Tay

So here you are. 1:34AM. Snuggled up in your bed, lights off, blackout curtains drawn, and laptop open at full brightness as you scrolled YouTube, bleary-eyed and annoyed. The only light in the room is the faint blue glow of YouTube’s homepage and your will to academically succeed (read: suffer). 

You typed “bond angles” into the search bar. Hit enter, and scrolled. Then a thumbnail caught your eye.

“Predicting Bond Angles – (VSEPR Theory but not boring)” Channel: Mecha Senku Runtime: 5:28

And then you heard it.

That voice. you practically drooled at your screen. It was soft and deep, yet raspy, like he talked too much—which he did—or didn’t care if he wore out his throat explaining the same concept fifteen times. And when he rambled? Oh god. When he got caught up on a tangent about orbital hybridization—when his voice cracked just slightly because his brain was going faster than his mouth?

Yeah, you were soaked.

Kidding.

...Maybe.

You pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders like that would protect you. Like you weren’t voluntarily listening to this man monologue about VSEPR models like it was foreplay.

You tried to focus on the science. Really, you did. He even had good diagrams—clean visuals, clear examples, actual accuracy. It was kind of annoying how helpful it was, actually. Like, did he have to sound hot while also being smart?

You watched the entire thing.

Then another.

Then another.

Before you knew it, you were five videos deep. At 2:11AM.

Your poor, old, worn-down laptop was probably overheating from the sheer amount of your spiraling. You didn’t even care.

And then… there was that video.

A short one. Barely three minutes.

“Iodine Clock Reaction – Visual Chemistry in Real Time”

You clicked on it like you were possessed.

It was simple—two clear liquids, a few drops of starch, and a timer. You knew the experiment already. You’d seen it done a dozen times in lab. You’d even done it yourself. But somehow, when he did it, it was a cinematic masterpiece.

The camera was angled just right—focused tight on his gloved hands, the faint clink of glass, the gentle pour of the liquid. His voice low, casual, like he was walking you through a magic trick instead of an actual chemical reaction.

And then—the clamps.

He adjusted the glassware with the same energy you imagined he’d use to unbutton his lab coat (which you have no idea why your thoughts immediately ran there)—methodical, focused, and totally unaware of the damage he was doing to your sanity. Forearms flexing, veins shifting, wrist angled just slightly—You blinked. Rewound ten seconds. Then watched it again.

Something dark and sinister bloomed in your chest. Something carnal. Unholy. You buried half your face in your pillow and made a sound that can only be described as a blowdryer on max output immediately followed by a deep, guttural moan. Like your soul was trying to evacuate your body in protest—but got stuck halfway out, sobbing.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms.

Yet here you are. You were a mess. A high-functioning, academically driven, chemically confused mess, replaying a three-minute video about reaction rates like it was an award winning movie. Like it wasn’t educational.

“This is fine. I’m still learning.” You whispered to yourself

You weren’t.

At least, not about chemistry.

Extra notes about mecha senku!

Certified yapper; it gets so bad he just add timestamps to when he gets back on topic

Always says that stupid little catchphrase— “this is exhilarating, get excited” he can’t help himself, its like second nature

While editing his experiment videos, he add little text boxes that say “*item* acquired” ( like in the anime)

That comes in handy later

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

At first, it was a side project. Something to kill time between lectures, experiments, and tutoring sessions with students who couldn’t tell a mole from a molecule if their GPA depended on it. He kept the uploads short. Clean. No face, no fluff. Just experiments and explanations—combustion, osmosis, acid-base reactions. The basic building blocks of chemistry and physics, broken down in that signature tone of his: concise, confident, and just slightly condescending.

Naturally, people loved it.

Especially college students. Especially the ones who’d seen too many dead-eyed professors stumble through half-baked PowerPoints  that they repurposed over the past 5 decades and somehow still made them boring.

He didn’t need gimmicks. Just science.

And, apparently, his voice.

The comments were... something. He ignored them, mostly. Or at least, tried to.

But even he had limits.

@lo1itado11: FLASH US!!! @freakwy: ong WE all cracking Username: i will combust and it won’t be a controlled reaction. Anotherusername: i can literally get off to his voice rn bro omg…

He sighed, deeply. Then dragged a hand through his loosely tied-up hair, fingers threading through strands that refused to stay neat. He didn’t even bother hiding the twitch in his left eye.

Degenerates. All of them.

Still, every new upload got thousands of views in under an hour. Every deep dive request was more unhinged than the last. And while he could ignore the thirst comments, he couldn’t deny the numbers.

His channel was growing. Fast. And if someone asked him to demonstrate a specific experiment?

Well.

He was a scientist.

And who was he to deny a request in the name of scientific curiosity?

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Now, Senku wasn’t exactly an avid social media user.

Sure, he had all the apps downloaded—after relentless badgering from Gen and Ryusui, who had both made it their mission to pressure him into being “normal” for once. Senku used Instagram occasionally, mostly to lurk. To like Taiju’s blurry gym selfies. To comment “inaccurate” under Chrome’s chaotic science photo dumps—half of which somehow included a blurry photo of him. 

Nothing on his own feed, though. His personal account was private, untouched, maxed out at like 26 followers—half of which were probably bots, and one was definitely just Ryusui’s alt.

However, he was used to getting notifications on his side account. His real one. The one that mattered.

@/mecha.senku.

So when he got a ping from TikTok, he didn’t think much of it. Just a red-and-white flash in the corner of his screen as he walked past a group of undergrads in the quad, huddled around a phone, laughing. Loudly.

Then it happened again. Another ping. Then another. 

People tagging him in the same comment section. Spamming him.

Weird.

It wasn’t until after his lecture, holed up in the farthest corner of the campus library, headphones in, laptop open, coffee cooling rapidly at his elbow, half-forgotten.

The notification trail led to a single video.

At first glance, it was just a cake.

A badly decorated one at that—a war crime in the form of buttercream—uneven icing, no symmetry, and piped text that looked like it was written mid-seizure. He could’ve done better blindfolded. He was about to swipe away.

Until he saw the video thumbnail again.

He squinted. Froze. Looked closer.

It was you.

Holding a handful of what looked like paper-taped sticks. Your fingers curled delicately around them, like you’d spent time choosing each one. The video hadn’t even started yet and it was already climbing in views, the likes ticking like a metronome. The top comment had nearly eighty thousand likes.

@/semioli: “I KNEW YOU’D PUT HIM FIRST OMFG”

Senku blinked. Then, almost reluctantly, pressed play.

“Okay, so this is my ‘Hear Me Out’ cake,” you said with a breathless little laugh, voice rich with amusement and just the right touch of self-deprecation. “Please don’t judge…”

You laughed nervously at the camera, your voice familiar in the way ambient noise becomes addictive. He knew you—kind of. You were popular, at least on campus. Friendly with everyone. Smart. You asked questions in class that weren’t dumb, which was rare. People actually listened when you talked.

But he never—not once—imagined you listened to him.

Until the moment your fingers—painted nails and all—planted the first stick dead center into the cake. His channel logo. Bright. Unmistakable. Front and center.

Senku sat still. Very still. His breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat.

“I don’t know what it is about him,” you went on, eyes wide and glittering like you couldn’t believe what you were admitting, “but I feel a carnal type of desire whenever I hear his voice.”

Silence.

Real, gut-wrenching silence.

Senku just stared at the screen. One brow lifted. Lips parted slightly. Blinking. Nothing.

“…What.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard shit like that before. He had. The comments under his videos were riddled with deranged confessionals and late-night voice-induced breakdowns. He’d seen them. Sighed at them. Maybe rolled his eyes on occasion.

But something about hearing you say that—out loud—while staring directly into the camera, shoving his logo into a cake like it was the most natural thing in the world…Now he’s reading the rest of the comments, most of which you had liked.

“his voice scratches my brain in just the right spot i can’t explain it.” “if he ever does a face reveal it’s over for all of us.” “whoever he is irl i hope he’s single bc i’m mentally married to him already.” “i can’t even watch his videos in public anymore istg.”

A laugh, airy and sharp, passed out through his nose.

It was barely even a sound, just air. His head tilted back slowly against the chair, bones creaking lazily. One hand reached up, dragging through his hair—half-loose from the shitty tie job he’d done earlier. He didn’t even realize he was smirking. Eyes narrowed. Lashes lowered. Something wicked curled across his face, subtle but steeped in ego.

So.

You were into him.

And you didn’t even know that he sat two rows behind you in lecture. That the guy scribbling thermodynamic equations while you twirled your pen and tapped your knee was the same voice that apparently haunted your dreams.

Interesting.

Very, very interesting.

Senku closed the tab. Then reopened it not even ten seconds later, still somehow thinking his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. Big mistake.

You were still there—smiling at the camera, laughing like you hadn’t just shoved a stick into a cake bearing his logo and said you felt a “carnal desire” whenever you heard his voice. 

He stared at the screen like it personally offended him. It didn’t. Not really. The offense was fake—just a weak cover for something worse, something much more humiliating.

You were attractive. That much had always been obvious.

He had eyes, didn’t he?

He wasn’t blind. He noticed things. Like the way you always had some elaborate doodle in the margins of your notebook that changed depending on your current hyperfixation. Like how you spoke with your hands, too fast sometimes, expressive. Like how your voice always had a bit of a lilt when you were excited about something, like you were trying not to talk over yourself. Like how you liked sitting near the window in lecture, even if it made it harder to see the board.

He noticed everything.

Which was the problem.

Because now he couldn’t stop noticing.

Your face. Your voice. Your laugh. 

And the worst part?

You were smart.

Not smart like “gets good grades.” That wasn’t hard. No—smart like engaged. Curious. Your own brand of chaotic genius that showed up in how you argued with professors and picked at theories like they were complex puzzles meant for your hands alone.

You were confident. Passionate. Sharp.

You were…

Fuck.

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, groaning.

He didn’t do this. He didn’t get… distracted. He didn’t get flustered. Romance wasn’t even on the table. It was too messy. Too emotional. Too inefficient. He had research. He had goals. The last thing he needed was—

Another notification.

He glanced over. More tags. More people replying to your video.

More people joking, “@mecha.senku bro SAY SOMETHING!!! WE KNOW YOU SEE THIS.”

He hovered. His cursor blinking over the comment section.

He shouldn’t. There was no reason to. There was no benefit. No scientific purpose. No—He cracked his knuckles once. Took a slow breath. And typed.

@mecha.senku: Just a hear me out huh?

He pressed enter, then shut the laptop.

And immediately regretted everything.

Because within 30 seconds, the comment had over 2 thousand likes. The reply threads birthing entire romance novels in real time. 

“OH MY GOD HE COMMENTED OH MY GOD OH MY—” “HE KNOWS. HE FUCKING KNOWS. “NAH??? THE MAN HIMSELF??? NO WAY” “@y/n GIRL U NEED TO WAKE UP RN”

Every five seconds, your phone buzzes.

Buzz.

Buzz.

BuzzBuzzBuzz.

It starts slow—innocent. A like here. A tag there. Then, as if the universe pulled a lever, it turns into an avalanche. Your screen lights up like it’s trying to melt in your hand. TikTok. Twitter. Instagram. Even people from your group project in history are texting you like girl what the actual fuck did you DO?

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, charger barely keeping up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it can protect you from the moment. Your face is hot. Your jaw is slack. Your soul? Practically nonexistent.

You stare at the screen in disbelief.

Right there, in the comments, bolded like the laws of physics decided to write you a personalized romance book:

@/mecha.senku: just a hear me out huh

You blinked once. Then twice. Rubbed your eyes. Because—no. No way.

There’s absolutely no way that the literal voice of your academic downfall and emotional spiral just casually acknowledged the fact that you want to climb him like a fucking molecular structure.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You double-tap your phone by accident. Scroll. Scroll again. Scroll back. It's still there. You suck in a breath like it's going to help. It doesn't.

Your room spins a little—not in a dizzy way, more like the fabric of reality is reconfiguring around your phone screen. Like you’ve accidentally made a deal with a god and now the god is texting you back. Casually. In lowercase.

Your body chooses to react the only way it knows how—by laughing. Not normal laughing. That kind of panicked, unhinged, screeching laugh that sounds like it’s being wrung out of you like a wet rag. A noise clawing its way up your throat as you slowly tip sideways, dramatic as hell, into the mattress.

“Wow,” you say out loud to your empty room, chest rising and falling, heart jackhammering somewhere behind your ribs. “No way. This is such a crazy-ass dream…” Your voice cracks at the end. You sound borderline delirious.

But the comment is still there. Pinned by the original creator. Which is you.

You just close your eyes. Face-down into your pillow.

Your dignity? Gone.

Your supposed  crush? Apparently omniscient.

Your life? Ruined. Maybe. Probably.

But your phone’s still vibrating under your thigh like it’s trying to combust.

And yeah. You’re never going to be normal about this again.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It’s a few days later when you finally have biochem again.

Your professor had sent out an email at the end of last class—something about paying attention to the partner list for the next lab. You hadn’t even looked. Too busy hyperventilating over the Mecha Senku situation. Too busy swiping through your phone at 1 a.m., rereading that comment like it might suddenly disappear, or—worse—turn into something more incriminating.

You didn’t sleep much. Or at all. You just kinda laid there, vibrating at a frequency only dogs could decipher, while mentally reviewing every second of that video and every stupid thing you’d ever said about his voice.

So when your professor calls out your name and tells you to head to the back bench to meet your assigned partner, you’re still in a daze. You adjust your lab coat, swipe lip balm on with hands that are definitely not still shaking, and make your way to the station with the dull dread of someone walking to their own execution.

And then you see him.

Senku Ishigami.

Hair pulled into that slightly messy half-up style he always wears. Safety goggles already on, sleeves rolled up, already gloved. He doesn’t look up at first—he’s swabbing the inside of a petri dish with a level of focus you reserve only for exams and existential dissociations. Then he glances at you, just a quick flick of the eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, casual. A little rough around the edges, like he just got over a cold or hadn’t talked to anyone in hours.

Your spine locks. You blink. Hard.

“Hi,” you manage, but it comes out thinner than you mean it to—stretched at the edges, fraying like an old thread. “You’re… my partner?”

He glances at the roster sheet clipped to the bench as if just now confirming something he already knew. “Looks like it.” There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely a smirk, more like a thought trying to become one. “Hope you’re decent with a microscope.”

You nod. Too fast. Too eager. Like your neck forgot how to move naturally. You try to smile like this is fine. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t currently short-circuiting every neuron in your academic-functioning brain.

You’ve never really spoken to Senku Ishigami before. Not really. Maybe a passing nod in the hallway. A blink-and-you-miss-it smile between lecture shifts. A polite “excuse me” when your bags bumped in the lab supply room once. But that was it. That was the whole sum of your direct interactions.

Everything else was observation. Safe distance admiration. Seeing him carry entire study groups with nothing but a half-dry marker and that ever-focused look in his eye. Taking note of how he argued with professors—calm, surgical, relentless—and somehow still walked out of every debate not only correct, but respected.

You admired him from afar. Kinda academically. Kinda not. (mostly not.)

But you’re a girl dedicated to her degree. A girl with goals, with caffeine basically in your bloodstream and deadlines stitched into the fabric of your week. You don’t get distracted. Not by things like this. Not by people like him. Or at least you didn’t. Until now.

Because working with him shouldn’t be this bad. Shouldn’t feel like the center of gravity shifted slightly under your feet, like the air got thinner and thicker all at once.

Except he rolls his sleeves up higher. Forearms peaking out. The lean muscle dusted in faint freckles, veins running like undercurrents

And then—God. The way he adjusts the microscope. Methodical. Controlled. His fingers moving like he’s done this a thousand times and still treats the equipment like it’s breakable—which it is, so you have no idea why him treating it as such is doing something to you—it all starts to blur together in your head. 

You blink again. Swallow hard. And then you start to think back.

His voice.

That same voice. The cadence is exact. Steady and sharp with a rasp that scrapes along your spine in the worst/best way. A quiet breathless ramble as he explains the agar base—like the information is too much to simply stay in his head, like he forgets other people are listening. That subtle catch on certain consonants. That dry, low huff of amusement when your glove doesn’t go on right and you curse under your breath.

And then his hands.

Long fingers. Familiar motions. The way he handles the petri dish with practiced ease, adjusts the swabs like he’s composing something. You know those hands. You’ve seen them before. Over and over. In reaction videos. In slow motion clips, 0.25x speed. In the YouTube comments people timestamp for “scientific purposes.”

You freeze.

Fully. Completely paralyzed in real time like someone hit pause on your central nervous system. The classroom noise goes muffled. Muted. The hum of fluorescent lights above you turns sharp and migraine inducing bright. Your pulse is in your mouth now—behind your eyes, in your fingertips.

Because you’re looking at him. Really looking.

And it hits you like a truck doing 90 in a 60.

That’s him.

That’s him.

Your biochem lab partner. Senku Ishigami.

Is Mecha Senku. The, Mecha Senku.

And he knows. Oh, he knows.

He’s not even looking at you right now, but you swear—swear—there’s the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk barely there, as he slides a sample onto the tray like he didn’t just casually detonate your grasp on reality.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. Not loud. But not quiet, either.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch. But you feel it. The moment it registers. The moment he knows that you know. Because the corner of his mouth twitches higher. Just a little. Just enough to catch onto. And then—still not looking at you, still pretending to be invested in his perfectly aligned swab placement, voice smooth and clinical like this is just another lab session—he says,

“Something wrong?”

You want to bang your head on the table. 

Instead, you choke, swallow whatever dignity you had left, and squeak out,

“No. Nope. All good. Just… thinking.”

He hums, low and amused, like he already knows what you’re thinking about.

You're going to die here. Right next to your science tutor YouTuber crush who is also your real-life lab partner crush—for completely unrelated reasons—who has definitely, 1000% seen the video where you said hearing his voice makes you feel like your guts are being spiritually rearranged.

God.

You are so unbelievably, irreparably screwed.

 ⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

It doesn’t happen right away.

In fact, it almost doesn’t happen at all.

Because after the Mecha Senku revelation, after the comment, after the lab, after the video—you basically short-circuit. You try to act normal in the days that follow. You show up to class. Try to pretend like it’s no big deal that your anonymous science tutor crush is also your lab partner who is also your mutual…acquaintence? Friend? You didn't know which term you fell under in this situation. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s not weird. You’re being mature about this.

And then he likes one of your posts. One of your older ones. A video from 3 months ago where you’re ranting about a series that you were into at the time while getting ready for the day. It was a stupid, pointless video. One which he had no reason to like. But he did. 

That’s when you panic.

Not in public. But you lie in bed again at 2AM, staring at your screen like it might suddenly catch on fire. He’s watching your content. On purpose. He’s scrolling. Deep enough to find something from weeks ago, which means he’s either curious, bored, or—God forbid—interested.

You stop posting for three days.

Not out of pride. Not even out of posting strategy. Just fear. Raw, buzzing fear that anything you say or do will somehow make this whole situation worse. You delete a draft. Then another. Then six more. Your camera roll becomes a graveyard of half-filmed attempts at being funny or cute or sweet or not on the verge of a breakdown. But nothing feels right.

And meanwhile, Senku is being maddeningly normal.

He shows up to lab on time. Speaks when necessary. Makes the occasional snide remark when a burner malfunctions or a pH test fails. He doesn’t bring up the video. Doesn’t mention the TikTok. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that you both know that this is like some weird fucked up romcom scenario that immediately got put on Tubi for its low budget. He just acts like… himself. Detached, sharp-tongued, observant, and unbothered. You, on the other hand, are barely holding it together every time he passes you a report sheet.

The dam doesn’t break until two weeks later.

You’re walking out of lecture, halfway through stuffing your notes into your bag with a granola bar half-eaten in your mouth when you hear someone fall into step beside you. Quietly synced with your rhythm, like they’d been waiting for the right second to align.

You glance over.

Senku.

Of course it’s Senku. His sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Satchel strap slung lazy across his chest, and a half drunk energy drink swished in his hand. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between tired and calculating, but the fact that he’s here, walking beside you unprompted, is enough to make you question every single one of your life choices.

You’re not sure if you should say something first. Or if you should pretend not to notice the way your posture stiffens whenever he's in your general vicinity. You take another glance at him through your peripheral vision.

He still has that same unreadable expression on his face—bored, maybe. Or focused. Or just better at masking than you are. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you’re half-preparing yourself for some comment about glycolysis pathways or the upcoming quiz that you’ve been dreading over.

But then he exhales through his nose and says, “I’ve been thinking.”

Which is a terrifying sentence coming from someone who does more thinking in one day than most people do in an entire semester.

Your gaze doesn’t stray but you raise an eyebrow. “About…?”

He pauses for a beat. A way too long beat. Long enough to make your stomach drop. Then, casually: “A collab.”

You blink. “What?”

“A video,” he clarifies, like this is something completely normal that happens all the time. “A joint one. On your account. Or mine, doesn't matter to me. Mutually beneficial, wider audience reach, strategic engagement—pick whatever reason you want.”

You stop walking. He doesn’t.

“Wait,” you say, catching up. “You mean, like… a TikTok?”

He shrugs. “Sure. That’s your area. Whatever gets views. I figure if everyone is already suspecting something, I might as well do a face reveal while I’m at it.”

Silence. Pure, deafening silence. You can’t even think of what to say. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Because it’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Like it’s no big deal. Like the internet hasn’t been begging for a glimpse of his face since his third viral video. Like he hasn’t been a literal science cryptid for the past three years and now he’s just… casually deciding to unmask like it’s just something to check off on his bucket list.

“Why now?” you ask, finally. Your voice sounds weird in your own throat.

Senku lifts a shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to suppress it.

“Felt like the right time,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, you’ve already done the hard part.”

You blink. “The hard part?”

He hums, nodding once. “Making me realize it’s not that deep.”

You blink again, brain buffering like it just hit a patch of missing code. “Wait… what?”

He shrugs again, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the culmination of literal years of silence and mystery and curated anonymity. “People’ve been asking for a face reveal since the beginning. I always told myself it wasn’t worth it. Kept saying it didn’t matter, that it’d just mess things up. But then you…” He pauses, and there’s this barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—something quieter. More dangerous. “You made it feel kind of… harmless.”

Your pulse stutters. Your stomach flips. You don’t even have time to brace for what’s next.

“I mean, it’s not every day someone from your school logs online just to say she practically gets off to—”

You don’t let him finish. You physically can’t. Your hands are already flying up, face buried before your brain fully catches up, a sound of absolute mortification ripping out of your throat.

“Oh my God,” you groan, fingers pressing into your temples like you can massage the memory out of existence. “Please don’t say it like that. This is already, embarrassing enough as it is, The whole video was like a public humiliation ritual”

He lets out a chuckle at that. Way too satisfied with your reaction. Like he predicted it. When you don’t continue further he decides to speak up again.

“Think about it,” he says before splitting off toward his next class. “You pick the trend. I’ll show up.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

You kind of forget about the whole thing.

Not on purpose, of course. It’s just that coursework piles up, assignments stack on top of quizzes that stack on top of projects, and somewhere between stressing over due dates and wanting to evaporate from existence after another surprise pop lab, the entire conversation with Senku slips to the back burner. Not in a “never doing that” way, but more like… “I will emotionally process this after midterms or death, whichever comes first.” kind of way.

There’s just never a good moment to circle back and be like, “Hey… remember that video idea you volunteered for? Wanna hang out and pretend we’re not both chronically online and know what we’re doing?”

Yeah, no. No way.

But then the first break in your schedule opens up—a blessed, random Sunday with no looming assignments due at 11:59, no labs, no back-to-back lectures sucking the soul from your body—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re typing a text.

It’s short, simple, and only took you about seven drafts before you finally sent it.

hey, i got a day off and i saw this new exhibit at the museum. thought it’d be nice.

You follow it up fast, like too fast:

for the collab that is!

Smooth. Very smooth.

He replies six minutes later.

sure. what day?

That’s it. That’s the whole text. Dry. Short. And so to the point it makes you start to question if he even wants to go, but you’ll take your chances. You send him the info—location, hours, all that—and hope for the best. Hope you don’t show up alone. Hope you don’t sit around pretending not to be stood up for a date that isn’t a date but still kind of feels like one.

But of course, who would Senku Ishigami be if not maddeningly consistent? If not a man ruthlessly punctual, stubbornly dependable, and irritatingly true to his word?

He’s already there when you arrive.

Not just there— but early. Waiting outside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, casually leaned against a concrete planter with one hand in his pocket and the other scrolling aimlessly on his phone. He’s not dressed up, exactly, but there’s something about his fit that feels intentional. Dark gray-beige slacks. Cream button-up shirt, top button undone. Black cardigan layered over it. Loose tie slung around his neck—totally optional, probably just for the aesthetic. Hair half-up in that signature man-bun style, the front strands framing his face.

You stop short a few paces away, your brain stalling mid-thought as your gaze continues to flicker up and down his form.

Because you? You are wearing a plaid skirt, a ruffled cream blouse, stockings, and boots that are way too tall to pretend you didn’t also plan your outfit, and a tote bag that’s got absolutely nothing useful inside besides your phone, wallet, lip gloss, and an emotional support water bottle.

Which is exactly when you notice it.

The colors. The textures. The vibe.

Oh my god.

You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, stepping the last few feet toward him like you weren’t just frozen in place two seconds ago. “We’re kind of matching.”

Senku glances up, and there it is. That thing he does. The slow, calculated glance from the hem of your skirt to your blouse to the edge of your bag and back up again, all while maintaining that unreadable expression. Like he’s gathering data. Like your outfit’s a puzzle he’s solving in real-time. His mouth twitches, just slightly, into something that toes the line between smug and genuinely amused.

“Yeah, I guess so…” He shifts his weight, pocketing his phone. “You look nice.”

You blink. Buffering. “You—uh. You too! I mean, not that I was—uh, yeah, thanks. You look good too.” You internally wince. Recover. “I hope you weren’t waiting out here long?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Got here early on purpose.”

You nod, awkward and a little breathless, trying desperately not to read too much into it. You glance toward the entrance, mostly just to distract yourself in something that’s not his facial structure or the way the light catches on the slope of his nose.

“Should we… go in?” you ask, gesturing toward the doors. He hums, a quiet sound, like he's still mildly amused, and nods, stepping in beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Right beside. 

You scan your tickets at the entrance, hands just barely steady, and try not to overanalyze the exact distance between your shoulders. You try not to notice the faint smell of something clean and earthy—maybe his shampoo? Maybe something herbal?—that drifts off of him every time he turns to speak. You try, in vain, to be normal.

The museum’s quiet. Dim lighting. Cool air. Echoes of hushed conversations and soft-soled shoes against the polished floors. The first exhibit is drowned in amber lighting and filled with fossils in glass cases. You both drift to the same one without speaking, reading the plaque in tandem, standing so close your elbows almost brush.

He speaks first. 

“Cretaceous, huh,” he says, voice low and a little warm, like he’s half-talking to himself. “Not exactly cutting edge, but still cool.”

You blink at him. “Are you—are you seriously judging the dinosaur bones right now?”

He glances at you. “Just saying, there’s been more interesting finds. I’d rather see a well-preserved stromatolite, personally.”

