You ask, hope tilting your words upwards.
“Yeah, but also your precious daughter. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d want any child I have to be like her.”
“You want children?”
“I never used to.” He shrugs a little.
“When did that change?”
“September, when a ball of love and energy spilled half a cup of dirty water over her own painting and proceeded to laugh like a maniac while splashing her tiny hands in the mess.”
You can’t help but laugh, knowing that he’s talking about Juni’s very first day at nursery, when she came out covered in dried paint and Jihoon had repeatedly apologised to you about the mess.
“Then I met her mother,” he continues, making your gentle laughter trickle away, hearing the softness in his tone. “And instead of getting angry at me or blaming me for the lack of spare clothes in her child’s backpack like other parents have before, she just laughed and said she’d try to remember to pack spare clothes for the next day. And she did. I had to change her daughter the next day when she tripped and fell in a muddy puddle, and when I told her mother, she only asked if her daughter made the most of being in the puddle. Which, she did; that child always makes the most of being a mess and has taught her friends to do the same.”
“Oops,” you offer with a sheepish smile.
Jihoon chuckles and shakes his head. “Even though it means I have to change and dry at least one child a day now, I wouldn’t ever change it. That little girl is the most amazing child. She’s allowed to be a child while still being emotionally intelligent enough to be the most caring and supportive five-year-old I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching. I’m dreading the day I have to watch her move on at the end of the year. I don’t want to let her go.”
“She has that effect,” you confirm with a pleased smile at the thought of how much love there is directed at your daughter, which you hope only grows as she does.
“She gets it from her mother.” Jihoon looks between your bodies to where your hands are clasped together around your knees before he reaches out to touch your hand. His lips twitch up a little further when you release your hold to allow him to take one of your hands into his. “Do you think that perhaps, maybe her mother will give me the chance to prove myself to her? That I’m worthy to be by her side and maybe one day, not any day soon; I know it’ll take a long time to get to that point, but maybe one day, I can perhaps have the honour of being a part of her daughter’s life too outside of school?”
“You really want that?” You whisper. Jihoon nods, still looking at your hand as he traces his thumb over your knuckles, entranced by the divots and bumps. “Please look at me, Jihoon,” you plead as you lift your head. He pauses, takes a breath, then looks up at you slowly. Noticing that you’re no longer leaning against the backrest entirely, he straightens up a little too, to match your position. “I think that she already adores you.”
“The mother or daughter?” He replies and swallows thickly.
“Both of us.”
Jihoon’s eyes start to shimmer with joy. “Really? Y-you mean that?”
“Yeah.”
“I fucking adore you both too,” he replies with a sudden heavy exhale. “I like you so much, more than I ever thought I could like someone and that says something because I was convinced that I was in love with my last girlfriend and wanted to marry her.”
“Are you saying that you like me more than the woman you wanted to marry?” You deadpan.
Jihoon opens and closes his mouth a few times in the perfect fish imitation before his cheeks bloom a beautiful, precious pink and he smiles sheepishly at you. “I guess so?”
“Sounds serious,” you tease.
He chuckles and nods. “It does, huh? At least you know that this isn’t something casual or inconsequential to me. If you’d give me the chance, I’d devote myself to you for the rest of my life. You really are my happiness.”
“That’s…I don’t want to be someone’s only reason for being happy, Jihoon. I want you to have joy outside of me too. I already have one person who is dependent on me, and I refuse to accept another, unless I birth them so-” Jihoon suddenly making a strange, choking type sound, cuts you off, causing you to look at his rapidly reddening cheeks with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah, yep. Great! I’m great!” He almost wheezes.
“Liar. What is it?”
“Nothing,” he squeaks and squeezes your hand a little. “So uh, is-is that like…something you’d want?”
“You?”
“Another baby,” he blurts, before hiding his blushing face in his hands. “Ignore me, please.”
“No,” you snort a laugh and shuffle closer to pull his hands down from his face. He lets you, but tilts his head downwards to try and hide, though looks at you through his lashes. You’re pretty sure he isn’t intentionally making himself look so cute, yet he looks utterly adorable. “Let’s just start with a date first, yeah?”
“A date?” You nod. Although he’s still very pink, he lifts his head. “I’d really like that.”
“Me too. But I think we should take it slow; you’re still Juni’s teacher and I don’t want to complicate anything. I know you favour her and I’m not going to stop that, but I don’t want anyone to make assumptions that it’s just because you’re fucking me.”
