whatever the outcome may be

Usually, he would clean up at the end of the day. Tools back on their racks, surfaces wiped down, trash taken out. It was muscle memory by now, the only kind of order he kept in his life. But tonight, he couldn’t even bring himself to move. He sat slouched on the stool by his workbench, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.

Ara’s face kept flashing in his mind. The wide-eyed curiosity she’d shown when she peeked under the hood with him. The way she clutched that damn bunny. The way she’d smiled when she thanked him. It shouldn’t mean anything. She was just a kid. Your kid with someone else. That’s what he’d been telling himself over and over since he first saw her. But Chan’s voice wouldn’t leave him alone.

"She’s what.. four? Maybe five? And how long ago did she leave?"

The math was too neat. Too precise. He couldn’t stop running it in his head like some sick equation.

Four. Five. Five years ago. And then there was you.

The way you wouldn’t look at him too long. The way you spoke to him like every word was a burden, like you were terrified of even being in the same room.

If you were with someone, why hadn’t he seen them? Why hadn’t you mentioned a name? Jisung scrubbed his hands over his face, dragging down to his jaw. His chest ached, his stomach churned. Would you have told him?

He wanted to believe yes. That even after the screaming fights, the broken promises, the ugly breakup, you wouldn’t have hidden something that big. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t spiteful. But then again… you hadn’t so much as texted him in five years. Not once. You couldn’t even look him in the eye last night. And tonight, when you stormed off after the argument, the disgust in your expression had been like a knife in his gut.

Maybe you wouldn’t have told him. Maybe you thought he didn’t deserve to know.

Jealousy clawed its way back up, raw and bitter. You had someone else now. A boyfriend. Maybe a husband. He’d told himself that was the only reason you moved on, that was why Ara existed. But if Chan was right, if Ara wasn’t someone else’s daughter then what the hell did that mean?

He gripped the edge of the workbench so hard his knuckles turned white. The ragged thoughts tangled together until he couldn’t breathe.

Would you be furious if he showed up? Probably. Would you slam the door in his face? Definitely. But would you finally tell him the truth? He didn’t think. He didn’t weigh it out. He didn’t plan it.

One moment he was staring at the floor, chest heaving with the storm in his head, and the next he was grabbing his jacket, shoving his arms through the sleeves. His keys clattered in his hand, his boots heavy against the concrete as he stalked toward the door.

He didn’t bother with the cleanup. Didn’t bother shutting down the tools. He only locked the shop out of habit before climbing into his car.

The engine roared to life, headlights slicing through the dark night as he pulled onto the road. His grip on the wheel was tight, his pulse loud in his ears.

You wouldn’t like it. He knew that. Hell, he’d probably regret it later. But the thought of sitting in that shop one more second, haunted by your face and Ara’s laugh, made him feel like he was going to crawl out of his own skin.

So he drove. Toward your house. Toward answers.

-

The house was quiet, eerily so. Ara had finally drifted off after her usual protests about bedtime, curled around the little blanket she’d agreed to sleep with. You had tiptoed out of her room, relieved when her breathing evened out, and closed the door softly behind you.

For the first time all day, the silence felt like yours.

You padded barefoot into the living room, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound in the house. The bottle of wine waiting on the counter caught your eye. You didn’t drink often, especially not since Ara came along but tonight, after the chaos of tantrums, you needed something to take the edge off.

The glass was half-empty by the time you curled into the couch with a book you weren’t actually reading. The words blurred, your mind circling everything you were trying not to think about him.

Han Jisung.

Even saying his name in your head made your chest tighten. Seeing him again had already undone so much progress you thought you’d made over the years. You hated how easily his presence still got under your skin. Hated how your pulse still skipped whenever his voice dropped too low, whenever his gaze cut into you like it could still see through your walls.

You took another slow sip of wine, trying to force him out of your thoughts, when the knock came. Sharp. Jarring. At this hour.

You jumped, setting your glass down harder than you meant to. The sound echoed in the quiet house, making you wince. No one came by this late. Not since your mom’s passing, not since people stopped bringing casseroles and condolences. And yet, another knock followed, harder this time.

Your heart sped up as you got to your feet, crossing the room. The porch light threw a faint glow outside, but through the curtain, all you could make out was a tall shadow pacing, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.

Every nerve in your body screamed hesitation, but habit won. You pulled the door open. And froze. Jisung.

He looked up instantly, like he’d been waiting for you. His eyes locked on yours, sharp even in the dim light, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t pretending this was casual.

It felt like the air thickened, heavy between you.

Neither of you spoke at first. You stared at him, glass of wine still lingering in your system, stomach turning over itself. He looked different under your porch light, messier, more worn down, but still him. Always him.

When his voice finally came, it cut through the silence like a blade.

“How long,” he asked, low and unsteady, “were you going to keep pretending I wouldn’t find out?”

The words slammed into you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

Your heart raced, thudding in your ears. You gripped the doorframe tighter, like it was the only thing holding you up.

For a second, you considered deflecting. Laughing bitterly. Asking him what the hell he was talking about. But you couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you, not with the raw anger and betrayal simmering behind his eyes. So instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended.