You snort. Actually snort, and he grins, which is possibly the worst thing he could do because now you’re staring at his lips and—

“God, you’re such a nerd,” you mutter, grinning before you can help it.

“And you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to lie.

You scoff, turning back to the plaque like you can hide behind a block of educational text. “Yeah, okay, fair. But at least I pretend to be normal in public.”

“Mm. Is that what this is?” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the smile this time. It’s subtle, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it makes your stomach do a little flip anyway.

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy trying not to combust.

You keep walking, slowly, drifting from case to case. The exhibits start to blur together after a while—early mammals, glacial imprints, fossilized flora—because your brain is short-circuiting every time his voice dips a little lower to point something out, or his hand lifts to gesture near your shoulder, or his sleeve brushes your arm.

You can tell he knows it, too. Maybe not the full extent of your internal spiral, but enough to sadistically enjoy how flustered you get. He’s not smug about it, nor cruel. Just quietly observant. Like he’s keeping a mental note every time your breath hitches a little or you laugh a beat too fast.

Somewhere between the meteorite collection and the preserved taxidermy wing (which he naturally had opinions about), you start filming. Nothing extravagant. Just quick clips on your phone—soft pans over the displays. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t shy away when the camera catches his shoulder or the back of his hand. Just lets you do your thing.

You’re halfway through the museum when your feet start to ache (your fault for wearing boots with no sole support) and your stomach lets out the saddest, weakest little growl. Senku hears it, of course. He doesn’t say anything—just jerks his chin toward the small, in-museum café tucked into the corner past the rotating exhibit, and heads that way without needing a response.

You order something simple. He does the same, and somehow, magically beats you to pulling out your wallet and paying. And then you both end up at a tiny table tucked near the window, warm afternoon light refracting through the glass and shining just right. You’re pulling your phone out again before you can really think about it.

He raises an eyebrow when he sees you tying—and failing—to discretely smile at your phone.

“I know that face,” he says, stirring his coffee. “What are you scheming?”

You grin, wide and sweet and a little mischievous. “You said I could pick the trend.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, setting down his cup.

You show him the audio.

He watches the sample once. Then again. Then nods. “Got it.”

You give him a quick breakdown anyway—“Ok so basically we just shake hands. So you would film me first to ‘My name is Pink, and I’m really glad to meet you.’ Then you do ‘You’re recommended to me by some people.’ Then back to me: ‘Hey, ooh, is this illegal?’ And you finish it: ‘Hey, ooh, it feels illegal?’ You got that? ”

Senku just gives you that flat, unimpressed look, the one that makes it impossible to tell if he’s judging you or already planning your execution in terrifying detail.

“Simple enough,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

You record it in pieces. The lighting’s good, the cafe’s not too crowded, and somehow, despite the secondhand embarrassment threatening to combust your entire being, you pull it off. You film each other, trade off holding the phone, and try your hardest not to start laughing as you record Senku's deadpan face. By the time it’s done, your face hurts from holding back a smile, and Senku looks a little too smug for someone who just debuted on the internet via meme format.

You save the clips to your phone, already planning how to edit it later.

You both take your time finishing your drinks after that—talking more now. About the exhibit, about the parts you skipped, about other museums you like. The vibe’s different. It’s looser, comfortable in a way you didn’t fully expect to get this quickly. He’s still sarcastic, still has that flat tone and know-it-all quips, but now he says your name a little softer. Looks at you a little longer when you talk.

Eventually, you both stand, a little reluctant but you both know you should leave before it gets too dark. The sun’s setting once you step outside the museum, casting everything in that amber-gold glow again, and it makes his profile look unfairly cinematic as he stretches.

“You’re surprisingly tolerable company,” he says as you walk out together.

You scoff. “Wow. Thanks. I’ll be sure to put that in my LinkedIn endorsements.”

“I’m just saying,” he replies, glancing at you, “You’re not as obnoxious as most people.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “Aw, you like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

He doesn’t argue with that, which might be worse.

The walk back is slow. Neither of you really rushing, just sort of drifting through the early evening like you're trying to stretch out the time you have together. Somewhere between chatting about your favorite childhood shows and bickering over whose major has more long-term debt attached to it (his argument: “You can’t put a price on revolutionizing orbital propulsion”), it hits you how easy this is.

And more dangerously—how fun. You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel this keyed-in without even trying. Like your brains are constantly sparking against each other like flint and steel.

Then he says something offhanded. Something completely innocent. He’s explaining something about a propulsion system prototype—specifically, fluid resistance and force ratios.

“It’s all about tension and release,” he says, absently adjusting his sleeves as he walks. “That’s how you maintain velocity without risking collapse.”

You glance at him sideways, smile sinisterly curling at the corners. “Mm. I’ve got some tension I’m sure you could release.”

He stops. Stops walking. Like his operating system just force-quit.

“…What?” 

You keep walking a few paces before turning to look back at him, mock-innocent. “What? I’m just being honest. You should be more careful with that mouth of yours, Ishigami. You’ll feed into the online delusions.”

He blinks once. Twice. Visibly buffering. You can see it—like the gears in his big science brain just misfired, unable to reconcile engineering terminology with whatever the hell that was. His ears go a little pink—barely there, but enough to clock if you’re looking for it. Which, obviously, you are.

He clears his throat, and mutters something under his breath about “not being responsible for your interpretations.”

But he keeps talking after that. He can't help it now. Neither of you can. The conversation never drops again, not even as you split off at the corner of campus, your fingers still curled around your phone like it's holding the rest of the evening in its little glowing blue-light screen.

You go home buzzing. Not from the caffeine. Not even from the TikTok you’re already editing. But from him.

Because if there’s one thing that’s true about you—it’s that once you start liking someone?

Oh, they never get to rest.

Extra notes time again! || Sorry I really didn't feel like writing out the trend and like the comments and stuff again… I physically cant think like that anymore

Anyway! Both your respective fans go crazy when the initial collab drops

Comments and dm’s begging you guys to post together more—and I mean, who are you to deny the fans?

You make appearances in all of his videos where he “needs” an extra pair of hands

And he’s always seen in your “what i do in a day” videos or weekly vlogs

The tension on camera is undeniable and everyone is always asking if there's something going on, but neither of you ever respond.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

After that, you two just… keep hanging out. Off campus, mostly. Call them dates, call them… whatever—no one’s really labeling it, but they keep happening. Even in a group, you and Senku have your own orbit. It starts with subtle things. Shared glances, half-smirks, a sarcastic “oh really?” muttered under your breath every time he says something too smug. He always responds with a coy, “Don’t look at me like that unless you want something,” and you always raise a brow and say, “Maybe I do.”

You’re both like that.

Witty. Sharp. Teasing.

During stargazing, you’re lying side-by-side on a scratchy old blanket, staring up at the sky when he starts pointing out constellations, spouting off facts like an open textbook. You interrupt mid-sentence with, “Is this your way of seducing me? Because it’s working.” 

He glances at you sideways. Doesn’t even pause. “You’re the one lying next to me under the stars. I’d say the seduction’s mutual.”

And at the beach? The energy’s dialed up even more.

You’re in a bikini under his oversized button-up, hair still damp from taking a dunk in the ocean, when you say something cheeky like, “You’ve been watching me all day. Just admit it.”

He doesn’t even blink, much less looks at you. “I’m studying gravitational pull in action.”

“Oh?” you hum sweetly. “Like, my body’s gravitational pull?”

“I meant the tide,” he deadpans. “But your ego has its own orbit, so sure.”

You throw a handful of sand at him. He dodges. Barely. And then throws a precise, infuriatingly accurate clump right at your ankle.

Even when your schedules are packed, you somehow always find time to circle back to each other.

There’s never been a conversation about what it is between you, but neither of you need one. You’ve both carved a little space into each other’s lives now—distinct, irreplaceable, and entirely yours. No one else quite fits the shape.

So it’s no surprise that you spend a lot of time in each other’s dorm—or in this case, Senku’s off-campus apartment. Sometimes for studying when the library’s full, but mostly just to hang out in the comfort of each other's presence.

You’re dressed in low-rise sweats and a tank top, now buried beneath one of Senku’s old sweaters. The one he threw at your head earlier after you started loudly complaining about the cold. The sleeves cover your hands, and the collar’s stretched from years of wear. It smells like detergent and something vaguely medicinal—like tea tree or menthol or maybe him.

He’s at his desk, deep into some spreadsheet or CAD model, muttering to himself about air resistance. You’re flat on his bed, legs swinging, phone held above your face as you scroll through TikTok with the sound barely audible. Every now and then you giggle. Sometimes you send him one. Sometimes he looks away from his screen to actually watch it.

The silence isn’t awkward. It never is with him. Just the quiet clack of his keyboard, the soft hum of his laptop fan, and whatever sound bytes your phone decides to throw at you next. It’s routine by now. Domestic, in a weird way.

He leans back in his chair eventually, spinning halfway to glance at you. “Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just finish modeling an entire turbine blade. “In class the other day—when Takahashi brought up reward pathways—you didn’t say anything. You disagree with the textbook stuff?”

You glance over your phone, one brow raised. “What, the dopamine bit?”

He nods. “And the serotonin model. You looked like you were biting your tongue.”

You shift onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow. “I mean, yeah. Kinda. The textbook oversimplifies it. Dopamine’s not just a ‘pleasure’ chemical. It’s tied to motivation, reinforcement, emotional memory—like, the anticipation of reward, not just the reward itself.”

He’s still watching you. “Go on.”

And that’s all the permission you need. You sit up straighter, words spilling out like second nature. You talk with your hands, tangents spiraling into other tangents—sliding effortlessly into a topic you’ve buried yourself in for years. Limbic circuitry, behavioral loops, cortisol inhibition. You explain how physical touch spikes oxytocin and drops heart rate variability, how endorphins are natural painkillers, how the brain is wired to crave proximity.

Senku’s not even pretending to work anymore. His laptop’s still open, screen glowing against the side of his face, but his eyes are all on you—sharp, focused, borderline amused.

He hums. “So… theoretically,” he says, tapping his pen against his lip, “if someone were, say, stressed. Touch could help regulate that.”

“Yeah,” you nod, without hesitation. “That’s why hugging works. Holding hands, even brief skin contact; it’s all connected to emotional regulation. Even something like—”

You pause. Shouldn’t say it. But do anyway.

“—making out.”

There’s a pause. One beat. Two.

You glance at him. He’s still watching you, face unreadable. “Making out?” he repeats slowly.

You shrug, casual. “I’m just saying. High dopamine, high oxytocin, a little adrenaline from the novelty? Basically a neurochemical cocktail.”

His head tilts, expression unreadable. Then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world:

“Wanna try it?”

Your brain blanks. “What?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” He says it flatly. Almost  like he’s bored. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes haven’t moved from yours once. “For science. Of course.”

You stare at him. “You’re not serious.”

He shifts to stand, lazy and unbothered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And then he’s walking over, bracing a knee on the mattress beside you. You stay frozen. Your heart is in your throat. Or maybe your stomach. It’s hard to tell with the way it’s pounding. He leans in just enough that you can feel his breath, hovering, giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is warm. Careful at first. Testing. You breathe out against his mouth, one hand finding the front of his hoodie and fisting it without thinking. He shifts, deeper into it, his weight pressing into the mattress as he moves over you. Still careful, but less hesitant now. Focused. Like he's calculating every angle, and still surprised by the result.

His hand finds your waist. Yours slide up to his neck.

You’re not sure when it stopped feeling like a joke. But it doesn’t feel like one now.

He shifts again, weight fully settling over you, a knee anchoring beside your hip as he deepens the kiss. His hands are warm—calloused in the way only someone who spends too long with tools and lab equipment can be—sliding up beneath the hem of his own sweater draped over you. Fingers brushing your bare skin tentatively, like he’s cataloging each reaction, each hitch in your breath.

Your arms move to curl up around his neck, pulling him closer, and your fingers find his hair. Tugging gently, then a little harder. He exhales into your mouth like it startled him. 

You smile into the kiss—just a little. And he kisses you harder.

There’s something methodical in the way he touches you, like he’s studying even now. Testing reactions. Adjusting accordingly. But it’s not the detached, cold type of analyzing. It’s quiet intention, attentive hunger. The kind that says he doesn’t let himself want things often. But he wants this.

Wants you.

The sweater slips slightly off your shoulder. His palm follows the curve of your spine like it’s a path he’s memorizing. You’re already pulling him back down the moment he shifts to rise, needing more—needing him. He goes willingly. He always does.

His lips hover near your neck, and when he finally presses them there, it’s with purpose. A mark, claiming. You feel the heat it brings you all the way down to your core.

“You react so easily,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, like he’s more fascinated than surprised. “Like your body’s just waiting for me to touch it.”

You hate how right he is. Or maybe you don’t. Not when his hands are gliding down, lower and lower, caressing the skin of your ribs to your hips.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Senku almost feels bad for baiting you with that question earlier. Almost. If it weren't for the way you were staring up at him, all teary eyed, lips swollen and neck marked—courtesy of him, of course—he’d probably apologize. But he has you exactly where he's been wanting you, and you’re definitely not complaining, if the way you're squeezing around his fingers have any say in the matter. 

“Fuck… you're tightening up. Are you close already?” he’s cooing down at you, eyes gleaming with a sort of sadistic look, his lips curled into a smirk.

You can't even respond, it's pathetic really, your brain is already turned to mush and he's barely even touched you. You tear your gaze away from him. Your legs are shaking, twitching uselessly at your sides, and you can feel just how wet you are, can hear it every time his fingers sink deeper into you. 

Why did he have to be so good at this?

“You’re really that sensitive, huh?” he mummers, dragging his thumb just barely over your clit and he chuckles when your body jerks forward. Your thighs try to close but he’s already in between them, his other hand prying them open, keeping you exposed and needy under his touch.

He’s transfixed on the sight of you. Watching every twitch of your hips, every spasm in your thighs, every time your walls clench around his fingers, the way your eyes roll back when his fingers prod at a particularly sensitive spot. And, of course, the way you bite down on the back of your hand in an attempt to muffle the sounds spilling out of your mouth. 

God, it turned him on in more ways than he possibly imagined. 

Senku leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, just to watch the way you squirm. “C'mon,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, “don’t hide from me. I want to hear everything.” 

You whimper at that—a soft, choked sound, and he feels it all the way down. His cock throbs in his pants, neglected, untouched, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Now when this is happening. Not when you’re this responsive, this wrecked just from his fingers. And so… Senku moans. Deep and guttural like your reaction does something to him. Like watching you get off is more satisfying than touching himself could ever be. 

The way your body moves against his hand is erratic now, your hips shifting up to match the pace of his thrusts, trembling on the edge. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around him, can see it in the way your lashes are soaked with tears, the way you jerk with each slow curl of his fingers.

You’re close. So, so close.

So he gives it to you—just the right rhythm, the right amount of pressure, and that voice again, like a switch flipped inside of him:

“Go on, baby, it’s okay. Be a good girl and come for me.”

And you do. Practically sobbing into the sheets as your body shudders around him. Your muscles tighten,back arching off the bed, and breath hitching in your throat before it spills out in a loud, desperate moan. And Senku swears he almost loses it just watching you. Watching what he did to you.

“Fuck, that's it… just like that.” He’s a little breathless now, still working you through it, fingers moving gently as you shake and throb beneath him, blissed-out and absolutely ruined. Even as he pulls his digits out, and licks them clean, your body still hasn't stopped twitching.

You're sprawled out beneath him, brain soft and heavy, your thighs sticky, your chest heaving. There's a buzz under your skin you can't seem to shake—like your body hasn't figured out the comedown yet. Like you're still coiled tight, waiting to snap again.

Senku's still above you, propped on one elbow, eyes dragging slowly over your face like he's trying to memorize the exact expression you're wearing—ruined, flushed, lips parted, still trying to catch your breath. 

And when he speaks again, his voice is low and rough, the edge of smugness barely masking the heat beneath it. "You should see yourself right now." He leans closer, nose brushing yours, lips just barely hovering. "You came so hard, baby."

You should roll your eyes. Should say something back. But instead, you kiss him. It's clumsy at first—your hands reaching for him, fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him down with more desperation than you meant to show. But he goes down willingly, groaning into your mouth like he's been waiting for it, like he's starving for you. 

His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue brushes against yours, something in you snaps. You moan into it, tugging him down even closer, legs shifting to wrap around him until he’s fully on top of you, pressed chest to chest.

The kiss turns filthy fast. Sloppy. Hungry. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when you break apart for air, there's a thin string of saliva still connecting the two of you. 

Senku stares down at you, his lips pink and wet, eyes dark with an unmistakable desire. But you don’t say anything. You just drag him back down and kiss him again. And this time, you take control.

You find the strength to gently shove his shoulder. A silent request for him to switch positions, this time with you on top. Your hands slip between your bodies, fingers tugging at his waistband, undoing buttons and zippers with trembling precision. You don't rush it, you don’t even speak. You just stare down at him, eyes locked on his, and you let your palm glide over the front of his boxers—feel how hard he is. How long he’s been holding back.

"You didn't touch yourself," you whispered against his jaw, lips ghosting down to his neck. You kiss the column of his throat. You can feel his adam's apple bob under your mouth. "You just... watched me."

Senku shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he hisses through his teeth. "Of course I did," he says, voice low, breath hitching when your hand dips beneath the fabric and wraps around him. "You think I could look away from you like that?"

You smile into his skin, lips dragging over his pulse point, before licking a small stripe against it, warm and possessive. "Then you're gonna let me return the favor."

He tries to say something, probably a snarky comment, or some teasing remark, but it dies in his throat the second you stroke him. Thumb pressing over the tip, spreading the pre-cum, watching his face go soft and slack and honest. His cock twitches in your hand, and he groans-deep and low, like he's trying to keep quiet and failing.

"You're so responsive,” you murmur, voice dipped in faux sweetness. "Bet I could make you come just like this—barely even touching you."

His head rolls back as he nods.

"You'd let me?"

"F-fuck," he breathes, biting down on a groan as your pace picks up, "I'd let you do anything right now."

And there it is-that crack in his composure. The unraveling. You've got him now, pinned under you. Your hands, your voice, your mouth ghosting back up to kiss him again while you work him with steady, torturous strokes. And you swear he looks like he's about to lose it just from that.

"You're close," you whisper, forehead pressed to his, your hand never stopping. "Aren't you?"

He nods again, faster this time, eyes wide, and dazed. You find him beautiful like this. 

“it’s okay,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, “Come for me, and don't look away."

He doesn't.

You watch each other the whole time-while his body tenses, his breath catches, and he spills into your hand with a whine—it’s with your name on his lips. And even after, when he's still trembling, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, he kisses you again.

It’s softer now. Slower, more sensual. Like he’s trying to catch up to everything that just happened.

You climb up to adjust your position, shifting in his lap to properly straddle him, and feel him twitch beneath you. The air thickens again. You start to move—slow, subtle grind that makes both of you gasp.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his. “We don’t have to…”

His hands find your hips, tentative, but firm enough to tell you he doesn’t want you to stop. “Y-yeah,” he swallows hard. “Just—condom. They’re in the nightstand.” he adds, voice barely above a rasp.

You pause, looking down at him, your hair falling into his face as your lips curl in a slow, nervous smile. “I kind of just want to feel you,” you say softly. “Just you.”

His breath catches, and his grip on your hips tighten. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, tone somewhere between a joke and the truth.

“I’m on the pill,” you say, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “And I haven’t been with anyone. Not since we started hanging out…”

His gaze locks with yours—surprised, a little shy. “Me neither.”

There’s a beat. Neither of you says it—what this means, or where it’s going—but you don’t need to. Not right now.

You lean in and kiss him again, deeper this time, while he lets you settle over him fully. And when he finally lets go of whatever he’s been holding back, it’s not a fall. It’s a full body surrender.

You shift your hips, sliding your hand between your bodies. Senku watches you, wide eyed and panting, as your fingers wrap around him once more. He’s still hard, heavy and warm in your hand, and the sound he makes when you stroke him again makes your head spin. 

His hands tense on your thighs. "God," he whispers, barely holding on. "You-you don't have to—"

"I know," you say softly, guiding him to where you want him. "I want to."

You angle yourself, breath catching as you line him up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes locked on where your bodies meet, like he can't believe this is happening. 

And when you start to sink down—inch by inch, taking your time—his head falls back against the pillow, lips parted, throat working like he's trying to remember how to breathe.

You stop halfway, adjusting your hips, one hand braced against his chest. He feels so good stretching you open like this. You look down at him.

He nods, frantic, his voice almost breaking.

"Yeah. Just—don't stop. Please."

You don't.

You ease down the rest of the way, and when you're fully seated, hips flush to his, both of you just stay there for a second, gasping, trembling, overwhelmed. And when you finally start to move; the slow, steady rolls of your hips—his hands come up to grip your waist like he's afraid he might actually fall apart under you.

At first, it’s easy to stay in control. You set the pace, savor the friction, chase the tension building in your belly.

But it doesn’t last.

Your thighs start to burn, trembling with the effort, barely cooperating anymore. Every bounce turns sluggish, your movements dragged down by the growing heat in your limbs—but you're still moving. Still trying. Because he's looking at you like that.

Senku's laid out beneath you, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and pupils blown so wide there’s barely a sliver of red left. And he’s watching you. His gaze is steady, and intense—like he sees everything. Like he’s not the one unraveling here. You are.

And through the fog in your head, it hits you that he’s smiling.

Not mockingly, just this small, breathless grin, like you’re an experiment he doesn’t want to stop testing. And the way he says your name, low, and rough, like he’s been holding in his mouth for months, sends heat crashing right through your core.

You try to keep moving, but your body stutters. Your breath shudders.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.

He just says, “You're falling apart, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. And then he speaks again, a little more sure this time.

"That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me... just like that."

His voice—God, his voice. It's low and thick and soaked in wonder, like he can’t believe this is real. Like he can’t believe it’s you. You nearly fold right there.

The noise you make is somewhere between a sob and a moan, your hands scrambling against his chest like you need something to anchor you, or maybe just him. Your whole body pulses at his words like they hit deeper than anything else, heat unraveling inside you faster than you can hold it together.

"F-Fuck, Senku..." you whimper, blinking through tears, hips faltering as you try to keep the rhythm. "I c-can't—"

"Yes, you can," he murmurs, fingers tightening just a little on your thighs, just enough to remind you he's there, guiding you, grounding. Not pushing—never pushing. Just wanting. "You're already doing it.”

His voice dips again, breathless. “Look at you..."

It’s awe. Pure, undiluted pleasure. Every word that falls from his lips sounds like it’s unraveling him as much as it is you. And somehow, that’s what undoes you more than anything

You bury your face into his neck, because if you look at him again you'll crumble-and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what he wants. To break you down, piece by piece, until you're too far gone to think about anything but how good he makes you feel.

And God, he is breaking you.

He drags one hand up your back, fingers threading through your hair, just to keep you close. He needs you close. Needs you to feel how much he's coming apart beneath you. He's grounding you, ruining you, worshipping you with every tremble in his touch.

"Just one more," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. His voice is strained, like he's barely holding on. “Just give me one more…”

He's losing control fast. Your soft, whiny little sounds are killing him. Every breathy moan, every gasp, every whimper—you're driving him insane, and maybe, just maybe, that's what gives him away.

The way his voice breaks when he speaks again.

"God-you feel so good," he chokes out, hips stuttering beneath you. "You're so—fuck, you're perfect around me, I can't—"

He whines-actually whines—a raw, desperate sound ripped straight from his throat, like he doesn't know how to hold it back anymore.

"I c-can't stop," he breathes, hips twitching up into you without rhythm now. "You're—you're making me crazy—how are you so fucking—tight—?”

You make another sound—desperate and broken—and he feels it. The way you clench around him, the way your whole body answers before your mind can even catch up.

And then, softer-almost pleading:

"Let me hear you when you come, yeah?"

You whine—God, you whine—and he groans, like the sound physically does something to him. His hands are shaking now, trying to hold you steady while everything inside him unravels. 

The way you look, the way you sound, the way you're still trying to ride it out, still trying to give him what he wants even as you fall apart on top of him. It's too much.

And he wants more.

Your name falls from his lips again-raw, reverent, broken at the edges-and it hits you deeper than anything else has all night.

You try to keep moving, but your body betrays you. Your hips falter, your thighs tremble, and your forehead presses against his collarbone, like hiding might save you—but it doesn't. He's still looking right at you, and God, he's still talking.

"Just like that... you're so—fuck, you're so perfect like this."

His voice is breathless, thick with disbelief and need. "I can feel you... every time you move, I-shit—"

And maybe you don't mean to do it. Maybe you're just grabbing onto something—anything—to stay grounded. But your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging just a little. And he moans.

Full-bodied. High-pitched, desperate, absolutely shameless. His eyes slam shut. His hips jerk up into you with no rhythm, just want. "Shit–do that again—" he gasps, voice cracking. "Please–fuck—!"

So you do.

You fist your hand in the mess of his pale strands and pull.

He falls apart.

"God—I'm–fuck, I'm coming—" The words are slurred, ruined, his face pressed into your hair as he bucks into you once, twice, and then spills inside you with a choked-off moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight, like he's trying to keep you locked to him, like if he lets go for even a second he'll die.

You're already shaking, breath stolen out of your lungs, your own release crashing through you. You sob into his hair, overwhelmed, while he trembles beneath you, hands still gripping, body still twitching.

When you finally still, everything is quiet. Just your breathing, his heartbeat, frantic against your chest. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair. And he hasn't stopped shaking. 

You don’t move for a long moment. You just melt into him, limp and boneless, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your chest rising and falling against his. He’s still inside you, still warm, still twitching faintly with aftershocks. And even though your muscles are shaking and your skin is flushed and sticky, all you can do is breathe.

Senku doesn’t speak right away either. He wraps his arms around you, his hold is loose at first—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—and then tighter, like he can’t help it. Like letting go now would undo him. His voice is hoarse when he finally whispers, “You okay?”

You nod into his neck, barely moving. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I think I’m still alive.” He says. “But barely.”

You smile, eyes closed, cheek pressed to his skin. “Was that…?”

“Yes,” he says instantly, like you needing to ask the question is absurd. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

You laugh softly and feel him grin against your temple. There’s a pause—comfortable, heavy with the weight of what just happened—and then he shifts, brushing your hair gently away from your face.

“I didn’t… hurt you, or anything?”

“No,” you murmur. “You were perfect. Seriously.”

You finally lift your head, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are glassy—but he’s smiling. Soft. Uncertain. Happy. And for a moment, he’s not the genius, not the scientist, not the voice behind a screen. 

He’s just a boy, flushed and messy, still a little out of breath, and completely, irreversibly gone for you.

You lean down and kiss him once—just a press of lips. Nothing more. Then you collapse on top of him again with a soft groan.

“We should probably clean up,” you mumble into his chest.

He hums. “Eventually.”

Neither of you moves.

⋆.⌬ ˚𒉭 ⋆

Later, you do get up—clean up, change, all that boring post-mindblowing-sex routine—but it’s quiet. Natural. And once you're both back in bed, it’s like gravity pulls you together again without even trying.