“Fucking you,” he whispers, eyes going a little dazed, up until you laugh, and then he’s groaning and hiding his face in the cushion of the backrest. “I’m so fucking lame. Please pretend you haven’t seen me being so pathetic, so you don’t lose interest.”
“I don’t think you’re lame or pathetic,” you giggle and reach out to gently wiggle your fingers between his cheek and the fabric until he lets you lead him back upright and facing you. You take a moment to focus on curving your palm against his cheek and then soften as he tilts into your hold as if it’s already nothing more than instinctual to seek out your touch. “I think you’re precious, Lee Jihoon.”
Jihoon takes a stuttered breath in before he curls his hand around your wrist to hold onto you as if he’s afraid you’ll cease to exist if he doesn’t. “Is asking to kiss you going too fast?”
You don’t answer, not verbally at least. You extend your thumb to brush against the edge of his bottom lip, smiling as they part softly before you lean in, and he eagerly mirrors your position to meet you halfway with a simple, yet oh so sweet, kiss.
“I really hope you’ll always think I’m precious enough to remain with you,” he admits in a whisper, lips almost brushing yours as his free hand lifts to cup your face adoringly.
“I’m not worried about that at all,” you assure confidently then tug him back in for another soft kiss.
It’s not a lie either, you’re not at all worried that Jihoon will ever be anything but precious to you; you truly can’t imagine him ever doing a thing to change that particular opinion of yours.
What you are worried about, however, is how your daughter will react to you dating for the first time in her life, especially when it’s Jihoon who you’re dating. You hope that she thinks of him as equally as precious as you do, and she’ll be happy about it.
Though you can’t think of that now; you have a precious man to kiss until your lips are swollen and the pink of his cheeks threatens to become permanent. You’ll let your daughter’s reaction to the news be a problem for future you. You have more immediate matters to focus on, after all.
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genre & warnings: situationship to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader and hansol r biiiiggg idiots, suggestive content
desc: photos in the mirror, lips pouted cutely. photos on your macbook, scantily clad and sexy. photos on your digital camera, body exposed with a smirk on your face. however, none of them seemed to prompt your situationship, vernon, to even like your instagram story!
wc: 3.6k
𝄞: thirst trap by audrey hobert, pang by caroline polachek, claws by charli xcx
It had been exactly eight months and fourteen days since Hansol walked into your life. Like a whirlwind, he turned you completely upside down, riveting your senses every time he was within your vicinity.
It had been six months and nine days since you went on your first date, a cutesy expedition into the mountains, where he took you to his favourite hiking spot. Packing a picnic of all the foods you mentioned craving, sitting closely next to you whilst absentmindedly brushing your hands, kissing you sweetly under the sunset.
It had been six months and two days since you first slept together, heated and intense, his body eating up yours like a man starved. His whispered praises convinced you he was the one — his compliments utterly too much for someone who still hasn’t asked you to be his girlfriend.
You felt absolutely crazy. Suspicious and completely insane. Hansol spent every free moment dancing around your mind like a ballerina, his apprehension for anything pathetically raising such big questions in your mind.
‘What if there’s someone else?’ You whined to your best friend, Seungkwan, who had the lucky role of knowing you and Hansol a little too well. Seungkwan was sitting lazily on your loveseat, a coffee being sucked through a straw and into his lips.
He pauses his sipping, not bothering to tear his eyes away from his phone. ‘It’s Vernon, he couldn’t be bothered to tie his shoelaces up last time I saw him, he hasn’t got the stamina to two-time.’
On the bed, you were religiously taking selfies, your MacBook positioned to rehearsed perfection as you leaned forward, allowing your cleavage to be almost front-and-centre in the camera’s eye.
Seungkwan was unfazed by your faux sexiness, your pouting, jutting and head hanging, a familiar routine when you were desperate for your situationship’s attention.
‘But Kwan,’ You moan, pausing as three beeps and a camera shutter sound from your laptop, making you squint at the blurry pictures. ‘Oh, this one is good.’
You swivel the screen to show your best friend, whose gaze finds the selfie, ‘You’ve done better.’
With a vocal sigh of frustration, you strip off your cardigan and drop it to the bed, kicking it out of the view of the camera and ruffle your hair. ‘We’ve been going on dates, meeting each other’s families and fucking for months!’