The room’s quiet, warm, filled with the soft hum of your joined breathing. Your legs are tangled beneath the sheets, and your head is tucked under his chin, chest rising and falling against his.

Senku’s still. His hand hasn’t moved from your back, fingers lazily tracing the curve of your spine like he doesn’t know how to not be touching you now.

And then, without looking at you, he says quietly:

“…So is this the part where we pretend that never happened?”

You blink. “…Do you want to pretend that never happened?”

He’s silent for a moment too long.

“No,” he admits. “Not even a little.”

You shift just enough to look up at him. His hair’s still messy, cheeks still faintly pink,and there's a light trace of sweat on his temple, but his eyes are sharp, focused on you now in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“I’m not exactly…” He hesitates, frowning slightly. “Good at this stuff.”

You smile. “Sex?”

“No. Well—” His ears go red. “That too. But I meant… this. Whatever this is. Relationships. Wanting someone this much. Letting them in.”

You don’t say anything right away. Just reach up, gently brushing some of his hair out of his face.

“Senku,” you murmur, soft and certain, “you don’t have to be good at it. We’re figuring it out together.”

He swallows, throat tight. “…You’re not gonna run when you realize I’m not exactly the most conventional partner?”

You blink, lips twitching. “After what just happened? I’m definitely not running. I can barely walk.”

He huffs—almost a laugh. Then finally, finally, he meets your eyes again. Really meets them.

“And besides,” you add softly, “I knew how you were before all of this. I’m your friend first, always. I love you just the way you are.”

“I didn’t mean to fall for you,” he says, blunt in that way only Senku can be. You were just… there. Constant. Loud. Infuriatingly smart. Always messing with my things, always in my space.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re digging a really deep hole right now.”

He exhales—short, almost a laugh. “Yeah, well. Then one day I realized I didn’t want any of it to stop. I didn’t want you to stop. I think that scared me more than anything.”

Your lips twitch. “You call that romantic?”

“I’m a scientist,” he deadpans. “Not a poet.”

You grin, pushing up slightly so you can lean over him, your hands braced on either side of his head.

“Well,” you murmur, eyes soft, “guess I’ll have to be the romantic one.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You always were.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow, like it’s not a first or a second or a tenth, but something you’ve always had the right to do. He kisses back like he’s finally letting himself want you out loud. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his again, noses brushing. His hands drift to your waist under the blanket, not trying anything, just holding.

“…So,” you say softly. “What do we call this now?”

He hums thoughtfully. “An unplanned but highly successful chemical reaction?”

You snort. “Try again, scientist.”

His mouth quirks. “Girlfriend acquired?”

You blink. “Did you just say that like you unlocked an achievement?”

“I say that every time I make something new in the lab,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Why would this be any different?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing dangerous things in your chest. “God, you’re such a dork.”He shrugs under you. “Yeah. But I’m your dork now. Apparently.”

Ignore the lowk OOC last line… genuinely couldn't find another way to end this quickly

ANYWAY BACK TO THE EXTRA NOTES!

You guys both go kind of MIA for a while; one second you’re posting like normal, sometimes popping up on each other's page, then just… radio silence. 

Fans lost their minds, and during your time away, they start making these crazy long theories trying to explain what they think happened to the both of you to fill the void.

Literally ranging from, "He's secretly a serial killer and she was the last victim so he deleted his digital footprint to evade capture.”

“They eloped in the mountains. She’s pregnant. They’re living off the grid with goats.”

“She accidentally killed him during an experiment and is covering it up.”

All of these are objectively incorrect.

In reality? You’re working through your first relationship, and when you’re ready, you’ll both be back. 

an: can't blame anyone but yk I gotta be rude to my kitten whiskers bella... already tagged her though so sigh... anyways this was supposed be DAYS ago but I kept adding more stuff. this is the cycle of my life , I can not shut up for the life of me.

I also haven't written smut in a while (can you tell?) so if its bad.. yeah, I tried my best fr. lowk a closeted freak ONG do not leave me in a room with Senku he WILL end up pregnant.

ok that's it, until next time!

taglist: @lovingyeet

he catches you mid fall. totally romantic. omfg hello.

you blink up at him. snow in your eyelashes. breath knocked out of you.

he’s pretty. beautiful. it’s unfair, you’re jealous. soft face, pretty eyes, hair dark but there are little snowflakes in it. what the fuck.

okay, rewind. actually just to about a minute back, but still. you were standing there in the snow, blinking, cheeks pink, eyelashes already wet with snow. you looked… stupid cute. like aggressively cute. like a kicked puppy.

hyunjin noticed you immediately.

he was leaning against a pillar, hands in his coat pockets, watching the snow, the street empty out. he likes empty places. fewer witnesses. fewer people.

then there were you. small. shivering. doing that thing where you hug your coat tighter even though it’s clearly not enough. adorable. devastatingly. you muttered “shit” under your breath, and he almost laughed.

almost.

that’s when you slipped.

and now we’re here. he catches you around the waist, steady, like surprisingly steady. he’s done this exact motion a thousand times. just… not usually to save someone.

“you okay?” he says, soft. calm. angel voice. he could sing you a lullaby like… right now. but instead, he helps you stand back up, stabilizing you.

you nod too fast. adorable. your nose is red. your eyes are wide. he could kill for eyes like that. he has killed for less.

“yeah. yeah. i’m just… wow. ice. fuck.”

he smiles. it’s gentle. beautiful.

“yeah.” he says. “it’s bad tonight.” his hands leave your arms immediately, which is polite and also a little disappointing.

you look around, then back at him. “when will this stop?”

“not till morning.”

you sigh. a little dramatic. very cute. hyunjin notices how your breath fogs, how your hands tremble. he hates the cold. not because it’s uncomfortable, but because cold makes bodies stiff. harder to move. harder to… work with.

he clears his throat. “there’s a cafe a block away. still open. if you don’t want to freeze to death.”

you blink at him. “oh. shit. yeah. that’d be—thank you. i mean. yeah.”

“i’m hyunjin.” he says, a little quick in the realization that he should’ve told you sooner.

“y/n.” y/n🥰🥰🥰😊😊😊😊

you smile at him. aww.

you walk together through the snow. he keeps to your left, taller than you. you feel.. so lucky. you chatter nervously. about the weather. about how your hands are numb and you can’t feel your toes and this is how people die, right? like this? slipping and freezing and being found later by a guy with a shovel?

hyunjin hums sympathetically. “yeah. probably.”

the cafe is warm and dim and smells so good. you look relieved the second you step inside. you shake snow out of your hair like a dog. hyunjin watches. fascinated.

you order hot chocolate. extra whipped cream. marshmallows. cutie. he orders black coffee. he doesn’t need it. he just likes holding something hot.

you sit across from each other. knees almost touching. you bounce yours when you’re nervous. it’s unbearable. he wants to tell you to stop because it’s distracting. he doesn’t.

he listens more than he talks. he always does. listening is how he learns people. how he learns their habits. their rhythms. their weak spots.

that’s how he kills too.

he plans. he watches. he waits.

he’s patient.

with you, he doesn’t feel patient at all.

you blow on your hot chocolate and get whipped cream on your nose. he laughs before he can stop himself.

you look embarrassed. “what?”

“nothing.” he says quickly. “you just—sorry. you’re just… cute.”

you blush a lil. it’s brutal. “oh. um. thanks?”

he nods, suddenly very interested in his coffee.

what is this… pushing feeling inside of his chest? is he sick? fuck, he can’t get sick now. he has a body to bury tomorrow.

you talk about how you love snowstorms. how they make everything feel quieter. how unique they are to you.

“yeah.” he says slowly. “i like that too.”

he doesn’t really, we just made that clear, but after all there are a few positive things about it. like how snow covers footprints. how it slows people down. how it hides things.

the storm is still going on outside. you yawn, tiny. he offers his coat when you shiver again.

you hesitate. “are you sure?”

“yeah.” he says. “i’m fine.”

you put it on. it swallows you. you look ridiculous. perfect.

a police car goes past the cafe window slow. lights on.

you frown, just a little, eyebrows knitting together. “oh.” you murmur. “that’s… not great.”

hyunjin turns his head, sees the car. the officers inside. the way one of them is already on the radio.

five hours ago, he pressed a man’s face into the snow until the kicking stopped. gentle about it, even. the snow did most of the work. it always does.

he hums now. angelic. “yeah.”

you watch the car disappear into the white outside. “whatever happened, i feel sorry. for… whoever, i guess.”

“me too.” hyunjin says.

you sip your hot chocolate, then grimace. “shit. i should be home by now.”

hyunjin perks up internally. home. information. he files it away.

you continue, oblivious. “my washing machine is definitely done by now. i left it running. if i forget my clothes in there overnight they’re gonna smell horrible.”

you live alone. good to know.

“that sucks.” he says gently.

you sigh. big sigh for such a small person. “yeah. i hate being out late like this.”

he hesitates. then, carefully, “if i had my car, i’d drive you.”

you look at him, surprised. suspicious, but not unkind. cute little head tilt. lethal.

“or…” he adds quickly, smoothly. “i could call a friend. he’s nearby. he could drop you off.” (he’s talking about chan. does this have any meaning to the story? no, absolutely not. zero. i’m just saying :P)

you pause. think. he watches your face work through it. you shake your head. “that’s really nice of you. i appreciate it. but i don’t accept rides like that from strangers.”

smart girl.

he smiles, beautiful. “yeah. that’s fair.”

you relax a little. “thanks for understanding.”

god. you’re cute when you’re relieved. like a weight visibly lifts off your shoulders. he wants to put it back just to take it off again.

instead, he reaches for his phone. pauses. then slides it across the table. it’s his instagram profile.

“here.” he says. “if you want. just… so i know you got home okay.”

you blink. look at the phone. then at him. you hesitate again.

“yeah.” you say. “okay.” you type your name in, nails clicking on his expensive phone. god, that’s hot.

“please text me when you get home.” he says, too quickly. then corrects, softer “if you want.”

you smile. small. adorable. he could just eat you up. “i will.”

outside, the snow keeps falling. somewhere a body is being zipped into black plastic. hyunjin feels oddly… distant from that version of himself.

he watches you finish your drink, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a child. whipped cream smudge again. unreal.

interest, he tells himself. this is interest. he feels interest in art. in killing. in his friends telling stories. this is the same category. obviously.

you stand, tug his coat tighter.

“thank you.” you say. “you’re an angel. seriously.”

“anytime.”

you wave. clumsy. cute. then you’re gone, swallowed by white.

hyunjin sits there long after. phone warm in his hand.

interest.

yeah.

sure.

cutie.

you make it home with your fingers numb and your face aching from the cold. you kick the door shut, kick your boots off, and immediately go to your washing machine. when done with that, you shrug out of the coat.

hyunjin’s coat.

smells good.

you pull out your phone.

you: hey. i’m home. didn’t freeze to death

you: the washing machine smells but it’s okay

the typing bubble appears immediately. he was waiting.

hyunjin: good

hyunjin: i mean good that you’re home

hyunjin: not the washing machine part

you grin at your phone. like a loser. adorable.

you: thanks again

you: seriously

you: for the coat and the company

you: you’re sweet

hyunjin is smiling at his phone. if you could see him right now, you’d think he looks beautiful. typing with gentle hands that have done terrible things.

before he could text, you text again. fuck. he should’ve been quicker.

you: i should probably give your coat back to you

hyunjin looks at the wall of his apartment. at the faint reddish stain still there from earlier.

hyunjin: you don’t have to rush

hyunjin: but i wouldn’t say no

you hesitate. chew your lip. adorable habit. you do it when you’re thinking. hyunjin will learn every one of your habits. he always does.

you: maybe we could meet? soon-ish?

hyunjin: sounds good

you meet two days later. coffee again. daylight. people everywhere. you walk in wearing a scarf that’s too big for you, tripping slightly on the threshold. pfft.

hyunjin stands when he sees you. people glance at him, that’s how beautiful he is.

you blush when he smiles at you. you hand him the coat. “here. sorry it took a bit.”

he takes it. “no worries.”

your fingers brush. electric. stupid. he has killed men without his pulse changing. now it spikes because you touched him accidentally.

you get coffee. you talk. you laugh. you ramble. you apologize for rambling. you’re adorable. he watches the way your mouth moves. the way you tilt your head. the way you listen.

that night, he kills again. slits someone’s femoral artery in an alley and waits for the blood to slow before leaving.

he kills clean when he can. quiet. he talks to them sometimes. apologizes. thanks them for cooperating. presses their eyes shut afterward. always gentle at the end.

you don’t see any of that.

you go on more dates. too many. too fast. walks. food. movies. sitting on your couch with your knees touching. you curl in on yourself when you laugh. you tuck your feet under you. you make small, pleased sounds when you’re comfortable.

he learns all those habits of yours.

he’s creepy. let’s not pretend he isn’t.

you don’t notice how his gaze lingers a beat too long on the way your lips wrap around the straw. how he catalogs it. remembers it. the exact pressure. the little hum you make when the flavor hits right. he’s building a library of you in his head. every blink. every nervous laugh. everything.

last tuesday some asshole on the sidewalk catcalled you while you were walking home. you laughed it off, rolled your eyes, kept scrolling your phone. didn’t think twice. but hyunjin was there. two blocks back. hood up. the guy never made it to the next corner. they found him slumped against a dumpster with a knife still in his throat. clean. precise. no witnesses. hyunjin washed his hands in a public fountain three streets over, then texted you goodnight with a little moon emoji. you replied with a heart. he smiled at his screen for eighteen minutes straight.

he knows your shampoo brand now. not because you told him. he went into your bathroom just to take a picture of everything in there. from your hairbrush to pads, he’s got everything on picture. he bought three bottles of the shampoo. keeps one in his shower so he can pretend the steam is you. jerks off with his eyes closed imagining things with you. cums so hard he has to brace against the wall.

yesterday he “accidentally” bumped into your coworker at the grocery store. the one who always lingers too long at your desk. asked innocent questions. got a name. an address. a routine. that night the guy had a car accident. brakes sliced clean through. he died. hyunjin watched from across the street, heart calm. he means well. you deserve better friends. better everything.

he asks about your day like he doesn’t already know every detail.

you tell him anyway. sweet. completely fucking oblivious.

he listens.

later he’ll go home and add today’s notes to the locked folder on his phone. photos he took from across the street last week. a voice memo of you humming while you walked. the receipt from the latte he bought you today. he’ll stare at it all until his eyes burn.

because you’re perfect.

and he’s going to make sure nothing ever fucks that up.

not even you.

fucked up, right?

he stands outside your apartment one night, hidden by darkness and snowfall, just there. he can’t really see into your apartment from that spot, he just likes being near.

you text him ten minutes later.

you: what are you doing

he freezes. heart slams. instincts flare. he scans windows. doors. shadows.

hyunjin: uh

hyunjin: nothing

hyunjin: why

you: idk

you: felt like texting you

he sighs.

yeah. he gets weird like this sometimes. i mean those short words he answered with. sometimes he doesn’t answer for hours. sometimes when he does answer, it’s short.

“k” “yeah” “later” or he answers perfectly normal.

and then you see him in person and he’s flawless. beautiful. calm. gentle. smiling. it fucks with you.

so this time, you say something. you’re at his place. it’s clean. obsessively so. everything has a place.

you sit on the couch, knees tucked up, playing with the sleeve of your sweater. cute. nervous. honest. “can i ask you something?”

he looks at you immediately. full attention. predatory. “of course.”

you swallow. “okay. well. sometimes you just… disappear. you don’t answer for hours. days, sometimes. and when you do, it’s short. i know you don’t owe me constant attention, i just—i don’t know. it makes me feel weird. and i don’t know if i did something or if you’re mad or if you’re just… i mean, i’m not accusing you. i just want to understand. i care about you, and when you disappear, it messes with my head.”

he doesn’t answer right away.

inside his skull, his fucked up little psycho skull, alarms go off. everything collapses.

disappear. you noticed. you noticed the gaps. the missing hours. the blood time. the him time. the part of him he carefully keeps sealed off, hidden behind that beautiful face you like to touch.

“i’m not mad.” he says. “i just… get busy.”

you nod. you don’t fully buy it, but you don’t push. because you’re kind. because you’re trying. “okay. thanks for telling me.” you stand. “i’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick. then we can keep talking, yeah?”

he nods. “yeah.”

this is his first crush. he doesn’t know that’s what it is. he doesn’t have language for it. he just knows that when you’re upset, his brain screams fix it fix it fix it and when he imagines you leaving, something… explodes in his head.

the bathroom door clicks shut.

the second you’re gone, he loses his fucking mind. his breathing goes shallow. his hands shake. he paces once. twice. thoughts stacking on top of each other, loud. too loud for his liking. you noticed. you might leave. you might be slipping away already. you might see him.

no. no. no.

bathroom. locked door. distance. time for you to think. time for you to decide he’s wrong. weird. off. a creep.

no.

he doesn’t even realize it’s a crush. if he did, maybe he’d recognize the signs. the obsession. the jealousy. the way you’ve become a constant in his head. but he’s never had this. never wanted someone like this. never been scared like this.

you turn the sink off.

the sound jolts him.

his eyes flick to the hallway closet. without hesitation, he goes and opens it.

and grabs the shotgun that he keeps in there.

“fuck.” he whispers. “fuck fuck fuck.”

he’s not angry at you.

he’s terrified of losing you.

the bathroom door opens.

you step out, hands damp, swinging them lightly in the air to dry them off. you look relaxed. hopeful. cute as fuck. like you’re about to continue a healthy conversation with the man you like.

your smile is already forming.

then you look up.

the barrel aimed straight at you.

and hyunjin, standing there, beautiful and shaking and completely fucking gone.

you freeze.

gun. real. pointed at you.

“okay.” you say.

your voice comes out steady. which is insane. good job, y/n. very adult of you.

hyunjin flinches like you shouted.

“don’t—” he starts, then stops. jaw clenches. eyes blown wide. beautiful.

you raise your hands slowly. palms out. fingers still damp. you swing them once, awkwardly, because you don’t know what to do with them.

“hey.” you say. “hi. it’s me. it’s just me.”

he’s breathing too fast. you can hear it.

“why is there a gun, hyunjin?” you ask gently.

he swallows. hard.

“i just—needed it.” he says.

“for what?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. shakes his head. “you were going to leave.”

“i was going to pee.”

“after!” he snaps. then immediately softens, panicked. “not—i mean—eventually. you noticed things. you said things.”

you nod slowly. therapist mode. who the fuck let you have therapist mode. “okay but i didn’t say i was leaving.”

his grip tightens. you hear the faint click of something adjusting. your stomach drops.

“you felt weird.” he says. “you said i disappear. that means you were thinking about it.”

“thinking about what?”

“about me not being enough.” he spits. “about me being wrong.”

you inhale carefully. “hyunjin. i was thinking about communication.”

“i can’t communicate. i don’t know what to do.” he blurts. “you weren’t supposed to—this wasn’t—”

“hyunjin.” you say, firmer now. “put the gun down.”

“i can’t.”

“you know damn well you can.”

“why—why are you talking like that?” god, he’s pathetic.

“because i don’t want to die.” you snap. your voice raises just a bit.

his grip tightens. breath stutters. eyes wild. “don’t yell. don’t fucking yell at me.”

“then stop pointing a gun at me!” you shout.

there it is. raised voice. boundary. consequence.

his brain fucking shatters.

“i didn’t mean to!” he yells back. “i just—i just needed you to understand!”

“understand what?!”

“that i disappear because i’m busy! that i’m not ignoring you, i’m cleaning up! that sometimes i come see you with blood still under my nails and i have to scrub until my hands hurt because i can’t let you see it—”

“what?”

he stops.

realizes.

oh.

oh fuck.

“…hyunjin.” you say slowly. “did you just say blood?”

“i kill people.” he says flatly.

silence.

“…sorry.” he adds automatically.

you stare at him. “you—”

“kill.” he repeats. louder. “people. men. usually. sometimes women. not kids.”

“…you kill people.” you repeat.

“yes.”

“like. murder.”

“yes.”

“with the gun.”

“sometimes.”

you sigh, putting your hands behind your head in stress.

“don’t move.” he says, horrified.

“i wasn’t.” you squeak, putting your hands back in front of you. “i swear. i was just breathing.”

“okay. okay. good. keep doing that.”

this is the worst yoga class you’ve ever been to.

“and then… you come on dates with me?”

“i shower.”

that’s when you laugh. you can’t help it. it bursts out of you, loud and hysterical and completely inappropriate. “oh my god. oh my gooood. i knew something was off. i thought you were like. emotionally unavailable. or secretly married. not a fucking murderer.”

he looks offended. “i’m very emotionally available.”

“you pointed a gun at me!”

“because i panicked!”

“you panicked with a shotgun!”

“don’t!” he shouts. full panic now. raw. ugly. violent. “don’t raise your voice at me, i can’t—i can’t think when you do that—fuck—”

he backs up, then forward, then slams his shoulder into the wall. a picture frame crashes. glass everywhere.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.” he says wildly. “i never meant to hurt you. everyone else, fuck, they deserved it, they were loud and cruel and they didn’t—”

“stop.” you say. “stop talking.”

“i can’t.” he sobs. “you’re the only good thing and now you’re scared and i ruined it.” he did. he really did.

you two stare at each other.

“this is not how i wanted to tell you.” he whispers, beautiful tears running down his cheeks.

you drag a hand down your face. your hands are still slightly damp. you notice this stupid detail and almost cry.

…why the fuck are you worried about him? he’s shaking. ugly, uncontrolled, teeth clenching shaking. the gun wavers in his hands. and something in you decides he looks more like a terrified child than a brutal serial killer. what the fuck is wrong with you.

“hyunjin.” you say softly.

he flinches again, it’s almost like your voice physically touches him.

“can i come closer?”

why would you ask that. why.

he stares at you. pupils blown. breathing ragged.

“…slowly.” he whispers.

you take one step. the barrel follows you. then lowers. just slightly. another step.

he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. he feels love for you, he just doesn’t know that. his brain doesn’t have a category for that. so it defaults to threat. even when you’re not one.

you reach him.

you’re close enough now to see the way his eyelashes stick together with tears. it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. i was going to say it’s a shame he’s a killer, but thinking about it… it might make him even more beautiful.

“it’s okay. i’m right here. can i?” you ask quietly, gesturing to his face.

he hesitates. then nods. the shotgun slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.

you don’t look at it. you don’t break eye contact. you step into him and cup his face.

he goes still.

your thumbs brush under his eyes. wipe tears away.

“you’re not okay.” you say gently.

he nods. his face crumples, the actual mouth frown and everything when we cry.

“i’m not excusing what you said.” you continue. mature queen behavior. “but i can see you’re not trying to hurt me right now. you’re just… fucking overwhelmed.”

his breathing slows. just a little.

you can sense how confused he is. pairing that with being a killer, your brain comes to the equation of him not being good with feelings. having none at all, even. so you say “i’m not going to leave because you have feelings. it’s simple. you’re scared.”

that’s it. that’s the trigger.

scared.

his entire body goes rigid.

in his mind, scared equals weak. weak equals prey. prey gets hunted.

you’re labeling him prey.

you’re mocking him.

you must be.

you have to be.

because the alternative, that you genuinely care, that you’re holding the face of a murderer and trying to soothe him, that makes no sense. that doesn’t compute. that’s not how the world works.

he jerks back. “don’t mock me.”

“i’m not—”

“don’t!”

okay. cool. awesome. you thought you were getting somewhere.

your instincts kick in.

the gun is three feet to your left.

he runs a hand through his hair again. pacing. back turned for half a second.

that’s all you need. you move. you scoop the shotgun up before your brain can even argue with you.

it’s heavier than you expected.

when he turns back around, you’re already holding it. pointed directly at his beautiful, shocked face.

silence. absolute silence.

his eyes widen.

“…oh.” he says faintly.

“calm the fuck down.” you say. your voice doesn’t shake. not even a little.

he stares at you.

this is new.

no one has ever done this.

no one has ever turned the equation around.

he’s used to fear. to begging. to chaos. he is not used to you. small. cute. hands still slightly damp from the bathroom. aiming a shotgun at him like you were born for this shit.

“you are not the only one who can escalate.” you continue. “and i swear to god, hyunjin, if you take one step toward me without thinking, i will pull this trigger and we will both have a really fucking bad night.”

he swallows.

you’re the fucking boss, y/n.

“okay. you’re going to use your big boy words, hyunjin.”

he blinks.

“clear your fucking head.” you continue. “man up. look at me. and tell me what you feel. now.”

“i—” he starts. nothing comes out.

you wait.

his mouth opens again. closes. his hands clench and unclench. hyunjin doesn’t feel feelings the way people are supposed to. he categorizes. he measures. he controls. emotions aren’t emotions to him, they’re something he sees on other people. you’re demanding something he doesn’t have. and pressure, especially emotional pressure, hits the same place in his head as danger.

“i don’t know. i don’t know what i feel, i don’t—why are you asking me that—”

“because i need to know what the fuck is happening.” you say. firm. shaking. brave as fuck.

“i can’t.” he yells. “i can’t do this, you’re asking the wrong thing, you’re— i don’t feel. i don’t know what you’re asking me for.”

demand + confusion = meltdown.

“don’t corner me.” he whines.

“i’m not cornering you.”

“you are. you’re making me—think.”

he grabs some stupid decorative thing off the shelf. ceramic. expensive looking. fragile. he hurls it at the wall. it explodes. ceramic shards everywhere. dust. noise.

he takes a step toward you. bad move.

your finger jerks. you don’t even mean to pull the trigger. you just want him to stop moving.

BANG.

the sound is huge. violent.

the recoil nearly knocks you on your ass.

the bullet slams into the wall behind him.

everything goes dead quiet.

you stare at the smoking hole in the wall.

he stares at you.

you stare at him.

“…holy shit.” you whisper. “i don’t know how to shoot.”

he exhales, shaky. almost hysterical. “i can see that. do you want me to teach you?”

“yeah, sure. why not.”

he steps closer. “okay.” he says casually. “first, safety. finger off the trigger unless you’re ready to fire.”

you do that. immediately.

“good.” he murmurs. “now, your stance.” he moves behind you. you can feel him. warmth. breath. his hands hover, then gently guide your arms. “relax your shoulders.” he says. “you’re tense.”

no shit.

“this part here.” he continues calmly, pointing. “that’s the—”

you freeze.

you realize what’s happening.

you turn, knee right into his crotch.

he lets out the most undignified sound you’ve ever heard. cursing so filthy it turns you on. before he can recover, you swing the gun back and crack it against his head.

he goes down.

you step back, gun raised, breathing hard.

he groans on the floor, curled slightly, stunned and wheezing, but not out. never out. you underestimated how fast he recovers. that one’s on you.

his fingers close around something sharp. ceramic. a jagged shard from the thing he smashed earlier.

you see it a half second too late.

the glass slices into the side of your lower leg.

“FUCK.” you scream, dropping hard to the floor.

your gun clatters away. useless now. fantastic. great job.

blood starts welling instantly. gushing. it hurts so much.

“shit. sorry.” hyunjin breathes.

“oh now you’re sorry?”

“i didn’t—”

“you CUT ME. with GLASS. what the fuck is wrong with you?

he scrambles backward on his hands, eyes big. “you hit me in the head with a gun!”

“AFTER YOU POINTED ONE AT ME.”

“YOU SHOT AT ME.”

“I MISSED, BITCH.”

you both freeze for half a second.

then you both move at once.

you crawl. he crawls. you kick out with your good leg. he dodges. you grab at his sleeve and miss. he grabs your ankle and you shriek.

“don’t TOUCH me.” you yell.

“stop MOVING.”

you try to scoot away. he grabs your shirt. you both roll.

somehow you end up face to face, breath ragged, both of you shaking and furious.

you shove him.

“get OFF me.” you yell.

he… actually does. crawls back a little, then looks at you with those angelic eyes.

“why?” you say finally, quieter. “why do you do this?”

“do what?”

“kill. what do you think, what? dipshit.”

he rubs his face with both hands. smears a little blood from his temple. doesn’t seem to notice. “…i don’t know how to stop.”

“what do you mean?”

he stares at the floor for a long time.

“when you asked me what i feel, my brain went blank. people say things like ‘i care’ or ‘i miss you’ and it’s like they’re speaking another language. i mimic it. i copy what works. but inside? it’s mostly empty. with you, it wasn’t empty. it was confusing. i didn’t know what to do with it. i think that’s why i got scared.”

you sit there. bleeding. shaking. listening. “…i wanted more. not like, marriage or whatever, just. more honesty. more you. i thought we were building toward something.”

“i liked you.” he says. “i still do. i think. as much as i can like anything.”

there’s a long silence. broken only by both of you breathing and the faint drip of blood onto hardwood.

“well…” you say. “this is not how i imagined you opening up.”

“…you shot at me.” he replies.

“and you look like a woman.”

he stares. horrified. “what does that even mean.”

“i don’t know.” you say. “i’m stressed.”

“that’s incredibly offensive.”

“you tried to kill me.”

“…fair.”

you both sit there.

you’re bleeding. he’s bruised. there’s broken glass and ceramic everywhere. the gun is just… there.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

“…so why don’t we do it?”

“…do what?” he asks carefully.

you gesture between the two of you. the room. the mess. the whole fucked up situation. “this. us. whatever the fuck this is.”

he watches you. his psycho brain all over the place.

“hyunjin.” you say. “i’m fine with you killing people.”

“you’re—what?”

“i mean, not like. yay murder. but i already clocked that you’re fucked up. that wasn’t the dealbreaker. i freaked out because you pointed a gun at me, not because you kill. i don’t want to be scared of the person i’m with.”

his mouth opens. closes. his eyes are glassy. “…i thought you were disgusted.” he admits quietly. “i thought you were going to leave because i was… wrong. i freaked out because i thought you weren’t fine with me.”

you scoot closer. slow. you watch him tense, then force himself not to pull away. he’s trying. badly, but trying.

your leg throbs.

“can you help me with this?” you ask, nodding at the cut.

he snaps into focus instantly. purpose. something he understands. “yeah. yeah. okay.”

soon, the cut is clean. the process was… brutally intimate, to be honest. i don’t have to write it because both of you were quiet, but… damn.

he wraps the bandage. secure. gentle. the gauze is hello kitty print because that’s all he had in the bathroom. you don’t ask why a serial killer owns hello kitty gauze.

“there.” he says softly. “it’ll heal.”

you look at him.

he looks at you.

you lean in. ugh, you’re not wise, y/n. but you kiss him anyway.

the kiss is awkward at first. hesitant. mouths barely touching. then he exhales. and it deepens. careful. hungry.

“next time we talk before the guns come out.” you murmur into his mouth.

he lets out a shaky laugh. “deal.”

kissing keeps on going. his mouth feels so good. he smells good. he’s so… unique.

“i wasn’t gonna actually shoot you.” he mumbles into your neck now. “just… scare you a little.“

“you’re so fucked up.” you whisper back, but you’re already kissing the corner of his mouth.

“mhm.” he agrees. kisses you harder. there’s blood transferring from your leg to his body.

he slowly leans you back so you’re on your back in the blood puddle. it’s warm. gross. kinda nice? you don’t have time to decide because he’s tugging your pants down your legs. underwear? who the fuck knows. probably already somewhere near his dignity when you kneed him in the balls. speaking of…

you palm him through his jeans and he hisses, whole body jerking.

“poor baby. still hurt?” you ask, way too sweet.

“like a motherfucker.” he grits out. but he’s already rocking into your hand, so clearly pain has not killed the vibe.

“should i kiss it better?”

“later.”

you start to pull his shirt over his head. it gets stuck on his ears for a second. he looks like a kitten. you cackle. he growls, finally frees himself, then dives back in to suck a bruise into the side of your throat.

you fumble with his belt. it’s one of those stupid skinny ones with the tiny buckle. fashion asshole. your fingers are slippery with blood. it takes forever.

“having performance issues?” he teases.

“shut up, killer.”

he finally gets it undone himself, one smooth yank, and shoves his jeans down just enough. then comes his underwear. he’s hard, leaking already, and you think jesus christ he’s been hard since he got hit in the head with the gun.

he holds your ass up, then he’s slowly, inch by inch, inside you and it’s… fuck. it’s a lot. he’s careful at first, mindful of the cut on your leg, the blood, the smoking hole in the wall ten feet away. but you hook your legs around him and say “harder, asshole” and whatever leash he had snaps.

he hooks your good leg over his hip. the wounded one goes on his shoulder, and he slams home in one brutal thrust.

you both yell, you because it stings because no prep no lube no protection no morality, him because apparently getting kneed in the balls earlier has after effects.

the floor is slick. every thrust makes this obscene wet slap, blood, arousal, sweat, whatever else is leaking out of both of you. your leg is still bloody. it’s dripping down your ass crack now. great.

when he shifts your legs higher, folding you basically in half, your bandaged calf ends up near his face. he pauses mid thrust, eyes flicking to the hello kitty gauze. then he leans down and presses the softest kiss right over where he cut you.

aw. you clench around him so hard he sees the light.

blood smears on his chest because it runs down your thigh, which touches him. his hands leave red prints on your hips. you’re both laughing between moans.

another thrust. your back slides through the blood puddle. it’s starting to cool. sticky. you don’t care.

when he starts to shake you remember. “pull out. when you’re close. pull out.”

he laughs, breathless. “after that kick? i’ll be lucky if i can feel my dick at all. but yeah. promise.”

he manages it though. heroic, really. pulls out at the last second with this strangled noise, hand flying down to fist himself twice before he cums messily across your stomach. ropes of it hit high enough that one almost lands on your tit. artistic.

he’s panting. collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush your bad leg. kisses your jaw, your collarbone, the underside of your chin, not caring that he got some of his own jizz on himself. then, because he’s nothing if not committed to the bit, he slides down your body, hands gentle on your thighs, and buries his face between your legs.

“what’re you—”

“gentleman.” he mumbles against your cunt. “finish the job.”

bitch u just tried to shoot me.

the tongue game is brutal tho. flat and broad and then pointed and flicking and jesus christ. he eats you like he’s starving. uses every trick he’s apparently been cataloging since the first time he smelled your shampoo. those kitten licks with actual force put into them??? out of this world.

that’s why you’re loud. embarrassingly loud. thighs squeezing his head, hands in his hair, pulling hard enough that he groans into you, hips grinding up. the bandage on your leg rubs against his back and it stings and it’s perfect.

the bullet hole in the wall watches as you cum. loud. embarrassing. back arching off the floor. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, shoving weakly at his head.

he finally pulls back, chin shiny, looking so fucking proud of himself you wanna kiss him again. so you do. taste yourself on his tongue. taste blood. you don’t know who’s so you just deal with it.

“be my girlfriend.” he says. bold as fuck.

you blink up at him. brain still rebooting from the orgasm. “what?”

“girlfriend.” he repeats it slower, like maybe you got concussed in the fight on the floor.

you stare at him. he stares back. unblinking. earnest. fucking insane.

“yeah.” you say finally. “okay. sure. why the fuck not.”

he surges up to kiss you, deep, stupidly sweet for a serial killer, and you’re laughing into it.

he finally pulls away to kneel up to pull his pants back up. the second his ass is in the air you sit up fast and smack it. hard.

he smiles. sighs. finishes pulling his pants back up, not bothering with the belt now, then he tackles you back down to the floor.

you’re rolling now, laughing, cursing, blood everywhere. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your ass. you bite his shoulder. he groans.

he starts kissing down your body again. you’re still giggling, half drunk on hormones and blood loss probably.

“wait wait wait.” you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. “stop. i’m gonna be so fucking sore tomorrow.”

he stops. pulls back. props his chin on your hip and looks up at you. “but only because you asked nicely.” then his gaze drifts lower. between your legs. he smirks, slow and filthy. “you shaved.” an observation. proud as hell. no, it’s not creepy, he’s just letting you know that he knows that if someone shaves, then they most likely expect something to happen. he has gotten enough pussy to have a good experience with that.

you shrug. “yeah. thought maybe i’d hit tonight. figured i’d be prepared.”

“and you did hit.”

“damn right i did.” you reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, tug him back up so you’re face to face again.

he kisses you again. softer this time. little fast kisses at the end of the big kiss.

“gonna take such good care of you.” he murmurs against your lips. “no more guns. unless you want ‘em.”

“we’ll see.”

he shifts down carefully, picks up your discarded panties from where they ended up halfway across the room. black lace. cute little bow. he slides them back up your legs slow, gentle.

then he notices you wince when you try to bend your knee.

“cut’s hurting?” he asks, instantly serious.

“yeah.” you admit. “stings like a bitch now that the adrenaline’s gone.”

he nods once. “okay. let’s go check it.”

you end up on the edge of the bathroom counter. in your shirt, panties, socks, watching hyunjin peel the hello kitty gauze off. it looks horrible but at least not actively bleeding anymore.

he hisses through his teeth. “fuck. i really got you good.”

“don’t say that.” you say immediately.

he huffs. “well, i’m not gonna lie to you.” not anymore.

he reaches for the cabinet. antiseptic.

no. absolutely fucking not.

“no.” you say, scooting back instinctively.

he pauses. looks up at you. blinks. “…yes.”

you plant your hands on the counter. “i’m serious. i’ll pass out. or scream. or throw up. or all three.”

“you’re not getting an infection.” he replies calmly, unscrewing the cap.

you try to slide away.

he firmly grabs your thigh. “don’t.”

you whine. actually whine. humiliating. “please don’t.”

he exhales slowly. “i know it hurts. i know. but i need to clean it.”

“need is a strong word.”

“beloved.” he says softly, and fuck you for how that nickname works on you. “look at me.”

you do. bad idea. his face is open. beautiful. he means this. it fucks with your head.

“okay.” he says quietly. “hold onto me.” he steps closer, pressing you against his chest. one arm around your back “i’m going to do it now.” he warns.

“wait—”

he pours.

you scream. there’s no dignity left in you. you clutch him, face buried against his shoulder. he doesn’t stop though.

“I know.” he murmurs, voice calm, not caring about that you probably just shattered his eardrums. “i know. you’re doing so good. just a little longer.”

you’re crying now. shaking. fingers digging into him. it hurts so bad your vision goes spotty.

and he feels… good. he feels powerful. needed. trusted. you’re clinging to him, sobbing into his shoulder, letting him hurt you even though he already hurt you once. his heart is pounding. his breath uneven. this, this is a sensation he doesn’t have a word for. it lights something up in his brain that has always been dark.

he finishes. finally. quickly bandages it again, hands gentle now. “okay.” he whispers. “it’s done.”

you don’t let go. your forehead is pressed to his collarbone. you’re still sniffing.

“you’re okay.” he says softly, holding you. “i’ve got you.”

“you’re kind of an asshole.”

“yeah. i know.”

god, he never wants this to stop.

and it doesn’t stop. you’re his girlfriend now, remember?

your leg heals slow after this. not infected, thanks hyunjin, but tender.

stairs? his arm is already there.

curbs? hand hovering at your waist, ready to catch you if you lean into him.

uneven pavement? “arm.” he murmurs.

and you take his arm. every time.

then there’s the feelings problem (or lack thereof) you notice that he still doesn’t feel like you do. you’ll say “i missed you” and he’ll pause just a second too long before answering. not because he doesn’t care, because he’s translating. what does that mean? what is the appropriate response? what does missing feel like in the body?

sometimes he mirrors you. sometimes he gets it wrong.

you learn not to take that personally.

though there are nights you cry quietly in the bathroom because you want him to ache for you the way you ache for him. because you want to be wanted without having to explain the instructions first.

but then he knocks on the door, opening it a bit, checking in.

“are you sad?” he asks.

you nod.

he sits on the floor with you.

he may not feel automatically, but when he chooses to care, he wants to. he finds that right. it’s sincere when he cares, and he cares about you. and suddenly you don’t mind what you just cried about.

he just… observes you. when you text him “miss u” he replies with a photo he took of you sleeping last week (you don’t ask when or how he got in)

but what makes this work, is that he never lies to you again. not about disappearing. not about why he’s off. not about the fact that he is what he is.

in return, you don’t try to fix him. you don’t say “therapy would help” or “have you tried journaling” because that would get you murdered in spirit if not in body.

instead, you set rules. no disappearing without warning. if he’s thinking bout weird shit, if he’s upset, he says so. if you say stop, he stops. if you’re scared, it matters.

he writes them down. not metaphorically. literally. in a small, neat notebook. his handwriting is brutally attractive.

he respects your boundaries. he tells you when he’s going to disappear. when he comes back, he showers first. always. long and thorough. sometimes he stands in the doorway afterward, towel around his waist, hair damp, looking… wrong. too quiet.

those are the nights you don’t ask questions. you just open your arms. he steps into them every time.

you learn the signs of when he’s dangerous to the world and when he’s dangerous to himself. they’re different. to the world, calm. focused. distant. to himself, restless. tense. touch starved.

you handle the second one.

the first one… you live with.

sometimes he watches you sleep and thinks about how fragile you are. how easily he could ruin this.

and sometimes you watch him wash dishes, sleeves rolled up, humming softly, and think about how strange it is to love someone who contains that much violence and that much care in the same body.

his art is where you really see it. he draws obsessively. sketches. charcoal. ink. sometimes paint. the same hands that do terrible things are capable of absurd tenderness on paper.

his work is intense. not violent, exactly, just exposed.

something is deep in him. it’s just buried under this constant… static in his heart. his art is where they leak out.

there are setbacks. days he goes cold. distant. locked inside himself. you learn the signs, shorter sentences. less eye contact. restlessness in his hands.

you call it out gently now. “you’re disappearing.” you say.

“i am.”

that honesty is new. hard, but a win. you learn quick that pushing him to “talk about it” makes him shut down harder. so you don’t. you just crawl into his lap and kiss his neck until he comes back to you.

sometimes he leaves. but now he tells you where he’s going. when he’ll be back. sometimes he doesn’t come home clean, and you don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.

that’s a choice you make.

and slowly, so slowly you almost miss it, he starts to feel more. not all at once. but he gets jealous one day and doesn’t understand why. gets anxious when you’re quiet. feels something sharp and unpleasant when you’re hurt and realizes, with genuine shock, oh. that’s mine.

that’s attachment.

that’s feeling.

he’s affectionate in bursts. sudden. intense. will pin you against the fridge at 3am and make out like the world’s ending then walk away to make tea like nothing happened.

sex is easy, because you two kind of started with that. sex does make dealing with this easier tho.

he still starts gentle because your leg’s fucked up for weeks. but when you’re finally cleared for “full activity” (his words, doctor just said “take it easy”), that’s when the freak shit ramps up.

it’s always his pain he craves. needs. he begs you to hurt him during sex. not playfully. seriously. gross serious.

first time it happens you’re riding him slow on the couch. your leg’s still tender so you’re careful.

he grabs your hand, guides it to his throat. “harder.” he whispers.

you squeeze. his eyes roll back. cock twitches inside you.

“more.”

wtf sure. you press until his face goes red, veins popping, beautiful even like that.

he cums so hard he blacks out for a second. wakes up gasping, smiling ear to ear.

you experiment. because why the fuck not. bite his throat, not just the side of his neck but throat. he cums untouched the first time you do it. just shudders and spills between you with this little whimper that shouldn’t be as pretty as it is. after that it’s game on.

he begs for your teeth on his nipples. your hand around his throat. slaps to his face that leave pink handprints on that porcelain skin. he likes the sting. the humiliation of it.

you call him pathetic once mid thrust and he cums so hard his vision blacks out for a second. you have to hold him through the aftershocks while he shakes and murmurs thank you thank you thank you against your collarbone.

he never asks you to take pain. not once. if you even flinch wrong he freezes. switches to soft kisses and slow rolls of his hips, apologizing with his dick. the gun’s unloaded and locked away. he learned. or maybe he just decided your skin is too perfect to mark again unless you ask. (you haven’t. yet.)

but for him? anything goes.

knife stuff. not on you. on him. he drags the blade across his own chest while you’re bouncing on his dick. shallow cuts. he smears it on your tits. licks it off. “look what you make me do.” he murmurs.

you tie his wrists once with one of your scarves. pink. cute. he could rip it in half if he wanted. he doesn’t. just lies there spread out and gorgeous, cock leaking against his stomach, pupils blown, begging you to hurt him more. you scratch down his chest. red lines come out. he watches them form with this shining look. then begs for your mouth on them. you oblige. he sobs when your tongue drags over them. cums again just from that.

aftercare is where the “no feelings” thing gets… hard to believe. he turns into this clingy, quiet thing. curls into you. lets you clean the bite marks with gentle dabs of antiseptic. kisses your palms after you wash your hands.

sometimes he just wants to be used. lies there passive and pretty while you ride him until he’s crying from overstimulation. sometimes he pins you down and fucks you lovingly.

one night after he’s come across your tits again (his favorite canvas apparently) and licked you clean like a gentleman(freak), he looks up at you with those big soft eyes and says, quiet: “i think this is what happy feels like.”

“yeah?” you card fingers through his sweaty hair. “congrats on discovering an emotion, babe.”

he smiles. small. beautiful.

and he’s there for you. in life. once you went to a job interview, which you were excited about. like stupid excited. when you got home, you were pacing around the apartment, talking with your hands, doing that little bounce.

you were good. you knew you were good.

and then the email comes.

you didn’t get the job.

hyunjin notices it on your face immediately. “you didn’t get it.” he says.

you shake your head. “no.”

he comes closer, slow, unsure because he doesn’t know how to comfort someone.

“i thought i did really well.” you say. quieter now. “i thought i was… good.”

“you are good.” he says.

you scoff weakly. “you’re biased.”

he frowns. “i’m very objective. you prepared. you practiced. you were excited. those are not things people do when they’re bad at something.”

you look at him. surprised.

he shrugs. “i read. a lot.”

you hug him.

then your roommate is moving. sudden. no real explanation. just lots of “it’s complicated” and “i need a change” and “it’s not about you, i swear.”

you’re panicking. you tell hyunjin that night. sitting on his couch, knees drawn up, fingers twisting together.

“so i guess i need to find a new place.” you say.

he looks at you like the answer is obvious.

“you could stay here.” he says.

you laugh. “that’s… not how that works.”

“why not?”

because it’s intense. because he’s complicated. because moving in with a man who once pointed a gun at you feels weird.

you don’t say any of that. “it’s a lot.” you say instead. “and i don’t want to rush.”

he nods. accepts it. but you see the way something tightens in his jaw. disappointment, maybe. or fear.

but you end up moving in anyway. you stay over sometimes as usual, one night turns into two. two turns into a week. your bag stays by the door. then your toothbrush appears in the cup next to his.

hyunjin wants it. really, really wants it.

“you don’t have to go back tonight.”

“your stuff would fit better here.”

“it’s better when you’re around.”

which, honestly, is terrifying coming from a man like him, but also… kind of devastatingly sweet.

when you finally say, “i think i’m just gonna bring the rest of my things over.” he goes very still.

“…okay.” he says. too calm. suspiciously calm.

then, ten minutes later, you catch him reorganizing an entire bookshelf to “make space for you.” which is his version of screaming with joy.

living with him is an experience. first of all, he is a neat freak. not in a cute, wipe the counter way. in a labels inside drawers, everything aligned way. his place has always looked like nobody actually lives there.

and then you arrive. your sweaters end up draped over chairs. your mugs migrate to random surfaces. you leave books face down, half read. your shoes do not line up perfectly and it makes his eye twitch.

but he never asks you to stop. instead, he adjusts.

you find him folding your clothes once and freeze. “you don’t have to do that.”

he looks up, confused. “i want to.”

he likes it. he likes your presence disrupting the system. likes seeing evidence that someone else exists here. likes your hair ties on the sink, your handwriting on sticky notes, your laugh echoing down the hallway while you’re talking to your friends on the phone.

sleeping next to him is another thing entirely. he doesn’t move much. stays perfectly still unless you move first. then he adjusts around you.

sometimes you wake up and find him awake, staring at the ceiling.

“can’t sleep?” you ask.

“just thinking.” he says.

about what, he doesn’t say. but you know.

he starts feeling things out of order. irritation when you’re sad. relief when you’re safe. something unpleasant when you talk about leaving the city for a week to go somewhere with your friends.

one night, he admits it. “when i imagine you not here, it feels… wrong.”

you smile softly. “that’s missing someone.”

he frowns. “i don’t like it.”

“no one does.”

that’s comforting. you’re good at comforting.

one day it’s raining. hyunjin’s in the alley behind that bar you like. hood up. knife already warm from his pocket.

the target is some drunk prick who bumped into you last friday. shoulder checked you hard enough your drink spilled. you laughed it off. hyunjin didn’t laugh, but that has no effect on you because you didn’t know he was there. watching out for you. and he memorized the guy’s face. jacket. laugh. the way he leered when you bent to pick up your phone.

now the guy’s pissing against the brick wall.

hyunjin thinks of you the whole time. how you’d look right now, probably curled on his couch in his oversized sweater that you like so much, scrolling tiktok. wonders if you’re hungry. pasta tonight? that creamy one you like. or maybe takeout. chinese. extra egg rolls because you steal his.

his knife slides in under the guy’s ribs. the guy shouts, hands flapping useless. hyunjin twists once. pulls. blood mixes with rainwater.

guy slumps. dies around for a bit. hyunjin wipes the blade on his coat sleeve. steps back. no rush. calm, like always.

except tonight there’s a flicker. tiny. annoying. he pictures your face when he gets home. you’ll smell the rain on him. ask if he’s okay. touch his cheek while checking for fever. you’ll never know this blood is for you.

and when your therapist cancels an appointment later, then another, then disappears entirely, you text hyunjin immediately.

you: hey

you: can u come home

he responds instantly.

hyunjin: always

you tell him how these things lately have been fucking you up. and about the therapist. he listens. eyes on you the whole time.

“you can talk to me.” he says when you trail off. “anytime.”

you hesitate. “i don’t want to… replace my therapist with you.”

he considers that. nods. “good. i shouldn’t be a replacement.”

you look at him. the angel face. the careful posture. the depth you keep discovering in the least obvious places.

“you help.” you admit.

he exhales. relieved. “i want to.”

a month later, hyunjin goes after a construction worker who catcalled you outside a cafe. loud. “nice tits, sweetheart.” you flipped him off and kept walking.

now it’s 1am in an empty parking garage. the guy’s fumbling with his truck keys. hyunjin comes up behind him quiet. plastic zip tie around the throat before the man even turns. pulls tight.

the man gurgles. claws at the tie. hyunjin thinks about that morning. you in his kitchen wearing nothing but his t shirt. hair a mess. making pancakes badly. you burned the first batch and blamed the pan. he ate them anyway. kissed the flour off your cheek while you complained about the smoke alarm. he remembers how you tasted like the pancakes. how you climbed into his lap at the table.

the guy stops moving. body slumps between two cars. hyunjin steps over it. thinks maybe he’ll make pancakes tomorrow. better ones.

next kill. apartment building. target’s the delivery guy who lingered too long at your door back when you two weren’t dating yet. knocked twice. smiled too wide when you answered in shorts. hyunjin was in the stairwell. heard it all.

now the guy’s in the basement laundry room. folding clothes. alone.

hyunjin steps in. door clicks shut.

this one he strangles. hands around the throat. personal. the guy thrashes. face purple.

hyunjin’s beautiful face is blank except for the eyes, soft, almost sad.

he thinks about your leg scar. the one he gave you. how it’s fading to pink now. how you trace it sometimes when you’re distracted. he wants to kiss it again. lick the raised line until you squirm.

the guy stops moving. hyunjin lets go. body slumps into the laundry basket. ridiculous.

next is some ex of yours from years ago. hyunjin found him on facebook. messaged you last month trying to “catch up.” you showed hyunjin and didn’t text back.

now the guy’s jogging at dusk. trail through the woods. hyunjin waits there. tackles him from the side. pins him face down in the dirt. knee on the spine. hand over the mouth. knife slides in between the little bones of the spine. paralyzing.

then he works. slow cuts. just enough pain to make the man understand that he’s going to die.

hyunjin’s mind drifts again. to last night. you asleep on his chest. breathing soft against his collarbone. felt so good.

maybe this is what people mean when they say love.

hyunjin finishes the guy. one last cut. throat. quick. merciful. almost.

he sits back on his heels. blood on his jeans. looks at the sky through the branches. it’s purple. sunset. you’d like the color.

he wipes his hands on leaves. stands. walks back to the car.

on the drive home he thinks about that the kills used to be empty. satisfying. now they feel… secondary. the real thing is waiting at home in his clothes. looking up when he walks in and smiling like he didn’t just end four lives this month.

he parks. sits in the dark for a minute. hands still tacky with drying blood.

he thinks maybe he’s in love.

he gets out. locks the car. heads upstairs.

you’re on the couch when he opens the door. hair up. legs tucked under you. bowl of blueberries in your lap.

“you’re late.” you say. grinning. “i saved you some.”

he looks at you. and for the first time in his life something inside him doesn’t feel hollow.

it feels full.

he crosses the room. kisses you slow. tastes the blueberry on you.

“sorry.” he murmurs against your mouth. “got held up.”

you laugh. pull him down beside you.

“s’okay. you’re here now.”

yeah.

he is.

you feed him a blueberry.

this is better than any kill.

this is everything.

even when you leave a mess at home. because you do that.

and as i said, hyunjin needs the cleanness.

you leave one (1) coffee mug on the counter? his eye twitches so hard you think he’s having a stroke. you drop a single crumb from your toast? he freezes mid sentence, stares at it before getting the vacuum. you kick off your shoes anywhere next to the door? he just… exhales. long. slow. then he picks them up, places them down neatly, and mutters “there we go”

you start doing it on purpose because the way he freaks out internally is hilarious. pathetic. hot, kinda, knowing that your ragebait was successful.

so you “accidentally” spill a single drop of orange juice on the pristine white countertop. he sees it. inhales sharp through his nose. doesn’t say shit. just grabs the microfiber cloth (he has seven) and wipes it in perfect circles until the spot is gone and the counter is shinier than before.

you watch him do it with this tiny smirk.

he notices. his ears go pink.

“you’re doing this on purpose.” he says. no anger at you. just… despair at the universe.