The three beeps ring out again, the camera shutter effect flickering as you wordlessly turn the computer to Seungkwan as he holds his hand up in a ‘meh’ gesture.
‘Chivalry is dead, my love,’ he beckons, ‘Just ask him out.’ Seungkwan continues scrolling on his feed, the conversation a carbon copy of many the two of you have had before — Hansol being lazy, you overthinking it, and thus, Seungkwan has to rush to your side whilst you whine about your boyfriend-without-a-title.
‘I shall not!’ You feign offence, rolling to catch the lighting your fairy lights provide, your phone held centimetres from your face as you pull a sexy face. ‘I’m just getting tired of being in limbo.’
If Seungkwan had a penny for every time you said that, he’d be absolutely stinking fucking rich.
‘I’m going to tell you what I tell you every time.’ He says his iced coffee finished as the bottom of the plastic cup rattles with his empty inhalation. ‘Just ask him out.’
‘Just ask him out.’ You mimic back, throwing your friend a dirty look as he reaches lazily for your laptop and filters through the thirst traps you’d been taking. ‘You know him better than I do-‘
‘Debatable.’ He retorts.
‘Fine, you know him well enough. Tell me what he’s thinking, please.’ You beg, giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes you could physically muster, forcing him to fake a gag at you.
‘Oh my god, stop it!’ He exclaims, ‘That might work on Vernon, but it will never work on me.’
You sigh loudly, flopping onto your back once again and holding the camera above you.
‘____, you are the light of my life, my best friend on the planet, a star that shines in my galaxy, but I swear to god-‘ he pauses on a particular photo, his previous point lost in the wind as he eyes the photo up. ‘This photo!’
You scramble to your feet, perched on the arm of the loveseat and leaning over his shoulder. A saunter-y photo sits, your hair flowing and covering your face slightly as you pout and look away from the camera, a pencil between your lips seductively.
‘Fuck, that is a good photo.’ You stare in disbelief at yourself and lean on Seungkwan’s shoulder to airdrop it to yourself, the long and gruelling process of picking the perfect song beginning.
‘I just wish he’d decide what he wants.’ You say, the burst of I Don’t Understand But I Luv U by your favourite artist bouncing through the room.
‘Too sexy.’ Seungkwan offers. ‘I don’t think he’s consciously not choosing, I just think he already thinks you’re his.’
‘This?’ Fast Pace, another song by one of your favourite artists, comes bounding out of your phone speaker. ‘But I’m not! I haven’t heard from him in a day, and then he comes barrelling back in like we’re in love!’
‘Break-up song, next.’ Seungkwan says, leaning on his chin to watch as you scroll mindlessly through your playlist.
‘Ok, this?’ Spell, your most played song, rang out.
‘Yes, perfect!’ Seungkwan snaps in agreement, ‘A bit sexy, mysterious, no hidden meanings, I like it.’
You grumble in annoyance at his jab and press post — you’ve only put lyrics on your story, hoping Hansol would catch on like, four…maybe five times?
‘But I’m not already his, he needs to, you know, ask me?’ You complain, circling back to the previous point. ‘Oh, and maybe text me consistently, I have constant whiplash, I swear.’ You reach up to rub your neck as if you have actually been injured by Hansol’s whip-like behaviour.
Seungkwan just tuts at your complaints, his mind trailing to his other clueless best friend, who Seungkwan thinks is being very dumb at the moment. There’s only so much blame you can put on Hansol’s mindless nature before Seungkwan fears he may have to interject — and tell his best friend to get it together!
For the first hour, you watch the likes pour through, likes from your friends, likes from random men, even a like from your own mother. Yet not a peep of Hansol, not even a view, not a message, nothing.
‘Do you think he’s like, dead or something?’ Seungkwan was now rattling through your nail polish on the bed as you lounged with your head hanging lazily off the loveseat, your hand held up for Seungkwan to paint.
‘You’re unbearable.’ He mutters, concentrating with precision.
By hour five, three different guys have messaged you, including Mingyu, the guy whom you crushed on for almost a decade, yet you felt nothing but distaste and very, very intense longing — and to nullify your moaning, you and Seungkwan were both half a bottle of wine down, nattering mindlessly.
‘I can’t believe Kim fucking Mingyu replied to my story, but Hansol hasn’t even viewed it!’ You huff, blowing your hair out of your face in frustration and dramatically dropping your head onto your best friend’s lap, expertly moving as to not spill the beverage in your hand.