“maybe.” you say. lick the rest of the juice off your finger slow. his pupils dilate. pathetic.

another time, you eat chips in bed. just one bag. leave three crumbs on the sheet. he comes in to change for work, sees them, and his whole body locks up. cleans it. you lie there watching, legs spread just enough to be distracting, eating another chip loud.

he finishes remaking the bed. smooths it obsessively. then stands there breathing hard.

you crawl over, pat the spot next to you. “come here, neat freak.”

he does. because he’s pathetic for you.

you push him down. straddle his hips. grind just enough to feel how hard he is already.

“you hate mess so much.” you murmur. “but look at me. i’m a mess. crumbs on my tits. juice stain on my shirt.”

he whimpers. “stop.”

“no.” you lean down. kiss him messy. get chip dust on his perfect lips. he licks it off.

sometimes it ends in sex like this, you torturing him lovingly.

you make him watch while you “accidentally” knock over his perfectly aligned stack of books on the nightstand. pages splay. bookmark falls out. he makes this noise, half sob, half moan. you pin his wrists above his head. “look at the mess.” you say. “look what i did.”

he stares at it. chest heaving. cock throbbing against your thigh. “fix it.” he begs. “please.”

“after.”

you ride him slow while the books stay fucked up. every thrust makes his eyes flick to the disaster. he whines. actually whines. “it’s wrong. it’s all wrong.”

“yeah.” you breathe. “and you’re hard as fuck because of it.”

he cums embarrassingly fast. shaking. you don’t let him up. keep him there. pinned. messy. until he’s soft and oversensitive and still staring at the chaos.

only then do you let him go. he scrambles. pulls his underwear up. fixes the books in thirty seconds flat.

you watch from the bed, laughing. he crawls back. kisses your faded scar from calf to ankle. (that’s about how big it is)

sometimes the rage ends in him on his knees. you make him clean you up. tongue only. after he’s already came on your stomach. he licks every drop. precise. thorough. while you card fingers through his hair and say “good boy. make it spotless.”

he does. then he bandages any tiny mark he left on himself during (because he always hurts himself a little, nails in his palms, teeth in his lip, whatnot)

then he vacuums. because crumbs.

you lie there post orgasm, watching your tall, beautiful, neat freak boyfriend vacuum around you. you grin. throw a pillow at him. it lands crooked.

his eye twitches again.

you laugh so hard you almost cry.

he sighs. picks it up. fluffs it. places it at 45 degrees. perfect.

or another time he’s on his knees scrubbing a nonexistent spot on the floor (you may have flicked a pea there earlier just to watch him get like this) and you’re horny and evil.

you slide up behind him. reach around. palm his dick through his sweats. he freezes. sponge still in hand. dripping.

“what are you—”

you squeeze. slow. “keep cleaning.”

he tries. god he tries. scrubs in furious little circles while you stroke him. he’s rock hard in seconds. whimpering. “the floor… it’s still… fuck—”

you yank his sweats down just enough. wrap your hand around him. jerk slow and mean.

he drops the sponge. catches himself on his palms. head hanging. breathing ragged.

“don’t stop.” you whisper. “you’re so close to getting that spot.”

he groans. pathetic. beautiful. tries to grab the sponge again. hand shaking. you rake your nails down his lower back. just lightly, the way we humans like it so much. that tickling one. he bucks. almost collapses forward. catches the edge of the coffee table. knuckles white.

“fuck—please—”

you speed up. twist at the head. he’s leaking all over your fingers. trying to thrust into your hand while simultaneously reaching for the fucking sponge like his life depends on it.

“the table.” he gasps. “there’s… a smudge—”

you laugh. cruel. hot. “then clean it, baby.”

he grabs the cloth that he bought along with the sponge. swipes at the invisible smudge one handed while you jerk him faster. his hips jerk erratic. he’s moaning, soft, pretty. “gonna—shit—gonna—”

you dig your nails into his ass. pull him back against you. “not yet. finish the table first.”

he sobs. actual tears. swipes the cloth again. misses completely. cums anyway. hard. ropes of it hitting the floor he just fucking scrubbed.

he collapses onto his elbows. shaking.

you lean over him. kiss the back of his neck. pat his ass. “look at that. you made a mess again.”

god, he loves this.

later he’ll clean the cum off the floor with the same focus he uses on everything else. you’ll watch from the couch. eating something. throwing little crumbs from it on purpose.

he’ll glare at you. never at you really, just at the mess.

but you like him this way, after all.

and when you’re standing in the quiet apartment, alone for once, and you see it. your mess. the mug you forgot. the sweater slung wrong. the drawer that never quite shuts.

and for the first time, instead of thinking he’ll fix it, you think, maybe i can.

it won’t be perfect. it won’t be his perfect. but it’ll be an attempt. and god, attempts matter to him.

so you pick things up. align them the way you think he would. you hesitate before putting something down, adjust it, adjust it again. you laugh under your breath because wow, is this what it’s like inside his head? exhausting. genuinely exhausting.

you’re mid clean when you open a drawer you don’t usually touch. it’s one of his drawers. inside are neatly stacked papers.

you lift the top stack to slide something underneath, and you see… a photo of your therapist?

you freeze.

her face. printed. on a paper of files. session notes. intake forms. dates. nothing extra.

the address is neatly highlighted.

your stomach drops.

you don’t flip through more. you don’t dig. you don’t confirm the worst thing your instincts are telling you.

because you already know him.

and you already know what this probably means.

your hands are shaking when you put the papers back exactly as you found them. exactly. same alignment. same stack. same order.

you close the drawer.

and you act normal.

he comes home later. he kisses you hello. he notices the place almost immediately.

“you cleaned.” he says. there’s something in his tone. surprise. appreciation. something close to pride, maybe.

“i tried.” you say lightly. “don’t look too hard.”

he does look. of course he does. but he doesn’t correct it. doesn’t move anything back.

“it’s good.” he says. “thank you.”

he suggests a shower. you go with him. the water is warm. his touch is gentle. would be the dream boyfriend if he wasn’t a… killer. yeah. but you got over that by now. this is actually pretty fucked up from you too, but if you want him like this, then you want him like this. that’s it.

in bed, he pulls you close. presses his face into your hair.

“you did good today.” he murmurs.

you almost laugh. you almost cry. you lie awake for a while after he falls asleep, staring at the ceiling, listening to his breathing.

your mind keeps circling back to that paper. that highlighted address. your therapist who vanished without explanation.

the next day, you go to the address highlighted in that paper.

a man answers the door. you ask about your therapist.

“she’s dead.” he says. he’s repeated it too many times. “who are you?”

your stomach drops through the floor.

you stammer. apologize. say you were her client. you trail off, because what the fuck do you say after that.

he sighs. rubs his face. opens the door wider anyway. “come in.” he says.

you sit at their table. her table. he pours coffee he clearly hasn’t tasted in weeks.

“it was violent.” he says. “police say it was… targeted.”

targeted.

you leave twenty minutes later. thank him. apologize again. your hands are numb.

outside, you stand on the sidewalk and stare at nothing.

okay.

so.

she’s dead.

time to move on.

you call your friend. the one who moved away.

she answers on the second ring, breathless. “hey, are you okay?”

“i need to ask you something.” you say. “and i need you to not lie to me. please.”

pause.

“did someone tell you to leave me.” you ask. “and not tell me why.”

silence.

then a sharp inhale.

“…yes.”

your heart sinks, but there’s also this horrible clarity. the world snapping into focus.

“what happened?” you ask gently.

she tells you everything. about a random number. a calm voice. the details they knew. her parents’ address. her sister’s school. how they told her exactly what to do and exactly what not to say.

when she finishes, her voice is shaking. “i’m so sorry. i was scared.”

“i know.” you say immediately. “it’s okay. i get you.”

she sobs. you let her. tell her it’s okay. tell her she did the right thing. because she did. because anyone would have.

after you hang up, you sit in your car and just… think.

therapist: dead.

friend: threatened.

job interview: mysteriously rejected despite doing well.

you don’t have proof of that. but you have pattern recognition.

you go home instead.

he’s there. folding laundry. your laundry.

“hey.” he says, smiling when he sees you. “i was thinking we could—”

you look at him. the angel face. the hands. the man who hates crumbs but fucked you in a puddle of blood.

you smile back.

“sounds good.” you say.

everything hyunjin did, he did because he needs you dependent on him. he wants a world where choosing him isn’t even a question because there are no competing variables left.

he doesn’t want you torn between him and a job, him and a therapist, him and a roommate, him and a future that might not include him.

he wants him to be the constant.

the safest option.

the only option.

that’s love, to hyunjin.

or at least the closest approximation his brain can produce.

yes, he killed your therapist. and yes, he threatened your friend. and dare i say cherry on top, he absolutely blackmailed the company that you wanted the job at so much. a job would mean coworkers. ambition. confidence. financial independence. a life that didn’t revolve around coming home to him. so he made a few calls. dug up some dirt. applied pressure. the rejection email wasn’t random. it was meant to be. and he felt relief when it came.

because hyunjin is a fucking genius.

so people just… drift away from you. opportunities evaporate. paths close.

and hyunjin is there every time, arms open.

of course you lean on him.

that was the point.

he doesn’t believe he’s doing anything wrong. that’s important. in his mind, he’s protecting you from stress, instability, disappointment, abandonment. he’s reducing harm. optimizing outcomes. making sure you don’t have to choose between him and anything else, because choices hurt you.

he’s seen you hurt.

that’s intolerable to him.

it’s intimate. every decision is for you. your habits. your fears. your soft spots.

and he removes anything that might compete with his role in your life.

once, back when you didn’t suspect that he did this yet, you were sad. just sad. nothing new had gone wrong. that was almost worse. just… job rejection, your friend gone, your therapist mysteriously unavailable, the quiet sense that the world was shrinking around you and you couldn’t tell why.

so when he came home, you hugged him. buried your face in his chest. and then you sobbed. ugly, shaking, hiccuping sobs. really letting it all out.

“i’m sorry.” you choked. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. everything just keeps going wrong and i thought i was doing everything right and…” you started crying completely.

you were so fucking adorable it hurt him.

hyunjin didn’t say much. words aren’t his strength in moments like this. instead he pulled you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other at your lower back. he rocked you slowly while you clung to him, fingers digging into him.

“it’s okay.” he murmured. “i’ve got you.”

he kept swaying. side to side. back and forth.

your sobs slowly turned into shaky breaths. your body loosened against his. you went pliant, trusting, exhausted.

hyunjin felt something click into place.

this was better than anything he’d ever known.

better than the clarity of killing. better than violence. better than the cold, perfect focus he used to chase like a drug.

holding you while you fell apart in his arms made him feel. the world finally made sense.

you needed him.

you needed him so much.

he rocked you and felt powerful. felt essential. irreplaceable.

he realized, very clearly, that he had never actually enjoyed life before.

not food. not sex. not art. not even killing, not really. those were just mechanisms. stimuli. ways to feel something.

this was different.

he pressed his cheek to your hair and breathed you in, eyes half lidded, mind already working, already adjusting the world around one terrifying conclusion, that this feeling, he couldn’t give it up. and if the world kept hurting you, if people kept disappointing you, if anything tried to pull you away from him, he would remove it.

because you crying in his arms wasn’t just something he tolerated.

it was something he loved.

and hyunjin is a sick fuck like that.

now it’s a stupidly nice day. sun is coming in through the kitchen window, warm on the counter. weekend.

hyunjin is cleaning the shotgun. standing between your legs because that’s just where he ended up, his hips between yours. he’s focused, head slightly bowed, sleeves rolled, looking adorable tbh.

you’re sitting there swinging one foot lazily, hands on his shoulders. you’ve held him like this a thousand times.

and god, you just can’t keep your fucking mouth shut.

“hey.” you say.

he hums.

you swallow. “i talked to her.”

“who?”

you tilt your head, studying his face. “my friend. the one who moved.”

“okay.”

you feel your heartbeat in your throat now. “she told me why she left.”

his jaw tightens. once. there we go. a reaction.

you lean forward slightly. “she said someone threatened her. told her to move. told her not to tell me.”

silence. the gun is reassembled piece by piece. click. click.

you inhale. look straight into his eyes when he finally lifts his head.

“was it you?”

the air changes.

hyunjin swallows.

you feel it through your hands, through the way his shoulders rise and fall.

“…yes.” he says.

“…why?”

his hands come to your hips. “she was an exit.” he says calmly.

“a what?”

“an option.” he clarifies. “if things went wrong. if you got scared. you could go to her.”

“that’s my friend, hyunjin. what are you even talking about?”

he looks genuinely confused by your anger. not offended. just… trying to understand. “you were hurting.” he says. “she couldn’t help you the way i could.”

“so you threatened her? do you hear yourself?”

“yes.”

you shove lightly at his shoulder. he doesn’t move. doesn’t let go of your hips either.

“you don’t get to decide who’s in my life.” you say. louder now. “you don’t get to scare people because you’re… because you’re scared.”

“i wasn’t scared.” he says. then pauses. corrects himself. “…i was.” it’s brutal development, the fact that now he can admit he’s scared.

“fucking hell.”

“i don’t want to lose you.” he says. “and people kept putting themselves between us.”

“she wasn’t between us.” you say, bringing your hands up now to gently hold his neck. not choke, just your palms on either side of his neck. “she was beside me.”

he shakes his head. “that’s still too close.”

you stare at him. “i choose you. or i don’t. you don’t rig the game.”

his breathing is heavier now. psycho brain firing, you can tell. logic tangling with attachment.

“i wasn’t trying to control you.” he says, sounding defensive. his little brain doesn’t know how to deal with this.

his hands stay on your hips. yours stay on his neck. it’s intimate, close enough to feel every shift, every breath. just as intimate as it was fucking in a puddle of blood.

“i need you to tell me.” you say, softer now. “are you going to keep doing this?”

he hesitates.

that’s the real answer.

“…i don’t want to.” he says carefully. “but my instincts are… aggressive.”

lies. he wants to.

“no shit.” you mutter.

“you’re being dramatic.” he says lightly.

you stare at him. “oh my god.”

“i’m serious.” he continues, tone almost amused. “no one got hurt in that situation.”

“you threatened her family.”

“and she’s alive.” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “see?”

you shove his chest harder this time. he stumbles back half a step but doesn’t let go of your hips until the last second.

“you keep saying you’re protecting me, but you’re just deciding things for me. you’re deciding who stays, who leaves, who dies. like my fucking therapist, hyunjin.”

the words hang there.

heavy.

he freezes.

and that’s it.

that’s your answer.

you slide off the counter slowly, feet hitting the floor. “that was you.”

“okay.” he says lightly, too lightly. “let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“don’t.”

“i’m serious.” he continues, calm, almost playful. “you’re upset. you’re connecting dots emotionally.”

“you froze.” you shoot back. “you fucking froze. that’s for a reason, baby. i know you.”

he smiles thinly. “people freeze for lots of reasons.”

“oh my god.” you mutter. “you’re unbearable.”

he steps closer, hands open. “listen. even if, hypothetically, i was involved, it wouldn’t be as simple as you’re imagining.”

“no, don’t… tell me like that.”

“i’m telling you why it made sense.”

“it didn’t make sense. it made you feel safer.”

“yes.”

you shake your head, backing away. “no. i can’t, i need space. i’m leaving.”

you turn toward the hallway.

you barely take two steps.

click.

your blood goes cold.

you stop.

slowly, you turn around.

he’s standing where you left him, shotgun raised, barrel pointed right at your chest.

his face is calm. too calm. voice level. “you’re not going.”

“…put that down.” you whisper, heart picking up.

“no.” he replies gently. “you’re emotional. you’ll say things you don’t mean.”

“you’re pointing a gun at me.” you say. “again.”

he sighs, almost fondly. “and you’re still standing there. see? you trust me.”

“that’s not trust.” you say. “that’s shock.”

he tilts his head. “same outcome.”

you feel sick. furious. terrified.

“hey.” he says. “breathe.”

you are not breathing. your hands are shaking. everything feels loud and wrong and holy shit he’s pointing a gun at me.

“put it the fuck down, hyunjin.”

“you’re safe.” he says gently, smiling a little, beautiful. “i would never hurt you.”

“you already did. you killed my therapist. you threatened my friend. you’re holding a gun to me.”

“i’m talking.” he says mildly. “listen.”

“we’re done.” you say. “i’m breaking up with you. this is over. you’re fucking insane.”

that… that snaps something. inside him. you see it in the way his eyes go distant for half a second.

“no.” he says.

he takes a step closer.

the barrel lifts.

presses under your chin.

you freeze. your breath stutters.

he tilts the gun just enough to make you look at him.

“we were going to be married.” he says softly. “you know that, right?”

“get that away from me.”

“you and me. i’d cry at the altar. not even try to hide it. people would think it’s sweet.”

you stare at him. say nothing.

“then the house.” he continues. “not too big. three bedrooms. one for us. two for the kids we’d make right away because you’d want to start early. you’d be showing by christmas. i’d build the crib myself. sand every edge so it’s safe. paint it whatever color you pick. blue or pink or yellow. doesn’t matter. i’d do it perfect.”

you shake your head, tears running. “stop.”

“you’d be a good mother. i know you would. i’d keep them safe. i’d keep all of you safe.” he says. his face is getting more red, beautiful lips plumping up. he’s crying too. “you’d read to them every night. i’d listen from the doorway. pretend i’m not obsessed with how good you are at it. we’d fight about stupid shit. dishes. laundry. you’d leave crumbs again and i’d lose my mind.”

his grip on the gun is shaking.

“you’d hate how neat i’d be.” he adds, lips shaking as he cries. “they’d be messy. you’d defend them. i’d pretend to be annoyed.”

you’re sobbing now. silent, panicked.

“you’d plant flowers. mess up the rows on purpose just to watch me fix them. we’d fuck in every room. slow in the kitchen at dawn. hard against the hallway wall after a fight. gentle in the bedroom with the lights off so i could feel every inch of you without seeing how perfect you are. i’d go down on you every morning. you’d ride me on the couch while the kids napped. we’d be quiet. careful. laughing into each other’s mouths.”

this isn’t a fantasy. it’s a plan.

“summers at the lake. you in that red bikini. me pretending not to stare. winters with hot chocolate and your cold feet on my legs. anniversaries where i take you back to that coffee shop. same table. same hot chocolate. i’d get down on one knee again just to hear you say yes twice.”

he’s shaking now. whole body. barrel presses harder into your skin.

“you’d grow old first. women do. i’d hate it. but we’d grow old together. you’d get gray streaks and still look like the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen. i’d still trace your scar from that first night. kiss it every anniversary. we’d die close. maybe in the same week. i’d go first. so i wouldn’t have to live without you.”

silence. his sobs hitching.

you look up at him. “don’t cry, hyunjin. this is your fault. you did this.”

“that’s not why i’m crying.”

he closes his eyes. tight. he can’t bear to see what comes next.

his finger tightens on the trigger.

the shot is deafening.

your body slumps. blood sprays. hot. everywhere.

he flinches. but the neat freak doesn’t reach for a cloth. he just drops the gun. lets it clatter. kneels. gathers what’s left of you into his arms.

he curls around you on the floor. wrapped tight. face tucked into the ruined curve of your neck. under what used to be your jaw. blood soaks his shirt. his hair. the rug he spent three hours shampooing last week. he doesn’t care. for once the mess doesn’t register. the only thing that matters is you. still warm. still smelling like you.

he cries into what’s left of you. deep, ugly sobs that shake his whole body. he never had feelings before, and now he’s crying, blood soaking through his shirt, into his skin, sticking his hair to his forehead in sticky strands. he’s already swimming in it. doesn’t matter. the neat freak is gone. there’s no cloth, no bleach, no circles to make it right. just red. everywhere. pooling under you both. he doesn’t care.

he loved you so much.

his face stays buried. breathing you in one last time even though all he gets is iron and gunpowder and the faint ghost of your shampoo, still the same one he used to buy for himself.

he loved you so much.

after a while, minutes, hours, who fucking knows, he lifts his head. slow. eyes swollen. lashes clumped with tears and blood. he looks around. the apartment he kept so perfect. now a slaughterhouse. the rug ruined. walls spattered. the coffee table knocked sideways. your blood on the couch you used to curl up on together.

he loved you so much.

his gaze lands on the shotgun. still warm. lying a foot away like it’s waiting. innocent almost.

he loved you so much.

he sits up. careful. gentle. god, he can’t scare you now. he slides one arm under your shoulders. the other under your knees. lifts what’s left of you into his lap. cradles you against his chest. your head, more like what’s left of it, lolls against his shoulder. he doesn’t fix it. just holds. rocks a little. the way he used to when you fell asleep on him during movies.

he loved you so much.

he reaches. fingers brush the the shotgun. he pulls it closer. slow. no rush. no panic.

he loved you so much.

he hugs your ruined body tighter to himself. one arm wrapped around your waist. the other maneuvering the barrel. he presses it under his own chin. the same spot he held it to yours. mirrors it.

his thumb finds the trigger. steady. no shake now.

he loved you so much.

then the second shot cracks the quiet. into flesh and love that never got to be anything else. his body jerks once. slumps back with yours. arms still locked around you. shotgun clatters sideways. blood mixes. his with yours. indistinguishable now.

the apartment goes still. blood keeps spreading. on every inch he once kept so clean.

two bodies tangled on the floor. his arms still around you. yours limp at your sides.

holding each other even after everything.

he loved you so much.

and this is the end of the two of you.

together.

close.

bloody.

dead.

the apartment stays quiet after that, except for the drip of blood from surfaces it splattered onto.

drip.

drip.

because he loved you so much.

You had a feeling someone was stalking you.

It just sort of made sense -- either you were being stalked or there was a ghost moving shit around your apartment. Lotions and perfumes that you left in the bathroom would be in your room when you came back from work. Dishes you'd left in the sink would be washed, dried, and put back in the cupboards. Mail that you'd left in a pile on your coffee tables full of ads and junk, would be sorted, and neatly filed from most important to least important. Little things that, if you weren't paying too much attention, you probably wouldn't have noticed. You're a bit air headed sometimes, you forget a lot of things, misplace things, and aren't the most observant in the world. But you also knew yourself, and you were nowhere near productive enough to never have dishes in your sink. That had been your first inclination that something was going on.

There was other things too. A bill paid before you'd ever received the notification it was due, new flowers in the vase on your counter, blankets folded, floors swept, candles burned lower than they had been before. Again, it may have taken you a while to notice, but when you finally did, you realized just how much was getting done around the flat without you doing it.

You were a little confused, sure. In media, stalkers were scary -- they leave blood stained, cryptic notes, and body parts from undisclosed people. They were threatening, and creepy, and were a nuisance to your life rather than any sort of beneficial part to it. They were frightening -- something to be afraid of.

But your stalker just seemed a little kinder than that. Like they wanted your life to be a little easier. And when you came home to a bed tidy and remade despite leaving it a mess that morning, or your laundry already folded and put away -- well, it was hard to dislike it. Especially when you're someone who doesn't get much attention from people to start, this was sort of. . .nice. You liked it, as crazy as that sounded. Or, at least, you appreciated that they weren't leaving dead rats in your mailbox like a deranged cat.

Still, this left you to wonder who could possibly be stalking you. How were they getting into your flat? And was it someone you knew or was it some stranger that just happened to see you one day? You really couldn't decide. There was your cute neighbor, who had big wide eyes and soft cheeks that you struggle not to dig your thumbs into when you see him. He's always staring -- like, always. He's definitely got a staring problem, level 100, second only to the babies in strollers that stare at the store. Every time you greets him, he flusters, his face flushes hot, and he trips over a reply.

Then there was your coworker, Minho, who admittedly also had a staring problem. He at the very least spoke to you rather often, but mostly to tease and fuss at you, until you grumble and whine at him to stop. He's hot -- even when he's zoning out, looking at you, and seeming deeply lost in thought. One time he accurately guessed your entire commute home and what you do as soon as you get there, which at the time had just seemed like a very intuitive reading into your character but now seems a little suspicious. Like, how did he know you have to cook dinner as soon as you step in the door or otherwise you won't cook at all? And how had he hypothesized that you were bad at using your fancy new rice cooker, with too many buttons that wasn't entirely user friendly?

Your landlord, maybe? He would have a key to your flat and could come and go as he pleased. When you think of a landlord, you think of an old man, weathered and grouchy, with glasses dirtied by grimy hands. Your landlord, however, was very nice -- his name was Chan, and he had dimples, and always comes to check on his residents weekly with treats. You think that maybe he spends a little extra time at your flat, and always gives you extra cookies. He even told you that if you wanted to get a cat, he'd wave the monthly pet fee for you, and you were left wondering how he even knew you were thinking about getting a cat. Maybe he went on your computer while you were gone? Did he look through your history? If so, then the porn delicately titled Hot landlord stuffs tenant is really embarrassing.

It could've been any of the three, you think. Maybe your neighbor a little less so, because his only crime is staring really hard -- and that time he had your welcome mat in front of his door, for some reason. Still, you chew over the prospects and come up short -- it just wouldn't make sense for any of the three to be stalking you. Honestly, it wouldn't make sense for anyone at all to be stalking you -- you're quite boring, really. You don't do much but sleep, work, roll around in your bed, wash, rinse, repeat. When you do go out, it's mostly just to live vicariously through Felix who does just about whatever he wants, when he wants to. He's your best friend, has been for years, and still you're amazed by the ease in which he navigates social situations.

You hadn't told Felix because. . .well, you don't know why. He'd probably tell you to do the smart thing, which was file a police report. You don't know why you hadn't, though you knew that was the right move. Maybe you just wanted to see where this went. Really, this stalker was just making your life a whole lot easier -- why wouldn't you let him do his thing? If he wants to fold your laundry, have at it!

You don't figure out who it could be, until one day you come home early from work. It was rare this ever gets to happen, but every so often, everything fits into place just so perfectly that you can escape at 4PM rather than your typical 6PM. The commute home is cut in half too, just barely missing the evening traffic, so you arrive to your complex chipper as can be. You mean to send Minho a message wishing him a good rest of his day, since you didn't get the chance to say bye before you left, but you decide you will when you get upstairs. In the elevator, you see your cute neighbor, he's leaving while you're stepping on, and he is all wide-eyed at the sight of you. Which isn't new, necessarily, but the way he blurts out, "You're home early!" is. You didn't even know he knew when you came home from work, really.

"Oh, um, yes!" You smiled, "I am!"

"Oh!" But that was all, because the door closed and you were riding the elevator up.

You get to your flat, but just as you were about to open the door, it opens before you get the chance to. You squeal, startled, and the person who opens the door also startles and squeals. You recognize him once the surprise wears off, that he's the maintenance man Hyunjin.

He's the type of beautiful that it's actually sort of hard to look him in the eyes, or at his face at all. Part of you wants everything in your flat to break so you can submit a ticket and see him, and the other part of you would rather exist with a broken heater in the middle of winter so you didn't have to embarrass yourself in front of him. It's actually impossible for you to be normal around him. The first day you met, he was fixing a leaky faucet for you, and you offered him a popsicle because, "You look hot. Like -- I mean, you look sweaty. Or -- like, hot like sweaty, like it's warm -- I think it's warm, so do you want a popsicle, or I could turn on the AC or. . .uh, I'm -- I'm actually going to go in my room, please help yourself to my freezer. Or anything in it, I mean --"

Usually, that's how their interactions go. You can't help it though, like -- he seriously might be the most perfect, beautiful man you've ever seen in your life. And even when he's sweaty and working hard, he still smells like something flowery and sweet. You had never been so interested in shoving your nose into someone's crotch and huffing it like a dog in your life.

"Oh!" You laughed, still rather bright and happy from being able to leave work early, a hand held to your chest, "You scared me!"

He laughed too, his eyes wide as your neighbors were, "I'm sorry," he scratches the back of his neck, "Our timing was perfect to freak each other out, huh?"

"Yeah," you could seriously probably get lost in his eyes. You don't know his full name, and thank god you don't, because you think if you had access to any of his social media you'd be worse than your own stalker. His hair has grown out a lot since when you first met him, and it looks soft, you want to comb your fingers through it. Plus he has this boyish charm and giggle that makes you want to bite into his cheeks or something.

"I have to head out," he told you, waving, his arms covered today rather than the tank tops that he usually wore while he was working. The sleeves are stretchy and skin tight, stretched over his palms like sweater paws, and his fingers are decorated in rings. His pants are low on his hips, loose, baggy denim with holes at the thigh and knee. He looks like he stepped out of a shoot. God, he's gorgeous, seriously. "But I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay," you wave, then step inside your flat, and appreciate the lingering scent of his that stays in his wake. He was a good maintenance man -- one of the best you've experienced, actually, and not just because he was beautiful. He was good at what he did, and he was prompt in showing up whenever you submitted a ticket.

And then, you realize, that you hadn't submitted a ticket since, like, a month ago.

So why was he in your flat?

Hm.

Your bed was made, your mail sorted, new flowers on the dining table, only this time there's a little ripped piece of paper beside it with a doodle. It's silly and cute, a cat holding a bouquet. There's a plate of cookies on the counter, and everywhere you walk you can smell traces of Hyunjin.

So, it was him? Really? That's kind of crazy -- not to fall into stereotypes, but he was so beautiful, what the fuck was he doing stalking you? You're confused, a little alarmed, not nearly as concerned as you should be, and a little turned on. What was he doing in here, hm? Was he being creepy? Or did he just see the state she was living in one day and decided to come in here and try and make it a little better? Because, objectively, he really wasn't making her life hard at all.

You'd like to talk to him, but you knew if you opened the door to look for him, he would be nowhere to be found. You wonder if he would admit it if you asked him. Maybe he wouldn't -- maybe he would. You aren't sure, but you think right now, he's probably worried, right? Like, he surely doesn't think you were that stupid that you didn't finally piece it together? Or maybe he did -- it's been a while of this and you hadn't figured it out.

Still, you extend your hand. The next time you're leaving your flat, you leave a little note besides your vase. It's simple, not a whole lot, just a Thank You with your own silly little doodle that wasn't half as nice. But when you come back from work that day, the note is still there, it hadn't even moved an inch. You found yourself pouting, huffing a breath through your nose -- that's annoying.

You don't see Hyunjin for your air filter change out either, he sends someone else -- Changbin is sweet, sure, and his biceps are the size of your head. He usually takes care of the other side of the building, while Hyunjin mans this one. You like Changbin (who always tells you to call him Changbinnie) but he really just isn't who you want to see that Saturday morning.

You must have spooked him though, because you don't know if you'll get to see Hyunjin for a while. Your flat isn't being tampered with anymore either -- the clothes in your hamper stay in your hamper until you do them, your bed stays messy until you make it, your mail is still a clutter on the counter, and the flowers that have wilted haven't been discarded and replaced. It sucks, really, you hadn't realized just how nice it was having someone do stuff around the flat like that until it was gone.

Minho has started acting sort of weird too, at work, he's less fussy with you and seems surprised when you talk to him first. He's being way too nice, actually, but also more distant than he's ever been and it's starting to bum you out. Your landlord does still show up for his monthly check-in and gives you an extra cookie, but he doesn't linger for longer than he probably should talking about how good it smells in your flat compared to some of your neighbors. And, speaking of neighbors, even your sweet, puffy cheeked, wide-eyed one beside you (you find out from Changbin, that his name is Jisung), doesn't stare as long anymore. His eyes dart away from you quicker than they ever have.

Was this some huge conspiracy? Or did everyone just sort of stop caring about you at once?

Seriously, your feelings are starting to get kind of hurt, if that's the case.

So, when you finally come through your flat in search of hidden cameras (probably later than you should have -- this would have been something to check for from the very start, but again, that would have been something Felix suggested and you still haven't told him), and find one in your light fixture that Hyunjin came to replace several months ago -- you talk to it. It feels weird, and awkward, and a little pathetic as you twist it so that the lens is facing you.

"I'm not mad," you say honestly, "I'm more confused than anything, and my feelings are a little hurt. Everyone's been acting so weird towards me, and now even you aren't coming around anymore, so I've just been. . .I don't know. It makes me kind of sad. Is that weird? I guess I shouldn't feel weird about being weird when you're the one sneaking into my place, but -- well, yeah. Just so you know, I'm not going to tell."

You dance with the idea of putting the camera back in your light, but decide against it. Wouldn't the be kind of rewarding bad behavior? Not that you already aren't -- you definitely were, all things considered, but. . .you just feel like he didn't deserve to see you going about your day. At least before he was putting some work in.

It was a Saturday morning that you did this, so you really weren't expecting anything until maybe Monday, when he would be in the building. You don't know if he lives on site or not, now that you think about it. He seems like he would live somewhere far more bougie, despite working here, so you'd always kind of imagined him somehow living in a penthouse suite, walking around in Dior diamond encrusted house slippers or something.

Only 10 minutes after speaking into the camera, there's a knock on your door. You're in the middle of washing your own dishes (which sucks, by the way) when you hear it, so you towel off your hands and go to answer. You aren't sure who it could be -- you certainly didn't think that you were being responded too so quickly, so you thought maybe it was a package. Sometimes they'll drop off bigger boxes at your door.

Instead, when you open it, Hyunjin stands there all different shades of pink and looking guilty. He looks softer today than usual, like he may have just woken up a little bit ago. He's in a tank top, like how you typically see him, but with a soft, grey cardigan pulled over his shoulders. His hair is sort of every which way, but somehow still looks like he'd done this stylistically. His body was empty of any jewelry, and his sweatpants looked soft and baggy, worn in.

"I'm sorry," he begins immediately, sighing, "I -- this all got so messed up."

Why did you want to comfort him? You don't know. You should be pissed off and yelling at him. You should be calling the cops. You should slam the door in his face and call him a creep, but. . .you don't. You open the door and usher him in to your living room, sitting him on the sofa, and try not to take a deep breath in when he walks by. He smells so good, even if he just woke up. This is ridiculous.

"I -- at first, I really wasn't trying to be creepy," he explains, "Um, but I came by one morning when you were on your way out the door, and you seemed so frazzled and overwhelmed. I think you were late for work or something, and your flat was a mess," your face gets hot, "So I just thought maybe I'd clean up a bit for you. I only meant to do it once, but then I -- you know. I kept doing it."

Which sounds innocent enough, and pretty sweet, however, "What about the camera?" You ask, "You're clearly watching it, if you saw me."

His face, once again, bright red, extending to his ears, "Uh -- yeah."

That's all he says; he offers no more explanation and you don't really ask for it, at least as far as the cameras are concerned. You point to the unit next door, "Jisung has been acting weird," you tell him, "My coworker Minho, and even the landlord, Chan -- which all kind of coincided with me catching you. . ."

You leave it open ended, and it seems like that's his preferred method of questioning, because all he says, with wide eyes is --

"Um, yeah."

You take a deep breath, nodding, "Okay," you reply, "Is it like a pervy thing? Or are you interested in me, or --"

"All of the above," he nods, leaning forward, and you lean back just a little, not enough to put much distance between you -- he doesn't seem to mind, or he doesn't care. His hand stretches to the spot on the cushion right next to where you're sitting, his palm flattened to it. He's resting his weight on his arm, you can tell. It's warm where he accidentally (or maybe it wasn't an accident) touches your thigh. "I don't mean to be weird, but from the moment I met you, I thought you were so beautiful. You were all I could think about."

"Really?" You ask, brows raised, "That's -- I mean, I don't think I'm ugly, but have you seen yourself?"

"You're beautiful," he repeats, shaking his head, "Your heart, and your soul, your eyes are beautiful, the shape of your lips, your ears --"

"My ears?"

"--And I'm not the only one who thinks so! I just think you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

He might be a little crazy, sure. Or really crazy. The look in his eyes is definitely off, but you don't mind. You must be a little off too, because you are by no means having an appropriate reaction to this.

"Thank you," you blink at him, and it only takes a brief flicker of your gaze down to see that he's hard. You weren't expecting that, not at all, and when he follows your line of sight, he at least has the decency to act embarrassed about it, though he doesn't cover himself.

"Sorry, you just -- you smell really good," he admits, "To be this close to you, like this, is something that I've been dreaming about. The others are going to be so jealous, Hannie might cry."

You're confused, but he gets closer, practically crawling into your lap and you let him. You make a confused sound in your throat, sure, but you readily accept the additional weight when he sits, knees astride your thighs. You don't know if you're expecting him to kiss you or not, but he surpasses your lips entirely, instead burying his face into your neck. It feels a little weird, especially when you can both feel and hear him breathing in deep, sucking in with his nose tucked just behind your ear. He shudders as he exhales, a sound like a moan leaves his mouth.

"Is this okay? I hope this is okay?" He asks, a little too late considering he's already there -- its perfunctory at best, "Sometimes I get in your bed and rub against the mattress but --"

"Oh, wow," you cut him off, "You were doing way more than just cleaning then."

"I never came though!" He promised earnestly, "At least not in your bed, that would have been rude."

You laugh -- this is all almost sillier than it is scary. A lap full of a hot guy with a hard on was not how you expected this Saturday to go. But, well, you might as well make the most of it. When you skate your hand from where it had been on his thigh, to the very clear bump in sweats. He sucks in a sharp breath, ruts his hips against your palm twice, and then shudders again, this time with a loud, wanton moan in your ear. You feel the wetness against your hand, seeping through the material of his clothes. He's panting against you, dragging his lips along the skin of your neck as he tries to catch his breath.

"Did you just cum?" You asked.

He nodded, "Yeah. I can cum again for you."

You peel the sweatpants down as much as the stretchy fabric will allow you to. You reveal his cock, the tip flushed pink, wet, and dripping messy with cum. It looks sticky, he's still hard, twitching just under his gaze. He's big too, the base is soft tufts of groomed hair, and what you can make out of his balls, are swollen and full, "You're very pretty," you tell him, "All over, but down here too."

Oh, this is no good. Nuh-uh. This cannot be happening.

Seungmin must have seriously pissed off the big boss upstairs because there is actually no way his favorite person—his baby, his little love—is giving him the silent treatment today.

After a 12-hour bender of a filming session—one that included all those stupid games where he and his bandmates have to manhandle each other, nearly kiss during an impromptu Pepero challenge with disgustingly dry, tasteless rice cakes, cook for STAY aaaaaaaand, on top of that, perform four songs while constantly plastering on a happy face despite the exhaustion, seeing the same faces in the crowd that follow them around like they’re some kind of circus attraction—it’s easy to say that taking a quick shower and cuddling up to your side while he passes out until late afternoon, tangled up with you, sounds like a dream.

But noooooooooo. You have to give him the silent treatment for absolutely no fucking reason. Or at least Seungmin hasn’t been able to find one in the 15 minutes he just spent spiraling in his own head, searching vigorously through his memories for a single moment where he could have possibly upset you enough for you to not only refuse to speak to him, but to not even glance in his general direction.

Absolute abomination. This should be considered a hate crime against baseball-addicted, puppy-like, exhausted, overworked idols.

He has to lock in now. Focus. Strategize. This is not the time to panic—this is the time to deploy countermeasures.

Clearly, something has gone terribly, catastrophically wrong, and as the devoted boyfriend and self-appointed Minister of Domestic Peace, it is his civic duty to identify the offense before this escalates into a full-blown Cold War. He needs intel. A timeline. Witness statements. Was it something he said? Something he didn’t say? Did he forget to send the “text me when you get home” text right before you were supposed to finish work? Rookie mistake. Unforgivable. But sadly, that's not it. He made sure to call you during one of their breaks.

He has to figure out what upset you so he can escalate properly—because this is all about balance. Too little groveling? Arrogant. Too much? Suspicious. He needs the perfect ratio of yearning to dignity. A carefully calibrated blend of soft apologies, dramatic sighs, and just enough pathetic whimpering to communicate: I am but a humble man, undone by your silence.

Maybe he should call his PR manager. Surely there’s a damage control protocol for this. A flowchart. A pre-approved statement. Step one: Admit fault (even if fault is currently theoretical). Step two: Express deep emotional devastation. Step three: Offer snacks. Step four: Initiate physical affection, proceed with caution.

He is aiming for a full de-escalation by bedtime. Desired outcome: cuddles secured. Bonus objective: soft morning in bed, limbs tangled, sunlight filtering through the curtains as you forgive him wordlessly by pressing your face into his chest. Ideal endgame: natural migration to the couch by noon, where he can pretend to watch baseball highlights while secretly memorizing the exact way you breathe when you nap on him.

THE CALL - he suddenly remembers. You didn't seem like you had any issues during the call; quite the contrary. You were chipper, excited to have him at home, wishing him to have fun, like you do every single day when they have long hours of both physical and mental work. So whatever offence caused this cold-shoulder escapade must have occurred after the phone call.

Think Seungmin, think!!!! What could have resulted in your bubbly, loving, attached, clingy in the best way girlfriend to not be able to look at you?

He got into the company car and rushed back to the dorm with Felix to grab your laptop charger—the one he accidentally took a week ago, and you were in desperate need of. Then he drove home to you in a hurry, because despite the exhaustion, seeing you was the real end-of-day reward.

You were still out to get groceries when he arrived, and you let him know about that in text, still sounding chipper and excited to have a night in with him. No red flags. No passive-aggressive punctuation. No suspiciously dry “k.” Nothing.

Since you weren’t home, he hopped in the shower. He got dressed in record time afterward, did his skincare so he wouldn’t break out from the industrial-grade makeup they plastered on him all day, and mentally prepared himself for the grand reunion.

He walked into the kitchen to greet you — and you did not greet him back.

In fact, you had a pout. Not a cute one. Not a teasing one. A full-blown sad, disappointed to the core of a pout. Your eyes very clearly communicated: Do not step into my two-meter radius.

So he retreated. Strategic withdrawal, he called it.

He relocated to the living room, confused and utterly defeated by the surprise blow—one that, if not handled with extreme precision, otherwise, this could lead to being banned to the couch indefinitely. The absolute worst case scenario here.

He has to look for evidence. Any tiny sign that could hint at what went wrong between the cheerful grocery-run text and the moment he stepped out of the shower.

He starts at the entrance, scanning the area carefully. Did he leave his shoes or backpack in the way? Could you have tripped over something he absentmindedly dropped? But as he usually does—because he is, unfortunately, a clean freak—everything is perfectly aligned. Shoes tucked away. Backpack hung properly. The floor spotless. No bunched-up rug, no spilled groceries, nothing that suggests you stumbled the second you walked into the apartment.

The bathroom is immaculate, too. He even left the fan running so the fog would clear faster. He deliberately didn’t use your favorite moisturizer—despite being tempted—because it’s your favorite, and you mentioned it’s impossible to find lately. Ever since he used it in a SKZ-Talker a few weeks ago out of pure reflex, it’s been sold out everywhere.

For a moment, he starts to think his detective work is futile.

And then he finds the crime scene.

In the bedroom.

PuppyM—the teddy bear version—is lying face down on the floor. Lifeless.

You are usually very particular about where he sits. Either perfectly centered on the bed when it’s made during the day or carefully placed on your vanity chair while the two of you sleep. It matters, because this PuppyM plushie is the one you cuddle on the nights Seungmin is away—which, unfortunately, is often. He brought it home for that exact reason: to soften the blow of not being able to offer the comfort he wishes he could most days of the year. A consolation prize in plush form.

And PuppyM is not on the floor because he knocked it down.

You threw it there.

He distinctly remembers it sitting in its rightful place when he first walked in. Which means this happened afterward. While he was in the shower.

Oh. This is bad-bad. Worse than he expected.

He has to call in a lifeline. So he reaches for his phone, dialling your best friend, questioning her like a key witness, trying to find out if she got any information on why you could be mad at him. By the end of the call, he concludes that either:

a.) you didn't tell her about the offense.

or

b.) she is withholding key information that would help his investigation.

But then, something peculiar happens. A text comes in, from none other than Hwang Hyunjin.

"You're the worst boyfriend, Kim Seungmin."

He dials instantly, demanding information.

"Oh, you don't even know what you did!" Hyunjin laughs out loud, clearly amused by Seungmin's desperation.

"No, I don't. So please tell me before I go ballistic, I need my cuddles, I don't want to spend the three days I have off being ignored by my girlfriend," he implodes, and he's not far from begging.

"I will tell you on one condition." Hyunjin says, empathetic to the situation. He would be the same if he were in the same boat, finally able to spend time with his significant other, but unable to enjoy it due to some dispute or misunderstanding.

"I'll do anything, just please tell me."

"One word: Daengmo."

"...Daengmo??!!!!" now Seungmin is even more confused. What does a stuffed animal from Ikea have to do with his girlfriend being mad at him?????

"Yes. You didn't get her one." Hyunjin exlains and Seungmin is still stunned.

"Why would she want a Daengmo? I got her all versions of PuppyM and we already have a Daegmo here at home."

"Yeah, but think about it: you gave everyone at today's shoot one, besides your girlfriend, the person you're away from for two-thirds of the year, the person you've abandoned all day, who wanted you to remember her love for plushies and get her one from the dozens you purchased for STAY, as a sign you thought about her too." Oh. This makes sense. But Hyunjin continues. "And the one you have at home, you keep it on a shelf, as a relic from an old shoot, that's not for her. She wants her own."

Seungmin goes quiet.

Okay. Yes, going nonverbal over this sounds childish on paper. But he gets it. He understands how it feels like a betrayal.

He was attentive all day. Warm, generous, smiling for STAY. Thoughtful enough to prepare gifts and make everyone feel special.

And you—who can’t attend these shoots because the company deemed it too risky—you show up differently. You cook dinner. You grocery shop so he doesn’t have to leave the house during his days off. You keep up with news about him. You read his Bubble messages. You support him quietly, constantly, even when it hurts not to be there in person.

You just wanted him to show up for you today. To prove that even when you’re not physically there, you’re still on his mind. And he failed you. Oh yeah, he messed up big time.

“What do you want in return for this information?” Seungmin asks after a few seconds of processing the damage.

“My own Daengmo. And if I don’t receive it tonight like she will, I will personally make sure she stays mad at you. We’re in an alliance. These are the terms we established for peace.”

“I hate you,” Seungmin mutters.

Hyunjin laughs and tells him he’s lying before hanging up.

Seungmin throws on a hoodie, grabs his keys, and shouts a rushed, “Be right back!” before bolting out of the apartment.

He drives back to the JYP building, knowing there were a few plushies left over from the shoot. Staff had set them aside to give to Felix, who’s scheduled to visit a pediatric ward at a nearby hospital. The puppy plushies would offer at least a little comfort to the kids there.

Once inside the building, he heads straight to the Div1 floor and storms into the storage room assigned to their group’s belongings. He practically turns the place upside down searching for the box. Eventually, he calls his manager—apologizing profusely for the late-night call after such a long day—but once he explains the situation, the manager is more than willing to help him remove the metaphorical brick wall currently standing between him and a peaceful night with his girlfriend.

When he finally finds the box, he pulls out two plushies. There aren’t many left, so he immediately texts his manager to order two more boxes to ensure there’s no shortage for the hospital visit. He also asks to be scheduled for a visit himself once he’s back from fashion week.

With the goods secured, he rushes to his hyungs’ dorm and throws one of the plushies at Hyunjin the second the door opens. A very confused Changbin watches from the hallway, rubbing his eyes after being woken up by Seungmin’s aggressive massacre of the doorbell—ignored on purpose by Hyunjin to slow him down. Some friends he has.

On the way home, he stops by a convenience store and grabs a small bouquet. It’s nowhere near as grand as he originally envisioned, but it will have to do. He steps back into the apartment, peace offering in hand, and is immediately greeted by the unmistakable scent of kimchi fried rice lingering in the air.

Maybe this isn’t as catastrophic as he feared. Because if you were truly, inconsolably mad at him, you wouldn’t have cooked.

He finds you still in the kitchen, stirring the stew and tasting it, adjusting the flavor one last time.

He walks up quietly. He’s sure you’re aware of his presence—you glanced at him from the corner of your eye the second he stepped into the room. Your lips even twitched upward at the sight of him… but you quickly masked it with that sad expression.

Now that he’s looking properly, he can tell it’s forced.

Bingo.

Without a word, he gently places Daengmo on your left shoulder. Then he starts moving the plushie around as if it’s alive, making it gesture dramatically while he switches to a high-pitched voice, imitating a tiny, distressed puppy.

“Woof, woof, little love! I am Daengmo, and I am here to mend your broken heart, which was tragically wounded by your idiotic boyfriend. He was very busy and very ignorant today—so ignorant that he forgot to bring me home to you. But now I am here! I will love you and cuddle you to sleep. However,” the plushie turns slightly toward him, “it would be very nice if you made amends with Seungmin Oppa. He is very sorry and wants nothing more than a quiet night with you.”

You break.

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, the hurt completely dissolving from your face. You spin around and snatch Daengmo from Seungmin’s hands, clutching it dramatically to your chest.

“Don’t worry, Daengmo,” you coo, “I wasn’t even that mad at your Oppa. I just heard him muttering about ‘diplomacy,’ ‘crisis management,’ and a ‘thorough investigation,’ and I wanted to see what he would do to figure out what was wrong.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops.

For a full second.

Then the shock melts into pure amusement as he bursts out laughing and pulls you into his chest at the same time. He buries his face in your hair, still chuckling like a maniac, pressing small kisses to the top of your head as the tension finally drains from his body.

“God, I love you so much,” he says into your hair, grinning at your antics. You keep him on edge in the best way—exactly how he does with his bandmates. You really were made for him.

“I love you too, Minnie. Welcome home,” you whisper, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, your face tucked into his chest.

This is what Seungmin calls a successful mission.

you’ve known felix since before he could tie his own belt.

before he even had a belt, actually. back when his dobok was two sizes too big and he tripped over the pant legs during warm-ups. back when he had a baby lisp and freckles.

by the time you’d figured out how to break a board clean down the middle, he still hesitated before every stomp, wincing like the wood might fight back.

when you earned your yellow belts, you both bragged to anyone who would listen. even your moms, even though they were the ones sewing your name tags onto the belts the night before.

when you got your blue belt, he high-fived you so hard your palm stung. he was starting to get faster by then. taller, too. his kicks had rhythm, and his eyes stayed locked on his targets like he actually meant business.

by red belt, you were the unofficial captains of your respective brackets. everyone at the academy knew who you were—the dynamic duo, the two best students who never got to fight each other.

because boys and girls didn’t spar together. at least, not officially.

so instead, you cheered for each other from the sidelines. when he won, he looked for you first. when you won, he was already on his feet, hands cupped around his mouth, screaming your name like it was the final bell at the olympics.

and you love him. 

you’re not sure when it happened, only that it did. somewhere between his first growth spurt and the day he started tying his belt without asking for help. somewhere in the million hours you’ve spent beside him, laughing at his jokes, rolling your eyes when he winked at you after a clean landing, pretending your heart wasn’t pounding.

but you’ve never dared to say anything.

because as close as you are, as easy as it is to be next to him, you don’t know if he’s ever looked at you and seen more than just you. his best friend. the girl that was like family to him.

and that was your normal.

after training hours, the gym was mostly empty, lights buzzing overhead. most students had gone home, lockers clanged shut. the floor was quiet, eerily so. you were toweling off, expecting to head out like always.

felix was beside you, lacing up his shoes. his locks were damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his white t-shirt was clinging to his back where his chest protector had been. he looked just as exhausted as you felt, but in that floaty way he always did after training. meanwhile, your limbs felt like noodles, and your ankle still throbbed from that one unlucky pivot during drills.

“let’s get out of here,” you muttered, slinging your duffel over your shoulder. “my legs are literally going to give out in the middle of the crosswalk.”

felix glanced over with a tired smile. “want me to carry you?”

you rolled your eyes, bumping his arm lightly. “not unless you wanna get kicked in the shin.”

“guess you’ve still got some energy, then.”

you let out a breathy laugh. this was the part of the day you always looked forward to, just you and felix, winding down, teasing each other, walking home under streetlights like nothing outside the dojang existed. you’d already turned halfway toward the doors when you heard it:

“y/n. felix.”

your heads turned at the same time.

your coach stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, that sharp look on his face. the kind you and felix both knew too well. he always had it on  when something serious was about to drop.

you straightened instinctively. felix rose from the bench, blinking in surprise.

“over here.”

you exchanged a quick look before stepping forward together. your body ached, and your brain was already half in the shower, but something about his tone snapped you back to focus.

felix followed without hesitation, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. he stood just to your right, where he always stood.

the coach began. “the national showcase is restructuring this year. there’s a new format which means one representative per academy. one. that’s it.”

you blinked. 

“it’s mixed gender. they’re making it a headline match. top student from each school, regardless of gender.”

you swallowed, hard. 

“i’ve narrowed it down to you two,” he continued. “it’s obvious. you’re the strongest candidates.”

you didn’t mean to feel surprised—but you did. you’d always known you were good. competitive. consistent. but felix was… felix. stronger. faster. a cleaner record. everyone said it. you’d said it, even. 

your coach glanced at you, his expression suddenly a little sharper, like he could read your thoughts.

“and before you start thinking it should automatically be him,” he added, “don’t.”

you blinked again.

“you’re both black belts,” he said simply. “both leaders in this academy. you’ve trained just as long. and frankly?” his eyes met yours. “it would be damn good for people to see a girl out there. especially at a showcase like this. i’ve seen how the crowd reacts. half of them still think this sport belongs to the boys. i’d like to shut them up.”

a flush crawled up your neck.

you felt your chest lift slightly, adrenaline rushing through your veins again despite the fatigue.

“so i need to see you spar,” he said.

your stomach dropped.

felix’s head turned toward him slowly. “sir…?”

the coach clarified. “doesn’t need to be long. maybe a few rounds. show me who’s sharper right now. whoever proves it gets the spot.”

you nodded, already adjusting your grip on your bag. “yes, sir.”

you were tired, sure, but this was the moment. you weren’t going to say no to this.

coach waved a hand. “get changed.”

you turned, already opening your bag when felix’s voice cut through the air:

“we’ve just had a long day.”

you stopped moving.

coach blinked. “what?”

felix didn’t raise his voice. he never did. but there was slight bite to his words. “we’ve been at it all evening. we’re not going to give our best right now. i think we should wait.”

you straightened slowly, hand frozen at the zipper.