‘Shut up, he did not!’ Seungkwan gawked, watching your phone closely as you scroll through Mingyu’s account, ‘God, I think I might be drooling.’
‘Ew,’ you say, turning your head upwards to your best friend, who grabs your phone hastily and continues the stalk.
‘He is so gorgeous,’ Seungkwan coos, his eyes practically heart-shaped whilst he zooms in on a shirtless photo of Mingyu. ‘With all due respect to Vernon, I can’t believe you’re here mopeing because of a guy who wears rainbow tie-dye jumpers when Prince Charming is in your DMs.’
‘Hey,’ you slap his chest half-heartedly, ‘I like Hansol’s jumper.’
‘It’s a fucking crime to fashion.’ Seungkwan deadpans, and you bite your lip so as not to let out any sign of agreement.
By hour sixteen, you’ve woken up, bewildered and quite hungover. Seungkwan was passed out flatly next to you, just as he had many times; your teddy bear snuggled in his arms.
Immediately, your hands shoot to your phone, all notifications rendered useless as Hansol’s name stays absent. With a frustrated huff, you scroll slowly through the views, and your heart plummets when his profile is stacked amongst all the others. No like, no reply, nothing.
If the banging in your head wasn’t bad enough, your anxiety is now rife as you can’t help but feel sorry for yourself. Dragging yourself out of the bedroom, leaving your best friend to continue snoring, you trail to the bathroom — splashing your face to maybe ground you, brushing the stale alcohol off your tongue and attempting to tame your frizzy mane.
With an exhale, you beeline for your coffee machine, haphazardly preparing a beverage for yourself and your best friend, your mind sadly crawling to thoughts of Hansol, bitterness penetrating your brain as you think of his smile, his warm touch, his lusty gaze as he—
Knock knock.
Frozen, your eyes snap to the door, the coffee machine still buzzing in front of you as you eye the clock, who is knocking at 10 am on a Sunday?
Whoever it is does not deserve to see you in this state — head practically hanging in pounding pain, legs exposed, a huge hoodie concealing your figure, and a very dead look in your eyes.
Knock knock!
‘Get the door! It feels like someone is knocking on my brain!’ The coarse and sleepy voice of Seungkwan sounds from your bedroom, and you walk hesitantly towards the door, eyeing the wine glasses and empty bottles on the coffee table, the pillows and blankets strewn across the lounge, the dirty dishes in the sink. God, this place was a mirror of you.
Opening the door just a crack, you peek apprehensively out, the harsh sunrays making you squint as your head rattles with the brightness.
‘_____?’
Every nerve in your body seemed to activate, your hairs standing as the velvety smooth voice of Chwe Hansol infiltrated your senses. Forcing yourself to focus your vision, you drink him in.
He looked effortlessly cool, signature snapback resting on his head backwards with ease, dark wisps of hair peeking out. The brown in his eyes seemed to quiver slightly as you met them, the chocolate colour still bright even in this strange meeting. His attire was noticeably more put together, a black and red striped top and a pair of casual jeans adorning his figure — a difference from the usual sweats he showed up in.
To be honest, you thought he looked sensational. A picture of perfect boyness that could’ve had you falling to your knees. But, the stinging in your head reminded you of his lack of commitment, lack of interest and lack of anything.
‘What are you doing here?’ You croak out, squinting at him and attempting to conceal your unshowered and gross sweats from him.
‘I-, uh,’ He raised his hands, a bouquet of gorgeous carnations and lilies, hand-wrapped delicately. His other hand holding a shopping bag, snacks peeking out.
Normally you’d jump in joy and fling yourself into his arms, but that bitter taste wouldn’t budge from your tongue, the sight of him here after consistent on and off silence slightly too grating on your emotions.
‘Look, Hansol,’ you opened the door a crack more, just to let yourself stand in front of it, carefully speaking as to not alert Seungkwan — who would tease you both and practically have you both kiss just to coo. ‘I think we need to talk.’
Hansol’s outstretched arms slackened, his face dropping into an unreadable expression, one you’d never seen him wear. His eyebrows creased, and not like they did when he concentrated, no, his eyes also seemed to droop, his mouth seemingly fighting off a scowl at your coldheartedness.
‘Yeah, I also wanted to talk.’ He replies as you push the door open lightly.
Hansol couldn’t help but admire your casual wear, the oversized jumper that fit more like a dress, making you look so undeniably adorable, your hair swept off your face, and it let Hansol see all the features he was enamoured by — your smooth skin, your long lashes, your plump lips.
This was it. Your heart was practically in your throat as you let Hansol in, now or never ringing through your head. His tall figure felt like a shadow behind you, his scent infiltrating your senses as he stepped closer to walk into your apartment.
‘Maybe we should go to the balcony.’ You say with a quietened tone, your speech not lacking any tightness, especially as you refused to turn to speak to him.
Hansol didn’t miss the extra pair of shoes next to the door, or the extra wine glass next to yours on the table or the pillows that had apparently been strewn across the room. Was there someone else here? Had you found someone else?
His heart pounded in violent sprees, the hammering forcing a high-pitched ringing to pierce his eardrums. This was unfair, he shouldn’t feel like this, he shouldn’t be jealous of you and someone else — after all, he never made it official with you, he just presumed.
The cold air hitting his face forced the noise out of his body, the sound of the city floors below grounding him to this moment. Placing the flowers and snacks down on the patio table, he took to the railing, watching the late morning sun as it made the rooftops shine.
Behind him, you looked at his figure appreciatively, cherishing what might be the last few moments between you before this all goes away — soon to feel like a distant dream.
You leant over the balcony alongside him, leaving a strangely awkward distance between your arms. With a shy gulp, you opened your mouth to speak, not sure what you were going to say, but you had to say something, anything.
‘Is there someone else here?’ He questions with a hint of frustration. He couldn’t help himself, the thought of you with somebody else made him feel nauseous.
Your eyes practically bulge out of your head as you snap your head around to look at him. His jaw was tense, gaze unwavering as he refused to turn to look at you.
‘What?’ You exclaim, almost speechless.
‘I saw the shoes and the wine glasses.’ He says, forcing a monotone facade onto his voice.
‘You’re such an idiot.’ You reply, shaking your head. ‘Seungkwan is here, we got drunk last night, and he ended up crashing here.’
Well, fuck. Hansol felt like a dick. An immature and insecure boy who jumped to the worst conclusion instantly. You shifted uncomfortably — the first time he’d ever made you feel this way, as your heart panged in twisted sorrow.
‘I’m sorry.’ He finally turned to you, you now not meeting his gaze, your hungover brain struggling to decipher whether to be pissed off or angry.
After a few moments of painful silence, you speak, not allowing him to start, as you motivate yourself to tell him everything you needed to.
‘Look, Hansol.’ You speak, your voice icy in a way he’d never heard it. It terrified him, sending anxiety pulsing through every inch of his body. ‘What we’re doing, whatever this is, has to stop.’
‘That’s what I came here to talk to you about.’ He replies, faux calm in his voice.
‘So we’re in agreement?’ You push, the stinging of tears consuming you.
‘No.’
Again, you were frozen, his answer numbing your senses and rendering you completely and utterly transfixed in shock.
‘No?’ You stutter out, finally turning to face him. God, he looked so beautiful. The sun made his face glow in a way that could only be attributed to something angelic, and despite the tightness across it, a tear slipped out whilst you stared at him.
‘Hansol, are you serious? I feel like I’ve been strung along by you for months now. One moment you make me feel like the only girl in the world, and the next I don’t hear from you for days!’ You took a sharp breath, your words ragged and pointed as they spilt out of you. ‘It’s-’A strangled sob rips its way out of your mouth. ‘I feel like I’m fucking crazy Hansol, and I won’t let this happen anymore. It’s not fair on me!’
You breathe heavily, your head pounding after your outburst. Hansol just sat and took it all. Took the punches. Let them weigh on him as he carefully considered his next words.
‘You are the only girl in the world.’ He says shyly, your head still hung in an act of bitter defeat, and you scoff harshly at his words.
He panics and holds your hand, forcing your head to turn to his, you don’t withdraw your hand yet, lathering sourly in the warmth of his fingertips against yours. ‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t have snapped like that.’ You apologise with a sadness on your lips.
‘No, don’t apologise.’ He replies, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand tenderly. This would likely set you back months — this game of cat and mouse you fell into like a trap. ‘And I want to make this right.’
If your breath wasn’t hitched before, it most definitely was now.