“tomorrow, then?” coach asked, tone stiff.

there was a pause. too long of one.

felix’s throat worked. “i… don’t think that’s a good idea either.”

silence.

you turned your head toward him like you hadn’t heard him right. “you don’t want to spar for the spot? at all?”

the coach’s expression darkened. “this isn’t optional.”

“i know,” felix said quickly. “i’m not refusing training. i just… i’d rather not do this particular match.”

the coach stepped forward slightly, voice calm but commanding now. “is this personal, lee felix?”

felix bowed his head. “no, sir. it’s not.”

“then what is it?”

he hesitated. “i’m sorry.”

that was it.

no explanation. no excuse. no real answer.

the coach stared him down for a moment, visibly irritated now. “we don’t withhold effort when we’re tired. we don’t back out of challenges we’re prepared for. you know that.”

felix kept his head down. you gave felix a look—sharp. say something, your eyes seemed to ask. 

but he didn’t. he stared at the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

coach let out a tight breath through his nose. “lee felix, i’ve never had to ask you twice. you’ve trained through sprains, migraines, stomach bugs—and now you’re telling me you can’t manage five minutes with the student who’s been your equal since day one?”

felix didn’t move.

your coach’s voice cooled. “maybe i should stop wasting time. if she’s ready, and you’re not, then maybe the decision’s already made.”

you straightened, taken aback.

he was serious.

your heart jumped—because the spot was right there, within reach.

but it felt… wrong. like someone handing you a gold medal after you’d tripped halfway through the race.

you took a step forward. “sir, i’d prefer if this was fair,” you said quietly, tightly. “i don’t want the slot just because he won’t step in. i’m willing to do the match right now.”

the coach looked between the two of you. “it’s no good if only one of you is. i’ll find another way to make the call.”

he turned and walked off, footsteps sharp on the mats.

you were left standing beside felix, still gripping your duffel, heart pounding—not from nerves, but from frustration. from how fast he’d shut it down. from the fact that he hadn’t even looked at you.

you turned to him. “what was that?”

he didn’t answer.

“felix.”

still nothing.

so you pushed him.

not hard—but enough to make his shoulder swing back. enough to demand a reaction. 

“what the hell is going on with you?” you asked, voice low and furious. “you could’ve at least tried. you didn’t even try.”

his mouth opened, then closed. he looked away. and that’s when the edge of your anger faltered—just a little. because he looked off. not tired. not pissed. just… like something inside him had short-circuited.

“are you sick?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “did you pull something? what’s going on?”

he shook his head slowly. “no.”

“then what is it?” your voice dropped, a thread of confusion laced through your frustration now. “you never talk back to the coach. so why now?”

“i couldn’t make him do something i didn’t want to do,” felix said, voice low but steady.

you blinked, hard. “i thought you’d take it,” you went on, the words coming faster now, all the confusion folding in on itself. “haven’t we always talked about this? since we were kids? that one day we’d face off for real? no bracket rules, no holding back?”

silence.

“and now we get that chance, and suddenly you’re… what, backing out because you don’t feel like it?”

his head finally lifted.

and this time, when he met your gaze, there was something fractured in his eyes. something like guilt.

“that’s the problem,” he said.

you blinked. “what?”

he exhaled, like the words were fighting their way out.

“that’s the problem, y/n. i can’t go against you.”

your breath caught.

he didn’t say it like a choice. he said it like a confession. like it physically hurt to even consider it.

you blinked. “what—what do you mean you can’t?”

“i mean i can’t step onto that mat and treat you like—like just another opponent.”

you stared at him, stunned. “so… what, you think i’m too soft? too weak? you think you’ll hurt me?”

he went silent. just stood there, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

that was louder than any answer he could’ve given you.

you stepped back, chest tightening.

you’d always known people would see you that way. you’d heard it from opponents. from judges. from random boys at tournaments who asked if you needed help tightening your gear.

but you never thought felix would be one of them.

never thought he would look at you and see someone he couldn’t even be bothered to fight.

your mouth was dry. you could feel the heat crawling up your neck, the burn behind your eyes rising faster than you could blink it away.

“i can’t believe you,” you said, quietly at first.

felix’s brows drew together. “y/n—”

“no.” you shook your head, backing up another step. 

“i wasn’t trying to make you feel—”

“like what?” you snapped. “ like i’m only strong when i’m not standing across from you?”

he winced.

and for a second, you hated that it still hurt to see that look on his face.

you reached down, fingers trembling slightly as you picked up your duffel, slinging it over your shoulder with more force than necessary.

“well,” you said, voice tight. “i hope you have a great time at the showcase.”

felix blinked, eyes narrowing.

“coach is going to end up picking you anyway. let’s not pretend this is still a decision.” he opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could say a word. “so thanks for at least giving me a chance,”

you turned on your heel, your shoes squeaking faintly on the mat.

“y/n—” he called, stepping after you. “wait—let me walk you home.”

you froze with your hand on the door. “right. because i can’t even handle the sidewalk alone now, right? because that’d be too dangerous for someone like me?”

“that’s not what i meant,” he said, quickly. “i just—”

“i’m fine, felix,” you bit out. “i’ve always been fine.”

you yanked the door open. it slammed against the wall with a heavy, echoing thud.

and then, without waiting for him to try again,

you walked out.

the door shut behind you with a hollow click.

the night air hit harder than you expected.

cooler than it was earlier. sharper, too.

you tightened your grip on your duffel strap and kept your head down, letting the fluorescent gym lights fade behind you. the quiet was jarring after hours of shouting, movement, sweat hitting the mats. now it was just your footsteps on concrete. just the sound of your breath, still not quite steady.

you walked fast. because you were mad.

mad at felix. mad at yourself. mad at the fact that you’d even thought today could end differently.

your ankle ached with each step, a dull throb from sparring earlier, but you didn’t slow down. you didn’t want to give yourself time to think. not yet.

the sidewalk curved near the intersection—past the convenience store, a shuttered nail salon, and a tiny karaoke bar squished between two office buildings. the place you’d passed a hundred times with felix. usually loud, full of students after school, music bleeding out through the door.

but tonight, it was nearly empty.

just one guy outside, leaning against the side wall with his hoodie pulled up, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.

you wouldn’t have looked twice, except—

he turned slightly when you passed. like he heard your footsteps and recognized them.

and then he said your name.

“y/n?”

you slowed instinctively, brows furrowing as you turned.

he looked familiar. familiar in the way a name itched at the back of your mind.

you squinted in the glow of the pink neon light overhead. “sorry, do i know—”

“minjae,” he said, giving you a small, unreadable smile. “you probably don’t remember me.”

but you did. sort of.

you’d seen him at the academy when you were younger. he was a bit bigger. older. one of those students who always kicked a little too hard. you didn’t know much about him—just that one day, he was gone.

no warning. no goodbye.

and no one talked about it.

you’d asked once, and someone said, “he had issues.” that was it. like the words were enough to shut the whole thing down. now he was standing three feet in front of you, hands in his pockets, watching you with a look that made your spine go stiff.

“didn’t think you’d be walking alone,” he said. “not after hours.”

“i’m not far,” you replied, trying to keep your voice casual. “i live close.”

he nodded like he already knew that.

“i can walk you,” he offered. “if that’s okay.”

you hesitated.

everything in your gut told you to say no. but something about the way he said it—like he expected you to agree, like he was giving you permission to feel safe—froze your voice in your throat.

“…sure,” you said. “if you want.”

you hated the way it sounded when it left your mouth.

he smiled again. the two of you fell into step. the night felt quieter than usual—like the world had ducked out early, leaving you behind.

“so you’re still with the academy?” he asked, his voice easy. too easy.

you nodded. “yeah. still training.”

“and felix?” he asked, his gaze flicking sideways.

you paused for half a breath. “he’s good.”

minjae hummed. “still coach’s favorite?”

you didn’t answer.

“thought so,” he muttered. “guess nothing’s changed.”

you tried to shift the conversation. “what about you? where do you train now?”

he didn’t answer right away.

then: “i don’t.”

you looked at him. “oh?”

“yea, your dojang was the last one i went to. i got kicked out,” he said. like he was proud of it.

your stomach tightened. you slowed slightly, just a step, but he matched your pace without missing a beat.

you forced a laugh. “really?”

“mhm. put some kid in a coma.”

your blood ran cold.

“he didn't tap out,” he said. “at least not fast enough. or maybe i couldn’t stop. it’s kind of a blur.”

you stopped walking.

he didn’t.

he took another slow step toward you, and when he noticed you’d fallen behind, he turned—still smiling.

“you didn’t hear that part, huh?” he said.

your legs felt rooted to the pavement, your breath shallow in your chest.

minjae tilted his head, hands still shoved casually in his hoodie pocket like you were just two old friends on a walk.

“i’ve seen you walk home, you know,” he murmured. “after training. you always think no one’s watching.”

your blood ran cold.

“but you’ve always got felix on your tail,” he added with a crooked grin.

your jaw clenched. “you’ve been watching us?”

he smiled wider. “not always. just… when it felt right.” 

your fingers itched to move, to reach for your bag, your phone, something—but your feet still hadn’t moved. you didn’t want to provoke him. didn’t want to show fear. but your heart was thudding against your ribs so hard it felt like it might crack through.

“i mean, i get it,” he continued, ignoring you completely. “obviously, felix has to make sure no one gets too close, right? can’t have anyone messing up his little golden girl. not when he’s the only one who gets to keep you all polished up.” he mimicked the voice mockingly, then took another step toward you. 

“i think you should back up,” you said, voice low but steady. at least, you hoped it sounded steady.

he let out a quiet laugh, like your warning actually amused him. then he took another step. and another. and before you could even fully shift your stance, his hand shot out and he slammed you back against the wall. your shoulder cracked hard against the brick, and before you could react, his hand came up, flat against your mouth.

it was fast. brutal.

the street behind you was quiet, the sidewalk barely lit. no one around. the alley between the buildings was narrow—tight enough that it felt like a trap. and he knew it. 

panic flared sharp in your chest—but not enough to drown you.

because your body moved on instinct.

you brought your knee up hard, hitting groin, enough to make him grunt and lose balance for a second.

you twisted your wrist, yanking it free just enough to slip your hand up and drive your fist straight into the side of his face—knuckles connecting just beneath his eye.

he stumbled and swore.

you ducked, slipped out of the corner, and dropped your duffel bag in the same motion.

he came at you again.

no control. just pure aggression.

you blocked the first wild punch. dodged the second. landed a kick to his ribs—but he recovered too fast.

he lunged, grabbed the front of your jacket, and shoved you again. your head hit the wall this time,.

“bitch,” he spat, eyes dark, wild. “you think you can fight me? you think that fancy footwork means anything out here?”

you tried to move—tried to dodge—but he was heavier, and faster than you expected in that moment. all that training, all that discipline, and it still didn’t matter when someone was wild enough to throw everything out the window.

his other hand reached up, fumbling along the ledge just above your head.

you didn’t realize what he was grabbing for—until your eyes followed the motion.

there. a broken brick, half-buried in dust, tucked between chipped plaster and rusted railing. left behind from old construction.

his fingers curled around it.

and your blood ran cold.

you thrashed, feet scraping against the wall, heart slamming in your chest—but his arm reared back.

he swung.

and missed your head.

the brick slammed into your shoulder with a sickening sound, and your body jolted with the force of it. pain shot down your arm—sharp, white-hot, paralyzing for a second. you gasped, as you crumpled slightly, the impact stealing your breath.

debris rained down—bits of plaster and grit stinging your face.

“shit,” minjae muttered, stumbling slightly.

you barely had time to blink before his arm went up again.

but he didn’t get the chance.

because something ripped him off you.

he was yanked backward so hard, he stumbled—crashed into the opposite wall. and then fists.

fists everywhere.

not wild like minjae’s. not undisciplined. but brutal.

felix.

minjae tried to stagger upright, off-balance, swaying like alcohol was finally catching up. he barely got his hands up before felix spun—one fluid motion, clean and fast—and landed a roundhouse kick to the side of his face so hard it echoed down the alley.

minjae’s body dropped like dead weight—slammed to the pavement, dazed, bleeding, barely able to move.

but felix didn’t stop.

he grabbed the front of minjae’s hoodie, dragged him halfway up, and punched—a sickening thud of knuckles on bone.

“you’re mental,” felix spat, voice shaking with fury. “you’re absolutely fucking mental—what the hell is wrong with you?”

another hit.

“you psycho piece of shit—”

another.

minjae gasped something. a plea, maybe. slurred and broken. but felix didn’t hear it.

or maybe he did, and he didn’t care.

you pressed yourself against the wall, breath shallow, shoulder throbbing, the cold concrete biting into your back as the shock finally started to settle into your bones.

you’d never seen him like this.

you didn’t know anyone could look like this.

minjae was barely conscious now—his body limp in felix’s grip, blood dripping from his nose, lip split, one eye already swelling shut. 

“felix,” you croaked.

he didn’t move.

“felix,” you said again, louder this time—your voice breaking.

still nothing. his jaw was locked, his body coiled, eyes wild and fixed on minjae like he hadn’t quite realized the fight was over.

you pressed your palm against the cold ground, tried to push yourself up, wincing as your shoulder flared with pain.

“lixie,” you shouted, panic rising in your chest now. “stop! you have to stop—he’s done, you’ll get in trouble—”

still no reaction.

so you did the only thing you could think of.

you reached up with your hand and yanked the back of his hood. hard.

felix spun around, eyes wild, breath ragged.

“what the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “you shouldn’t even be—don’t touch me right now,”

his hands twitched at his sides, fists still clenched.

you felt him shudder.

his eyes darted down, finally seeing you—really seeing you— the dust on your face, the way your arm was wrapped around your shoulder like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

and that’s when minjae started to crawl.

slow.

stumbling. bloody. but not unconscious.

felix moved like he was going to lunge again—but you caught his wrist.

“don’t.” you said softly.

you then looked at minjae dead in the eye—every nerve in your body on fire.

“leave,” you said. “now.”

his jaw clenched like he wanted to say something—wanted to blame, defend, spit—but nothing came out. just a nod. slow. he stumbled to his feet, swayed, and started limping down the alley without a word.

and he didn’t look back.

not once.

as soon as minjae disappeared around the corner, your body finally gave out.

the adrenaline drained like water from a cracked glass—fast, all at once. your knees buckled, and the sharp pulse in your shoulder flared violently.

felix moved faster than gravity.

he caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you like instinct. one arm cradled your back, the other held your good side carefully—like he was afraid if he touched too hard, you’d shatter.

“i’ve got you. you’re okay,” he murmured, breath still coming fast.

your head dropped to his shoulder, dizzy, lightheaded, but finally still. you could feel his heartbeat through his hoodie—racing, unsteady.

he opened his mouth to speak—

“stop,” you whispered.

his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “y/n—”

“no,” you said, weak but clear. “you’re gonna say ‘i told you so.’ you’re gonna say, ‘i told you not to come out here alone.’”

you felt his jaw shift where your forehead rested against him.

but he didn’t say that.

“i was so scared,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “i thought—” he broke off, his breath catching. “when i turned the corner, and i saw him over you—”

you felt his grip tighten, just slightly. not enough to hurt. just enough to make sure you felt it.

“i thought i was too late.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your cheek brushing his as you moved.

your voice was quieter now. “now you really think i’m weak.”

his eyes snapped to yours—wide, startled, like you’d just said the most backwards thing he’d ever heard.

“no,” he said immediately. “god—no.”

you looked away. “you saw what happened. you saw what i let him—”

“i know you fought,” he said, cutting you off, voice firm now.

he cupped your jaw gently, guiding your gaze back to him.

“i’ve never thought you were weak.”

you blinked, throat burning.

“not once.”

“then why—” you started, voice raw.

but you didn’t get to finish.

because felix leaned in and kissed you.

right there.

on the dirty, cracked pavement of an alley that still smelled like dust and blood and fear.

his lips crashed into yours with something desperate, something breaking—like he’d been holding it back for too long and couldn’t keep it down another second. it wasn’t perfect. it was messy and trembling and full of all the things he couldn’t say.

and for a second, you froze.

caught between pain and shock and the wild, spinning realization that he was kissing you.

then—

then you melted.

your fingers twisted into the front of his hoodie, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. because felix was holding you like you were something fragile and powerful all at once.

and for the first time all night, you didn’t feel broken.

you felt wanted.

felix pulled away first, barely—his forehead still pressed to yours, breath shallow, like he was scared the moment would vanish if he let it go too fast.

your eyes stayed closed for a second longer, lips parted, heartbeat still stuttering in your chest.

then you whispered, “come over.”

he blinked, just enough space between you now to see the confusion flicker in his eyes.

you swallowed. “to my place. so we can get cleaned up.”

you let out a shaky breath, and slowly, with his help, pushed yourself off the cold pavement.

the walk home was quiet.

your shoulder throbbed with every step, and felix stayed close the whole way, not touching you unless he had to, but always near. 

by the time you reached your front door, your hands were shaking too much to get the key in on the first try. felix took it gently from your fingers and opened the door himself.

your family was away—out of town for the weekend—so the house was still, lights dim, the kind of hush that made every sound feel louder. you motioned toward your room and he nodded, heading down the hall while you slipped into the bathroom.

the adrenaline had long since worn off.

you changed into a loose cami top, careful with your movements, but still winced when the fabric brushed your shoulder. then you caught sight of it in the mirror.

a bruise, already darkening, was blooming across your skin—spreading like a storm cloud across your collarbone and creeping toward the edge of your chest. a band aid stuck on where the brick had torn through skin.

then turned off the light and walked back down the hall.

your room was quiet when you stepped in. felix was sitting on the edge of your bed, hoodie discarded, head in his hands. he looked up when he heard you—eyes flicking quickly to your shoulder, then back to your face.

and he looked like he’d just been punched again.

you crossed the room slowly and sat down beside him.

“i cleaned it up a bit,” you said, voice low. “disinfected it, but… i’ll go to a clinic in the morning. just to be safe.”

felix didn’t respond right away.

he was staring down at your hands now—resting in your lap, still faintly trembling. his own were curled together, clenched so tightly his bandaged knuckles had gone pale.

“felix,” you said gently.

still nothing.

so you turned to look at him fully.

his jaw was tight. his throat moved like he was trying to swallow words that wouldn’t go down. and his eyes were glossy, wide, swimming with something awful and barely contained.

you reached out, hand brushing lightly over his clenched fist.

“it’s okay,” you said softly. “it could’ve been much worse.”

his shoulders slumped at your words, like the weight of what didn’t happen was finally crashing down on him. he let out a shaky breath, and your heart ached just watching him unravel—still so tightly wound even in your room, even after everything. you leaned forward and kissed him again.

not desperate like in the alley. not rushed, not trembling.

just full of love.

his lips met yours like a reflex. his hand lifted slowly to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned into you, like he didn’t know how to stop once he started.

“i’ve wanted you,” he whispered against your lips. “for so long.”

you smiled into the kiss, brushing your nose against his. “me too, felix.”

you kissed him again, a little deeper this time, and he breathed out like he’d been holding it in for years.

“you deserve everything,” he murmured between kisses, his forehead pressed to yours. “every chance, every opportunity. you were always so strong, always learned so quick.”

you stilled.

the words landed quietly in your chest, like a gentle weight settling where doubt used to live.

“you’re not weak.” he added. “i just… i couldn’t go against you because…”

he swallowed, voice barely a breath now.

“if i saw you as an opponent… then maybe i could’ve done it,” he said. “maybe i could’ve stepped on that mat and said yes.”

he looked at you then—really looked. eyes shining with something that had nothing to do with tears now. something heavier. deeper.

“even if i saw you as a friend i could have done it. but i don’t see you that way, y/n.”

your heart beat once—loud.

his voice dropped, low and unguarded. “i see you, and all i can think is how badly i want to kiss you. how badly i want you to want me like that, too.”

his hand found your knee, tentative but deliberate, fingers curling slightly like he wasn’t sure how far you’d let him go.

“i want to kiss you ‘til you forget what it felt like to be scared,” he said. “i want to feel you underneath me, all of you, every part—because i’ve never wanted anyone like this. not once.”

your breath caught.

“i couldn’t do it, not because i think you’re incapable,” felix continued, his voice rough with something barely held back. “but because i love you.”

he didn’t flinch when he said it—didn’t stammer, didn’t hide. just looked at you like he’d already known it for years, and tonight had finally broken the last wall between knowing and saying.

your lips parted, but no sound came out.

so he kept going.

“i think i’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen,” he whispered. “and i just… kept hoping you’d figure it out first. because i didn’t want to lose what we had. i didn’t want to screw it up.”

you blinked hard. once. twice. the tears were already gathering. your throat felt tight.

“i didn’t know,” you said, voice cracking, small and trembling. “i mean—i think i did. i just didn’t want to ruin it either. i didn’t want to be wrong.”

felix exhaled—relieved, pained, everything at once.

“i love you too,” you said, barely above a whisper. “god, i think i always have.”

and then it broke.

you folded into him, and he caught you like gravity, arms wrapping around your waist, your hands finding his shirt, clutching at him like you couldn’t get close enough. you buried your face in his neck and tears spilled.

and he held you.

held you like you were something sacred.

like everything he’d ever wanted had been right in front of him all along.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes wet, your mouth trembling.

and then you whispered, “you can have me.”

felix didn’t speak. he didn’t need to.

his lips pressed to yours again. his hands cupped your face first then slid down, fingers brushing the curve of your neck like he was memorizing the shape of you.

your hands moved too. hesitant at first, but then bolder, threading through his hair. it was still damp in places, soft between your fingers. you tugged lightly, and he let out a breath against your mouth that was half a moan, half a surrender.

his tongue swept into your mouth and you gasped softly against his lips, body tightening instinctively at the heat curling low in your belly. you hadn’t expected it to be like this—every kiss landing like a jolt straight down your spine, your hips shifting without thinking, seeking friction that wasn’t there yet.

and he noticed.

he pulled back a little, breathing hard, lips pink and swollen, eyes searching yours. his gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—and lingered.

he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. not the uniform. not the sweat. not the bruises or the pain. just your body—loose cami thin against your chest, nipples stiffening beneath the fabric, your thighs bare where you’d changed into sleep shorts, your skin still marked faintly from the alley and the fight. and somehow, he looked at you like you were untouched. like you were the best thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

your breath caught.

he touched the hem of your top gently, then looked up at you again. “have you ever done this before?”

you opened your mouth to speak—but no words came out at first.

instead, you shook your head once, slow. “not very much.”

you remembered his story. he’d hooked up with someone in his last year in highschool. you didn’t ask for details back then because it hadn’t been your business.

felix’s eyes stayed on yours, never darting away, even as his hand traced the hem of your cami, his fingers brushing just above your navel like he was testing how much of you he could touch without making you flinch.

“i’m gonna take care of you,” he whispered. “don’t worry.”

you nodded, breath shallow, chest rising fast beneath the thin fabric. the heat between your legs had returned tenfold, thick and pulsing, almost unbearable now that his mouth wasn’t on you. your thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to chase that pressure again.

felix noticed. he always noticed.

he leaned down and kissed you once—slowly, a kiss that lingered at the edges of your mouth like he didn’t want to leave any part of you untouched. his tongue slipped past your lips again, coaxing yours out with him, kissing you deeper until you whimpered against him.

his voice was barely audible. “can i take these off?”

he gestured to your shorts.

you nodded, heart pounding.

his hands were steady as he slid them down—past your hips, your thighs—until you lifted one leg, then the other, and they were gone. his eyes flicked up your body again, drinking in every inch. you could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs—hot and wet now, your core aching with anticipation. 

his breath warmed the skin of your inner thigh as he sank down between your legs, his broad palms gliding slowly up the outside of your thighs to your hips, then back down again, deliberate and steady like he was grounding you, like he wanted every nerve in your body humming in anticipation. you were down to just your panties now—thin, soft cotton clinging wet between your legs, the fabric nearly translucent in the low light.

felix settled between your knees, kneeling at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw tight with restraint. his hands curled around your thighs and gently pushed them wider, the mattress shifting beneath your hips as you let him spread you open. you bit your lip, your heart hammering. his eyes never left your body.

then he leaned in.

at first, it was just his breath against your core—hot and steady, making your thighs tremble. and then his nose nudged gently against the damp spot between your legs, his mouth still just hovering, teasing. he inhaled, a sound low in his throat.

“mmm.” his eyes fluttered shut for a second. “you’re soaked,”

his fingers slid up the inside of your thighs again, brushing the elastic edges of your panties, then tracing along the drenched fabric—one stroke, featherlight, straight over your slit. your back arched instinctively, a gasp catching in your throat.

felix looked up at you again, eyes dark.

“yes,” you breathed. “please.”

his fingers curled around the sides of your panties and began to pull them down—inch by inch, excruciatingly slow. the wet fabric peeled away from your heat, sticking slightly before slipping down your thighs. you lifted your hips to help him, and he slid them down past your knees, your calves, and finally let them fall to the floor.

and then he just stared.

like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“fuck,” he whispered, blinking slowly, almost dazed. “look at you…”

you flushed under the weight of his gaze, instinctively starting to move your legs to close—but his hands came up immediately, pressing gently on your thighs to keep them open.

“no. let me see you,” he said, his voice low and thick. “you’re perfect. so fucking perfect.”

his fingers ghosted back up your thighs, then parted you gently, and his breath hitched again.

“you’re dripping,” he said, almost to himself.

and then he leaned in.

he kissed your pussy—lips plush against your folds, his tongue just barely tasting at first. you gasped at the contact, your hips jerking, thighs tensing under his hands—but he moaned in response, hands tightening just enough to keep you steady.

“oh my god, felix—”

he didn’t answer. he didn’t need to. his tongue dragged up from your entrance, slow and sure, then circled your clit in gentle, teasing flicks. your back arched hard, and your hand flew down to his hair again, gripping the strands tight. he moaned when you did it—like the taste of you and the feeling of your fingers pulling at his scalp were driving him insane.

felix’s tongue was still moving, slow and insistent, when he suddenly paused—pulling back just enough to lift his face from between your thighs, his mouth slick with your arousal, lips parted, chest rising fast.

“you okay?” he said, voice low and rough, almost hoarse.

the absence of his tongue made your whole body twitch, your hips instinctively lifting like you could pull him back by gravity alone. your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, breath catching as you blinked down at him, cheeks flushed and heart pounding.

“yes,” you whispered. “i’m good—i’m… so good.” your voice wavered slightly, thick with need, but the truth burned behind every word. “i’ve wanted this for so long, felix.”

his eyes lit up—hungry, molten, tender.

“yeah?” he murmured. “been thinking about me down here?”

you whimpered, thighs trying to close from the ache. he grinned.

then he dove back in.

no hesitation this time. he tilted his head, shaking it just slightly side to side as he pushed deeper—his nose pressing tight against your mound, his tongue flat and wide as he licked straight up through your folds, deep and slow and relentless.

“ah, fuck—!” you cried out, hips lifting again.

and then—he pushed his tongue in.

he fucked you with it, wet and slow, making obscene, soaked sounds as your pussy clenched around nothing but his mouth. the tip of his tongue flexed as he pushed in again and again, steady, deliberate, your breath breaking on every push.