‘I want you to be mine, my girlfriend,’ He says, confidence backing him for once, before cowering away as he continues, ‘and I didn’t want to ask you like this, but fuck it, I guess.’
He turned promptly, picking up the flowers which had been discarded and shimmying a CD case out of the plastic bag. It was decorated in a way that was acutely Hansol — stickers, drawings and the scribble of words on the front.
For ______, Love Hansol x
In your wordlessness, Hansol continued, a nervous smile on his face. ‘I spent so long thinking about how to ask you, I got so in my head, and I wanted to say the right thing, but I just worried too much about the wrong thing. So I made you this.’ He rambles as you stay dead still, the gifts still outstretched in his hands.
Hesitantly, you took the CD from his hand, looking at it closely, a few tracks on the list sticking with you:
this is how it felt when we kissed on the hike
Pang - Caroline Polachek
this is how i feel about you (lol)
claws - Charli xcx
It was so painfully him, so painfully you and him. So perfect, it was like he had translated your love language into music. Your heart had practically leapt out of your chest at his confession and his question, all that doubt and worry slipping through your fingers like sand.
‘Hansol,’ you say, that softness approaching like a ship sailing home.
Hansol had never been so relieved to hear your voice quirk in its usual way; he felt every nerve in his body relaxing as your face softened, a smile beginning to break through.
‘We’re such idiots.’ You say, your teeth shining as you smile widely and step closer to him.
‘I’ll be anything as long as it’s with you.’ He replies with a smoothness he didn’t know he was capable of.
With his romance, you bring your hand to the nape of his neck and tug his lips to yours. His warm, pillowy lips melt into yours instantly, adoration pouring into the kiss, like never before. Hansol’s arms found their way around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest in a swift movement, his lips not daring to leave yours.
Hansol drank in the feeling of you against him, allowing the adrenaline to pump into you as his tongue slid skilfully into your mouth, exploring those places he’d been so many times. But this time, it was different, there were no unsaid words and no cloudy mixed messages — just pure and beautiful passion.
‘Yes.’ You answer, ‘I’ll be your girlfriend.’
Hastily, you reconnect your lips, letting one of your hands cradle his jaw and cherish the smooth skin underneath, running the pad of your thumb along it like his skin was a masterpiece. Hansol’s smile penetrated the kiss, allowing you to withdraw slightly, foreheads resting against one another.
‘Took you long enough.’ A muffled voice rings out, and both of your heads snap to the sliding glass door. Seungkwan posed with a knowing attitude as he looked at you both, entangled with each other.
Giggles erupt between you as your lip gets caught between your teeth, and you turn your attention back to your boyfriend.
‘In my defence, I wanted to ask you months ago.’ He replies to Seungkwan’s jab, kissing your forehead.
‘Well, boyfriend, I’ve got a slightly less killer hangover. What do you want to do?’ You question with happiness dripping off every word.
‘Well, girlfriend, first, I want you to take the medicine I packed,’ He tilts his head to the plastic bag, ‘then, I want to sit and watch a movie with you whilst you recover,’ he teases, ‘and then when Seungkwan gets grossed out about how coupley we are and leaves, I want to make all of these months where you could’ve been mine up to you. How’s that sound?’
His proposal is a dream, and you nod. ‘I was always yours, you just couldn’t see it.’
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I was inspired by lots of cute Polly Pockets from the 80s and 90s for this piece! 💕 I love how each Polly Pocket has a unique world inside it so I drew some dolls exploring other toys and making friends! 😊
Prints are available at kaitlynillustrations.etsy.com 🎀
He noticed you shivering, biting your lips to keep them warm as the cool night air began to settle in. He saw you get goosebumps with every cold breeze, pretending not to be cold by focusing on Soonyoung’s silly conversation to distract yourself from the sharp, dry sensation on your skin.
He knew you weren’t going to say anything, and Soonyoung, immersed in his ideas, wouldn’t spot your shoulders uncomfortably shifting more often than usual. You were too stubborn to admit that he was right when he told you, “The weather’s been acting up lately, y’know? Especially at night. I don’t think it is a good idea to go out on that top, you’ll freeze”, when he picked you up.
“Don’t worry, Nonnie, I’ll be fine”, you answered simply, fixing your top.
You saw through the mirror his raised eyebrows, the question “are you sure?” in his expression.
“I’ll be ok, really!” you reassured him once again, “besides, I was looking forward to using this top since I bought it. It looks good on me, right? This color suits me well, don’t you think?”
He nodded and blinked just once, thinning his lips. That was enough confirmation for you, and you left together to meet the rest of your friend group.
Vernon, silent with his affections as always, took off his jacket and placed it over your shoulders without exchanging a single word, just a knowing look in his eyes that hung an implicit “told you”, then looked away, hands in his pockets. You smiled widely, nervously, like caught red-handed, but still thanked him under your breath. And he just nodded.
He did that very often, nodding and looking away.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at you; in fact, he was constantly watching you. That’s how he noticed things, and if it was up to him, he would never tear his eyes off of you. But Vernon couldn’t afford to let you know how much attention he paid to you. Primarily because that attention usually came with a million fake scenarios that he would reproduce over and over again at 2:00 a.m, when he couldn’t sleep, or throughout the day when he tried to concentrate on his job.
Sometimes he gets so shy about his delusions that he thinks about the massive amount of shame he’d feel if you could read his mind. Because, what would you think if you ever knew the way his chest filled with hope when he thought about the faint scent of your perfume sticking in his jacket? He was practically manifesting it.
His rib cage felt tight when he saw you snuggling in it. “Cute… In my clothes…” he thought, and just for a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine that his jacket warming up your body on a windy night was a claim. That it was him telling everyone that you were his.
He would also let out an insanely bright smile when looking at you doing something silly every so often, but it was not very common. Now, he was on the very edge of allowing one of those smiles to show. Yet, it did not matter how hard he tried to hold it back; before he noticed it, he already had that foolish smile on his face.
He shook his head as his smile grew wider after Seungkwan nudged his right arm with a knowing look in his eyes. Seokmin appeared from his left side, patting his left shoulder and looking at him just like Seungkwan.
Was he so evident? Damn, he was so screwed
I posted this on my main blog first, but then I thought it might be a good idea to have a side writing blog, so that I can post here whatever else comes to my mind.
Jihoon thinks you’re cute. You think he needs to stop playing around.
jihoon x reader
genre: fluff, suggestive
content: established relationship, he’s kinda clingy, boderline overuse of petname “baby”, One explicit line mdni
divider by hyuneskkami!
“Baby.”
Jihoon’s soft and groggy call makes you still immediately.
You’re both bundled up in bed with Jihoon’s arm stretched out, acting as your pillow, while you curl into his chest. His other arm is wrapped around you in a warm hold. You try to make out his face in the dark, hoping your tenth toss and turn of the night hasn’t completely disturbed his sleep.
You know he’s been more exhausted than usual these days due to the influx of projects at work, but sleep just wouldn’t come to you no matter how hard you tried.
“Sorry,” you whispered back, “let me get out real quick and you can go back to sleep.”
He makes zero effort to remove the arm resting firmly across your waist; yet resists when you try to move it yourself.
You lightly poke at his shoulder, “Jihoon, baby, let go.”
He finally pries one eye open to peer at you. His face is so sleepy and soft, you can’t help but crack a smile at the sight of him. Then without a word, his hand moves to your head and pats you softly as he closes his eye again.
“What’s wrong? It’s almost 4am.”
You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know. I’m tired too but it’s taking so long to actually fall asleep—it’s seriously driving me nuts. And now, I accidentally woke you up when we only have three hours left before we need to get up...”
Jihoon barely holds in the laugh threatening to spill out of him. It’s the middle of the night and he’s pretty sure he’s still somewhat delirious from his fatigue but your rambling triggers his cuteness aggression like crazy.
The patting stops and switches to light rakes through your hair in an attempt to comfort you.
Your eyelids start to feel heavy as he continues to play with your hair; and just as you’re finally drifting off, you hear Jihoon’s voice again.
“Want me to fuck the sleep into you instead?”
You know he’s just teasing—the both of you are too tired to do anything tonight but his proposal still makes your body heat up instantly.
You slap his chest before turning away from him and whining into your pillow, “stop playing around. You think you’re soo funny, huh?”
He doesn’t bother hiding his laughter from you this time.
When Jihoon’s laugh finally dies down, he inches closer, pulling the shared duvet higher over both of your bodies.
You can still hear the smirk in his voice. “Okay okay. I’m sorry, baby. What else can I do to help you fall asleep, hm?”
“Play with my hair again or something...”