“felix—”

he groaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your whole core. his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you wide and open while his face stayed buried in your cunt, his jaw slick, tongue working like he was obsessed with the way you tasted, the way you moved, the way you shook every time he stroked just right.

he pulled out, licking a long, slow path all the way up your slit.

when he reached your clit, he swirled his tongue in perfect circles—each one just slightly firmer than the last. your fingers yanked his hair hard again, but he only hummed and pressed deeper.

he latched onto your clit again and sucked.

your entire body bowed off the bed with the force of it. his tongue flicked beneath the suction, hot and wet and insistent, your entire world collapsing to the point of contact between his mouth and your pulsing clit.

and he didn’t stop.

he moaned into your pussy, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through every inch of you as he kept sucking, kept devouring, his tongue flicking in tight, practiced strokes. you could barely breathe, your hips rolling against his mouth, thighs trembling so hard you thought you might snap in half.

then he did it again—shook his head side to side, slow at first, then deeper, rougher, like he was trying to burrow into you, nuzzling against your pussy with pressure. your voice cracked open while your vision blurred.

that knot you knew too well from your own fingers under the covers, from those nights spent grinding into your palm with the lights off and felix’s name buried in your throat—was back. but this time, it wasn’t your imagination. it wasn’t your hand. it was him. his tongue. his mouth. his everything.

and it was so much better.

the feeling was sharp, coiled, rising fast. you gasped, moaned, writhed under him, the sweat slicking your chest, your hands sliding from the sheets back into his hair again, anchoring yourself to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“felix—” you panted, voice breaking, hips arching, “i'm gonna— i'm so close—”

so he didn’t speak. he didn’t risk it.

because if he said a word, if he so much as whispered your name, you’d lose it completely. and he wanted to guide you through it. wanted to feel you come undone beneath him.

so he just stayed right there, face buried in your cunt, lips suctioned around your clit with steady, maddening precision, tongue flicking faster now in that exact rhythm that had your whole body twitching. his hands gripped your thighs tight, grounding you, holding you open, thumbs brushing your skin in strokes—soothing in contrast to the ferocity of his mouth.

you sobbed—high, strangled.

your fingers clutched his hair like a lifeline, but you didn’t pull. you couldn’t. you were too far gone. your eyes rolled back as your vision blurred and your back arched, heels digging into the mattress, body drawing taut like a bow.

he felt it.

felt you tighten. felt your cunt pulse.

your orgasm ripped through you like fire.

you convulsed under him, crying out loud and broken, your body seizing in wave after wave of climax that felt like it would never end.

he guided you through it and stayed steady. his hands never let go. his tongue never missed a beat. and when your cries turned to gasping whimpers, when the shudders slowed, when your limbs finally collapsed back into the mattress, trembling and spent—

only then did he lift his head.

his lips were swollen, slick with you, chin wet, cheeks flushed. he looked at you like he’d just seen something holy. his eyes met yours.

your chest was still rising in quick, shallow breaths, your whole body humming with the echoes of release. muscles twitching, skin flushed, your legs limp where they’d once locked around his head. you felt wrecked—completely, thoroughly undone.

but when he leaned back in—his tongue sliding gently over your folds again, licking up the mess he’d made—you gasped, hips flinching. it was too much. the heat, the slick softness of his mouth against your overstimulated clit. your fingers twitched on the sheets, not from want but sheer sensitivity. and still, you didn’t tell him to stop. you whimpered instead, high and breathless, body twitching as he licked you clean.

you whimpered again when his tongue passed over your clit—just a brush this time, a flick more tease than touch.

you looked up at him through your lashes when he came back up to your level. he was gorgeous like this—his face flushed, his hair mussed where your hands had tangled in it, his mouth swollen.

“you were so good,” he said in awe. “so good for me.”

your cheeks burned at the praise. your body ached. but underneath the exhaustion, something else was burning now.

because you wanted more.

you wanted him.

you bit your lip, your voice barely a whisper. “felix…”

his brow furrowed gently, and he dipped lower, brushing his nose against yours. “yeah?”

you swallowed. your legs shifted beneath him, and the motion dragged your thigh against something hard.

oh.

he was hard—so hard, so ready, the press of him against your hip hot and solid and impossible to ignore.

and you wanted it. desperately.

“i want you,” you breathed.

his eyes darkened instantly. his jaw clenched. “yeah?”

you nodded, slow and steady, heart pounding all over again. “i want you inside of me.”

he exhaled like he’d been holding it in for hours. his hips rocked against you once—barely controlled—and you felt the full length of him, thick and pulsing, pressed against your thigh through his boxers.

“you sure?” he asked, voice husky. 

“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want it. i want you.”

he leaned in and kissed you again—slower this time, more grounded, but still with that same edge of hunger curling just beneath the surface. his lips moved against yours like he already knew what came next. like he was already imagining it.

felix pulled back just slightly, just enough to see you fully, his eyes scanning your face like he was checking every breath, every signal, every heartbeat.

“you can do it.” he murmured,

but then you followed his gaze—down to where his hips hovered just above yours, the hard line of him straining visibly against the fabric of his sweatpants, the tip already darkening the cotton with pre-come.

your mouth parted. and slowly—your hands moved.

he didn't flinch when your fingers found the waistband of his sweats, didn’t stop you when you pushed them down inch by inch, the elastic dragging low over his hips, revealing skin, then more, then—

you swallowed hard.

his cock sprang free the second you tugged his boxers past his thighs. thick. hard. long and flushed and glistening at the tip. he was perfect—desperately hard and twitching in your palm before you’d even touched him properly.

you looked up at him once, silently asking.

he nodded, jaw locked, chest rising.

so you wrapped your hand around him.

he shuddered the moment your fingers closed around his shaft—his whole body jolting like he’d been electrocuted, breath catching sharp in his chest.

then—like he was pulling himself out of a trance—he shifted, reaching one hand blindly toward the floor, fingers groping for the edge of his jacket. he pulled it closer, found something in the zipper pocket—a small foil packet.

you stopped him.

your hand curled around his wrist, gentle.

“it’s okay,” you said softly.

his eyes locked on yours. “y/n—”

“i’m on the pill,” you murmured. “i trust you.”

his lips parted. for a second, he didn’t speak—just stared at you like you’d said something sacred. something that made his whole body go still.

and then he dropped the packet to the floor.

he hovered over you, breath hot and trembling against your lips, one arm braced beside your head while the other reached down, steadying himself. but he paused, just barely, the tip of his cock resting against your soaked entrance, heat pulsing between your bodies like a current too charged to touch.

his eyes locked on yours again—wild, tender, reverent.

“are you sure?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, like asking cost him.

you nodded.

slow. certain.

your hand rose to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his flushed cheekbone. “i’ve never been more sure.”

he inhaled sharply—and let it out in a broken moan. not quiet. not restrained. just raw, honest sound spilling from somewhere deep inside him.

“okay,” he breathed. “okay. then you go for it, baby.”

his head dropped for a second, forehead pressing to yours, his whole body shaking with the force of trying to hold back. you felt him twitch against your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging just slightly into your folds, dragging through your wetness.

you blinked up at him, dazed. “what?”

he pulled back just slightly, his hand guiding himself again, lining up with your pussy, the swollen head pressing flush against your entrance. and then he looked you dead in the eyes.

“you take me,” he said. “however slow you need. however deep you want. you do it.”

and he meant it. his voice didn’t shake this time. his gaze didn’t falter. he wanted you to be in control. even now—especially now.

so you reached down with one trembling hand and wrapped your fingers around his cock again, guiding him back down between your thighs. you could feel the heat of him, the size of him—heavy and thick and so fucking real.

your breath caught as you positioned him, the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance now.

he moaned again—guttural this time, a sound pulled from deep in his chest.

“god, you feel so warm already,”

you pushed your hips up, slow, and felt him begin to breach you.

just the tip.

the stretch burned.

sharp, but not unbearable. not when he was watching you like that—eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

you gasped, and he stilled.

“you good?” he whispered.

you nodded—bit your lip, adjusted, let yourself breathe.

then you did it again. this time he met you halfway

pushed up another inch. took more of him. 

and he groaned—low and long, head dropping to your shoulder as his arms tensed beside you.

“oh my goodness, y/n—”

you were so wet, so tight, every inch of him dragging against nerves you hadn’t known could feel like this. the pressure was intense, dizzying, your body opening inch by inch to take him in.

and he let you do it.

let you set the pace.

let you guide him in, until you were gasping and whimpering and his cock was buried almost halfway, throbbing and hot, your walls pulsing around him like your body didn’t know how to handle it all.

“you’re doing so good,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “so fucking good—keep going, baby, if you can.”

you braced your hands against his shoulders, breath shallow, thighs trembling. the last stretch was the hardest—your body pulsing around the thick base of him, nerves lit up everywhere, tight and aching, every part of you drawn taut with the strain of holding him there.

but you wanted this. all of it.

you shifted your hips, exhaling slowly as you pushed upward—one more inch. then another. until he bottomed out.

he was buried to the hilt now, thick and hot and pulsing inside your cunt, your walls stretched around him so tight he could barely breathe. his hands trembled where they gripped your waist, holding himself still—barely—like one more twitch would break the world in half.

“y/n,” he choked out, voice guttural. “you’re so tight, baby, so tight—i can barely—” he bit down on the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched like a vice.

your fingers flexed against his back, and you nodded, panting through the ache, through the pressure. “it’s okay,” you whispered. “you can move. please—move.”

his eyes snapped open. he searched your face, breath still ragged, and nodded slowly.

then he pulled out—just an inch, then another—and pushed back in.

the drag of him inside you, even that small motion, lit your body up from the inside. the friction was perfect. unrelenting. he filled every inch, stretched you to your limit, and your pussy clung to him like your body didn’t want to let go.

felix whispered. “i can slow down.”

he pulled out again, just enough to make you feel empty, then slid back in deeper. you cried out, clinging to him now, hips tilting up to meet him, chasing it.

“faster, you can go faster,” you gasped.

he obeyed.

his pace quickened, still careful but less restrained now—his cock thrusting into you with a slick, wet rhythm, your soaked pussy gripping him like a vice with every motion. the room echoed with the sound of your bodies—flesh on flesh, breathless cries, the obscene, soaking drag of his cock through your tight cunt.

“fuck,” he growled. “this pussy is taking me so good, like it was made for me.”

your head tipped back, a fresh moan spilling from your lips. “it was—”

his hips stuttered.

something flickered across his face then—darker, hungrier.

“you don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured. “you think i haven’t thought about this? all those nights jerking off with your name in my throat.”

you whimpered.

he leaned over you more fully, chest brushing your breasts, one hand sliding up to cradle your face while he kept thrusting into you—slow now, deeper, grinding into you with each roll of his hips.

“you’re letting me ruin you,” he whispered. “god, you’re so wet for it.”

you moaned—high, trembling, helpless. “i love you—”

his rhythm faltered, but only for a second.

“say it again,” he demanded, voice thick.

“i love you,” you sobbed, clinging to him as your body started to coil again, pressure building low and hot and desperate. “i love you, felix, please don’t stop—”

he didn’t.

he fucked you harder now—not rough—but deep, fast, each thrust grinding right into your tightest spot, your pussy clenching around him like you couldn’t bear to let go. he shifted his angle slightly, driving into you from just a little lower, and your whole body jerked.

your breath tore out of you. "felix—!"

this wasn’t the soft spread of orgasm he’d coaxed out with his mouth. this was different. sharper. hotter. it burned from the inside out, like he was hammering that sweet bundle of nerves over and over again, your orgasm uncoiling too fast.

and he saw it.

he felt it.

his hand dropped between you, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, two slick digits rubbing tight little circles as he thrust deep, dragging your soaked pussy right against his knuckles every time.

“give it to me, y/n,” he growled, voice raw and low in your ear. “come on. i know that look—you’re right there. like when you break that last board—focus. let go. fucking give it to me.”

you couldn’t hold back.

it slammed into you—fast, sharp, blinding—your entire body locking, then releasing, the pleasure exploding out of you with a cry that tore your throat raw.

your orgasm ripped through your pelvis.

a hot gush of slick pulsed out of you, soaking his cock, his fingers, the sheets beneath you. you cried out, shaking violently, back arching off the bed, vision going white as your body convulsed through it.

felix choked on a groan, grinding his hips deep into your trembling pussy as he held you there, watching it happen, feeling you squirt on him.

“fuck, baby—oh my god—”

he didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop working your clit, didn’t stop fucking that spot, chasing every last drop of that orgasm.

your breath was ragged, your voice barely there, but the words came anyway—raw, open, needy.

“come inside me, felix,” you whispered, your nails dragging lightly down his back. “i want to feel it. i want all of you.”

he growled—actually growled—a sound ripped from deep in his chest, something dark and unfiltered and desperate.

“you want my cum, baby?” he panted, hand sliding down to grip your thigh, holding you wide open beneath him. “you want me to ruin you for everyone else?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes, felix, please—do it, come inside me—”

that broke him.

he fucked into you hard—once, twice, three more brutal strokes—and then froze, every muscle in his body locking as he buried himself to the base.

he groaned loud into your neck and you felt it.

felt the heat flood inside you, pulse after pulse of release spilling into your still-clenching pussy. he rocked through it, hips twitching, groaning your name as he filled you completely, your slick and his cum mixing deep inside you, dripping between your thighs.

he stayed like that, chest heaving, cock twitching, holding you close as the last waves of it ran through him.

you lay there, breath shallow and scattered, limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything. you felt him still buried inside you, twitching gently, his length softening but still locked within your body like he couldn’t bear to leave just yet.

you were dazed.

and when you blinked up at him—his hair sweat-damp and wild, his chest rising fast, his eyes fixed on you like you were everything—he smiled, slow and aching.

“my girl,” he whispered, voice rough. he pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. your heart thudded.

and when he leaned back just enough to see your face, brushing a thumb down your jaw. “i love you.”

the words cracked something wide open in you.

you reached up, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him back down into a kiss—lips barely moving because you didn’t have the strength to make it anything more. but it said enough.

you pulled back, breath caught, eyes wide and glassy.

“i love you too, felix.” you touched his cheek. “stay over?”

his answer came without hesitation.

he nodded.

then pressed another kiss to your lips—brief, tender—before slowly, carefully pulling out. you winced slightly, and he soothed you immediately, whispering quiet things under his breath.

“sorry, baby, i got you, just relax.”

you felt him drip out of you and you shivered at the sensation, more from how intimate it felt than anything else.

felix padded to your bathroom and when he came back, he was gently kneeling beside the bed and wiping between your legs.

he kissed your knee, then slipped out quietly. you heard the bath running. when he returned, he lifted you gently from the bed, carrying you into the bathroom. later, he curled into bed beside you.

arms around your waist. breath on your neck.

the world faded.

only him. only you.

you were breathing hard—sweat dripping down your temple, your pulse pounding in your ears, muscles burning from effort. the match had dragged longer than expected. every counter was faster, every feint smarter. your opponent wasn’t backing down.

and neither were you.

a front kick met your side—hard but clean. you spun with it, dropping into a low stance to recover, your feet sliding against the mat. a beat passed. then another.

your opponent came at you again. you blocked, pivoted, struck out with a side kick, but he ducked low and swept your leg—not enough to knock you down, just enough to unbalance. you hissed through your teeth and shot forward, aiming a punch straight toward his ribs.

suddenly, he shifted left.

and his arm hit your good shoulder.

your breath caught as you staggered back half a step.

and that’s when he moved in.

one clean motion. a grappling combo you’d seen before—but rarely felt like this.

your opponent took you down.

and suddenly, the world tilted. you were flat on your back, shoulders pinned, your breath knocked clean out of your chest. 

you stayed still for half a second, blinking up at them, the lights glaring in your peripheral.

then you tapped out. quick, three times.

the pressure eased immediately.

he rolled off with practiced ease and leaned over, hand rubbing your back softly.

“good match,” he murmured.

you pushed up slowly, breath still shallow, shoulder aching just a bit where the blow had landed. but you couldn’t help the half-smile that pulled at your lips.

coach stepped forward from the sideline. “nice takedown, felix.”

you huffed a short laugh. “finally,” you muttered, shooting felix a sideways look.

he grinned sheepishly, cheeks pink. his hair was soaked, plastered to his forehead, and his uniform clung to his back with sweat. but his eyes were sparkling.

coach added, “that’s the only one you’ve taken so far.”

felix scratched the back of his neck. “yeah, well. i’m pacing myself.”

you chuckled and reached out, smacking his arm lightly. “i let you have that one.”

he caught your hand before it dropped, squeezed it once.

then let it go.

the coach stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest, gaze unreadable as it flicked between the two of you.

you both turned toward him, sweat still clinging to your necks, uniforms rumpled and streaked with dust from the mats. you and felix both reached up and took off your helmets.

the coach paused for a beat. then:

“i’ve made my decision.”

your heart jumped into your throat. felix straightened beside you, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

the coach looked at you. “y/n.”

there was a pause.

“sir…?”

coach nodded. “you’ve been consistent. adaptable. fast. you held your ground every time. you’ve proved yourself.”

“i was holding back in the others,” felix said quickly. “can we have one more match?”

the coach didn’t soften. “you gave your best in that last one. and so did she. decision’s final.”

felix didn’t argue. just stood there, chest rising, then falling, as something in him settled.

he turned to you.

you were still staring at him with a worried expression. but he smiled.

small. honest.

“i’m not gonna lie and say i’m not crushed,” he said, laughing under his breath. “because i am.”

your lips curled into a smile.

“but,” he added, eyes locked on yours, “i’m also really fucking proud of you.”

your throat was tight, but the smile pulled at your face anyway, a little shaky. you turned to the coach and bowed.

“thank you, sir. really.”

coach gave a short nod, then glanced down at his clipboard. but not before you caught the faintest curve of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you turned back to felix and threw your arms around his neck without thinking. his hands came around your waist instantly before he lifted you.

your feet left the mat, your arms tightening in surprise as a small yelp escaped your lips. “felix!”

he laughed, that full-throated, breathless sound you hadn’t heard since you were kids.

as felix set you down, you caught it.

the coach.

still watching.

his eyes flicked from you to felix, then back again.

you furrowed your brows. “what?”

“nothing,” coach said, too quickly, a smile tugging at his lips. “just… you two make a good team.”

your eyes narrowed. “no, what was that look?”

“look?” he repeated, feigning innocence like a man who definitely was not innocent.

you glanced at felix. he was already biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh, failing miserably. his ears were turning pink.

you turned back to the coach. “sir—”

“good work today,” he said, backing off. “see you both tomorrow.”

and he disappeared into his office, closing the door behind him.

you stared after him, then slowly turned to felix.

you groaned into your hands. “god.”

felix laughed, gently peeling your hands away from your face as his eyes flicked past you for half a second. a little group of junior belts was trailing through the far hallway, chattering and bouncing off the walls like they’d just mainlined sugar.

he looked back at you, mischief blooming across his face. his hand still held yours.

and then—without warning—he kissed you.

right there in the middle of the mats, with the scent of floor cleaner and sweat still in the air and your chest protector half-hanging off your side.

your eyes widened.

you made an undignified squeak into his mouth and instantly melted against him.

then you grabbed his hand.

felix barely had time to register it before you were tugging him down the hall, past the main mat, into one of the empty practice rooms. the second the door shut behind you—

click.

he had you against the wall.

your belt hit the floor.

seungmin sits on the floor of his bedroom, his legs folded beneath him, a roll of wrapping paper unspooling slowly across the carpet. he presses the edge down with his knee so it doesn’t curl back up, concentrating like he’s handling something fragile, priceless, which in a way, he is.

the gift sits in the middle of the paper, small, simple, but chosen with a level of care no one would guess from the outside. he turns it over once more, checking that everything’s perfect even though he’s done this five times already.

his fingers hesitate before folding the paper. he wants it to look nice. he wants it to feel special. but most of all, he wants you to smile when you see it, really smile, the way you do when something touches your heart without warning.

his chest tightens a little at the thought. he shouldn’t think about you like that. or maybe he should, he doesn’t know anymore.

but he knows this: it’s been almost two weeks since he picked your name from the basket during the group’s secret santa draw, and no one else seemed even remotely suspicious of the way his ears turned red the second he unfolded the slip of paper.

he forces himself to breathe out slowly, tugging the tape closer. he wraps the first edge neatly, then the second.

“okay”, he mutters under his breath, “don’t mess this up”

he folds the corners with surgeon-like precision but his hands still tremble slightly, because he keeps imagining your hands touching his, holding the gift, unwrapping it, discovering what he’s spent so long choosing.

it’s not expensive or flashy. it’s not something anyone else would guess means anything.

but it’s so perfectly you.

he found it tucked on the bottom shelf of the tiny shop you love - the one with the warm yellow lights and the soft music that always plays in the background. a place that for him is basically made of your smile now. the shop that you always drag him into every time you pass it saying “seungmin, look at this, isn’t it cute?”, and he always replies something like “it’s okay”, while secretly thinking that nothing in the shop is as cute as you and the way you say that.

he told himself he wouldn’t get too sentimental about a secret santa gift. 

he told himself you’d never notice the meaning anyway.

so why is his heart beating so fast now?

he ties the ribbon carefully and when he finishes the bow, he stares at it for a long moment. he wants to believe you’ll like it, he wants to believe it’ll make you happy in the way he’s always trying to without ever saying too much. but that’s the thing: you’re just friends. best friends. close enough that sometimes he forgets you’re not his, not really, not in the way he dreams of when he’s stupidly tired or overly sentimental.

he catches himself smiling and looks away as if the walls might judge him for it.

“you’re ridiculous”, he says quietly, tugging another piece of tape, fixing one last edge that didn’t need fixing.

ridiculous for caring this much.

ridiculous for hoping this hard.

ridiculous for loving you like this while pretending everything’s normal.

ridiculous for hoping you would ever feel the same way. 

he adds a little tag with your name in it and then places the gift gently beside him, his thumbs brushing the ribbon once more, almost nervous to let go of it now that it’s done.

“i hope… i hope she likes it”, he whispers to the empty room.

he lets out a slow breath, a breath that deflates his whole chest, and finally pulls his hand away from the wrapped box. leaving it there on the carpet feels strangely difficult, like walking away from something delicate. but he does it - carefully, reluctantly - and pushes himself up to stand up.

the room is quiet, dim except for the desk lamp glowing in the corner. he crosses over to it, dragging his sleeves over his cold hands as he sits down. the chair squeaks softly under him, familiar, worn in by nights he spent writing, thinking too much.

usually, before bed, he reaches for his diary and writes a few lines about his day. simple, neat, controlled, the way seungmin likes things to be.

but tonight is different.

his fingers hover over the drawer, then pause. instead of taking out his diary, he reaches for a blank sheet of paper from the stack beside it. he doesn’t know why he picks it. maybe he’s too full tonight, maybe the wrapping, the ribbon, the thoughts he tried not to think… maybe all of it has cracked something open.

he sits there for a moment, staring at the empty page, waiting for the usual logic to settle back into place.

it doesn’t.

his pen touches the paper before he even decides to move it. one sentence. then another. then one more. words spill out of him quietly, the way snow is falling outside his room - soft, steady, without fanfare, no way to stop them.

he writes about you.

about the first time he met you, when you accidentally bumped into him and apologised four times, your cheeks warm, your smile shy, and he tried to pretend his heart didn’t stop for a full second.

he writes about your laugh, the loud one you let out only when you’re with people you trust, the one he secretly tries to make happen because it feels like being let into a part of you not everyone gets to see.

he writes about your kindness. how you notice small things, how you listen, how you are there whenever he needs you, how you make him feel seen in ways he doesn’t think he deserves.

he writes about how scared he is. how long he’s been scared. how he loves you more than he should, more than he ever planned to, more than he knows how to handle.

the words come faster, truer, and by the time he sits back, his fingers trembling around the pen, he realises he’s written far more than a simple entry. the page is filled from top to bottom, messy in a way he never allows himself to be, raw in a way he never admits out loud.

his heart stutters.

because it’s not a ramble or a diary entry.

it’s a confession.

a full, unfiltered confession letter. every memory. every feeling he’s tried to hide.

“what… what am i doing?”, he breathes out, his eyes widening at the page.

he reads the first lines again and his stomach twists. he doesn’t know whether to laugh or panic. maybe both. because for one single second - just a tiny, foolish, painful, hopeful second - he imagines himself giving it to you. imagines you reading it. imagines-

no.

no, no, no.

the hope surges too quickly, too recklessly, and he forces himself to shut it down before it grows sharp enough to hurt.

you’re friends, that’s all you’ll ever be, and you’re too important to lose.

he swallows, pressing a palm to his forehead.

“i can’t”, he murmurs to himself, shaking his head, “i can’t give her this”

but still… he can’t throw it away either.

after a long moment, he takes an empty envelope, carefully folds the letter, his hands slow and gentle, and slides the paper inside. he doesn’t seal it. he just closes the flap and places the envelope on his desk, face down.

out of sight but not out of mind. never out of mind.

he exhales shakily. the gift still sits where he left it. he walks over, kneels to pick it up, and for a moment, his eyes flicker to the letter again. for a heartbeat, he wonders what would happen if they stayed together. gift on top, letter underneath. the truth tucked somewhere beneath your gift.

but the thought hurts too much.

he places the gift gently on top of the letter anyway - not because he intends to give you both, but because somehow it feels right for tonight, like these two pieces of him belong in the same place, at least for a while.

“good night”, he whispers softly, not to the room, but maybe to the letter, maybe to the feelings he doesn’t know what to do with, maybe to the image of you glowing in his mind.

he turns off the desk lamp.

the room falls into darkness except the faint glow of the streetlights outside, painting thin lines across the walls. he climbs into bed slowly, pulling the blanket to his chest, curling onto his side.

he closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come right away. instead, he thinks of you and the soft sting in his chest settles into something quiet and familiar. he wishes, foolishly, that you could love him back the way he loves you. he also wishes he didn’t wish that.

as he finally drifts, weakly fighting it, the letter on his desk stays under the wrapped gift, a hidden truth lying still in the dark.

thinking of you is the last thing he does before sleep pulls him under.

the days slip by faster than he expects - recordings, rehearsals, meetings, practices stacked one over another - and the night he wrote that letter feels strangely far away now. he hasn’t looked at the letter since, hasn’t touched it, hasn’t even let himself think too much about it.

maybe that’s why it’s so easy to forget it’s still on his desk, under your gift.

the day of the secret santa dinner arrives before he’s ready for it. he rushes back to the dorm he shares with felix after some outfit test at the company, for which he was the last member, which means he’s in a rush now.

“you’re late”, felix calls from the living room, sprawled on the sofa with half a cookie in his hand.

“i know”, seungmin says, already passing him and heading straight to the bathroom, “i’ll try to be quick”

the shower is quick and hurried. he dries his hair as fast as he can, throws on a soft sweater and jeans, and checks the clock. felix appears at the bathroom door with a dramatic sigh.

“they’re already texting. you know how han gets when he has to wait for us to eat”

“i know”, seungmin says, biting back a smile as he pats his pockets, “i’m almost ready”