He nuzzles his face into the back of your neck, fingers already threading through your hair.
“Feel better?”
You’re half asleep when you hum a response, “mhm… love you.”
Jihoon presses a light kiss onto your shoulder before his smile shifts into a small yawn as he falls back to sleep beside you.
“Love you more.”
a/n: hi & soz.. layout is kinda all over the place since i’m not sure what i like/want yet!! i originally planned to be a strict reading/content only blog but this came to life bc soft & playful jihoon is painfully 100% my type & this was the only way to deal with my thoughts LOL so pls enjoy my debut fic with me :-)
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.
WC. 14.9k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.
AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.
The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.
9:14 PM.
A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.
Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.
You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”
“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.
It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.
Which is what brought here.
Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”
“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”
He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”
Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.
He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”
“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”
“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”
The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.
Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.
“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”
As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.
“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”
As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.
“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”
You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?
And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.
Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.
Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”
You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.
“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”
You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.
“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”
Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”
The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.
“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”
You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”
A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.
“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”
He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.
The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.
For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.
Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.
“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.
Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.
You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.
Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.
Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.
It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.
Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.
It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.
Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.
The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.
But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.
The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.
A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.
Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.
Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.
“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.
“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”
He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.
You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”
Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.
“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”
You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”
He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”
You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.
“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”
“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.
“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”
You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.
“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”
“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”
Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”
You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”
He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”
“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.
“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”
You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.
“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”
Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”
You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.
“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”
He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”
“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”
“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”
He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.
“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”
As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.
Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.
On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.
Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.
Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.
He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.
Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.
On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.
The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.
Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.
About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.
After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.
Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.
“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.
“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”
You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”
“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”
He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.
“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”
You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”
“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”
“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”
Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”
You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.
“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”
The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.
It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.
“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”
The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.
“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.
You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”
He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”
“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”
The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.
But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.
“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”
He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.
“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”
Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.
“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”
Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”
You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.
“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.
A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”
You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.
“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.
“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”
“Anytime, Bambi.”
You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”
“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”
The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.
“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.
Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.
Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.
When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.
He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.
You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.
“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.
“But I only paid for one.”
“I know. The other one is on me.”
You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”
“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”
He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.
“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”
You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”
You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”
“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”
Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.
A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.
He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.
“Hansol!”
He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”
“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”
The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.
“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.
“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”
“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”
“And would you?”
The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.
“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”
You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”
“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.
The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.
When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.
He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.
Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.
Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.
“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.
“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”
You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.
You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.
After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.
Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.
“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”
You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”
“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”
He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”
You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.
After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.
Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.
“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.
“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”
“Well, I was tired.”
“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”
You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”
“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”
You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.
“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.
Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.
He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.
A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.
He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.
There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.
Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.
You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.
When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.
“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.
You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.
When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.
You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.
“Feeling it?”
“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”
Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.
You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.
Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.
Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”
A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.
You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.
All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.
You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”
He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.
Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.
“C’mere, Bambi.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.
Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.
The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.
Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.
“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.
Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.
“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”
And you believe him.
Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.
You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.
Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.
Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.
You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.
Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.
You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.
When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.
“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.
You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.
He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt
Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.
He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.
There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.
“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”
Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.
For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.
His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.
“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Kiss me. Please.”
The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.
Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.
You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.
When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.
It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.
His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.
Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.
The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.
The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.
When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.
“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.
You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.
You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”
Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”
Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”
He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”
“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.
His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”
You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.
You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.
When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.
“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”
He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”
A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”
He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.
“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.
“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”
Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”
His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”
“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.
With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.
He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.
As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.
You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.
The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.
The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.
“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.
His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.
“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”
Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”
You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.
His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.
A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.
His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.
“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.
“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.
He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.
“I know what you need, Bambi.”
Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.
The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.
You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”
Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.
The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.
If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.
You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.
“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”
If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.
“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.
And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.
Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.
A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.
“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”
You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.
The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.
“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”
He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.
You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”
He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.
Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.
Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.
He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.
When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.
He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”
You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.
“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.
He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.
He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.
You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.
Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.
“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.
You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.
He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.
“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”
His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.
Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”
Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.
Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.
The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”
He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.
“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.
“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”
You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.
And then Hansol pushes forward.
The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”
The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.
He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”
He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.
The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”
You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.
“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.
“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”
That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.
You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.
Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.
A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.
He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.
The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.
But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”
The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.
“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”
Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.
“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”
“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”
You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.
Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.
“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
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origamiaround
ellievsbear
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