“…Who told you?”

The question made him freeze. His jaw flexed. His eyes widened, just slightly, but it was enough. Because he hadn’t been sure. And now he was.

You watched the realization hit him in real time. The sharp inhale. The way his shoulders tensed. His fists curling at his sides.

The silence between you was a live wire. One spark, and it snapped.

“So it’s true,” Jisung said again, this time louder, sharper. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, and he looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or collapse.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “Jisung—”

“How long?” His voice cut over yours, raw. “How long were you planning to keep this from me?”

Your jaw clenched. Your first instinct was to retreat, to shield yourself, but something inside you the exhaustion, the bitterness, the years of doing it all alone, snapped instead.

“How was I supposed to tell you, huh?” Your voice cracked, rising as anger finally found you. “Back then, you couldn’t even show up for me. You think you could’ve shown up for a baby?”

His eyes darkened, hurt flashing before it twisted into anger. “Don’t you dare,” he snapped, stepping closer, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me I wouldn’t have shown up for my own daughter.”

You laughed bitterly, though it sounded more like a sob. “You barely showed up for me! What made you think you would’ve magically changed overnight? You were irresponsible, Jisung! Always late, always broke, always putting me last—behind your friends, behind your work, behind everything.”

He flinched, but his glare only sharpened. “Because every time we were together, you made it impossible! We argued about everything, Y/N! Money, time, the future, you never trusted me to figure it out. And yeah, maybe I leaned on my friends, maybe I worked more, but do you really think that means I wouldn’t have been there for her?”

You shook your head, biting out a humorless laugh. “You would’ve what? Quit your job? Dropped your friends? Magically become the man you weren’t back then? Please.”

His breath came ragged, his hands tugging at his hair as if he was physically trying to hold himself together. “She’s five, Y/N. Five! And I’m only finding out now?” His voice cracked, fury tangled with grief. “I’ve missed everything.. her first steps, her first words, her first day of school—everything.”

The words hit like a punch to your gut, guilt clawing at your chest. You wanted to tell him you weren’t trying to punish him, that you’d been scared and broken and didn’t know how to handle it. But the anger was louder than the guilt, feeding the storm already raging.

“You think I wanted this?” you shouted back, your voice shaking as your eyes burned. “You think I wanted to raise her alone? To lie to her? To carry all of this by myself while you were out drinking with your friends and sleeping with strangers? You weren’t ready, Jisung! You weren’t ready for me, and you sure as hell weren’t ready for her.”

His chest heaved, his face twisted in anguish. “You didn’t even give me the chance to prove you wrong.”

You froze at that, the raw hurt in his voice cutting deeper than his anger ever could. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, both breathing hard like you’d just gone ten rounds in a fight. The only sound was the quiet hum of the night around you the crickets, the faint wind through the trees, the thundering of your own heartbeat.

Jisung dragged a shaky hand down his face, his eyes wet but fierce as they locked on yours. “You had no right to decide for me. No right to take her away from me. She’s mine too.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Because he was right. And the truth of that, after all these years was almost too much to bear.

“What the hell have you even told her about me?”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes were on you, wide and searching, demanding. “Does she think I don’t exist? Does she think—what? That some other guy’s her dad? That some stranger’s been playing house in my place all this time?”

The bitterness in his tone made your chest tighten. You lifted your chin, though your throat burned. “She knows she has a dad.”

The flicker of relief in his expression lasted barely a second before suspicion swallowed it whole. “What did you tell her, Y/N?”

You hesitated, arms crossing in front of you like armor. “That… that he lives far away. That he works a lot. That he can’t be here.”

Jisung’s head dropped forward, his jaw working furiously as he let out a humorless laugh. He shook his head, almost in disbelief. “So that’s me? Some ghost of a dad who’s ‘too busy with work’ to ever show up?”

“It’s better than telling her the truth,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it.

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and wounded all at once. “Better for who? For her or for you?”

The accusation landed like a slap.

You felt your defenses wobble, but you held your ground. “She’s just a kid, Jisung. She doesn’t understand why you and I broke up, why things went the way they did. What good would it do to dump all of that on her? To tell her her dad was here all along but didn’t even know she existed?”

His expression twisted, pained. “You don’t get to make that call on your own.” His voice cracked as it broke into a yell. “She’s my daughter too!”

The words lodged in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

He stepped forward, hands trembling at his sides, his anger now laced with something deeper, desperation. “So what? You just get to decide when I meet her? How she sees me? Whether she even knows I’m her dad at all? Do you know how insane that sounds?”

You looked away, blinking hard as tears burned your eyes. “She’s my whole world. My responsibility. I’ve protected her since the second she was born. I had to. Because you weren’t there.”

Jisung’s voice dropped low, raw and guttural. “Not because I didn’t want to be because you never gave me the chance.”

Your lips trembled, but no sound came out.

He let out a harsh breath, scoffing bitterly. “You’re really standing here, telling me I have a daughter, and in the same breath saying you don’t want her to know who I am?” His voice shook as he leaned closer, eyes locked on yours. “Why the hell wouldn’t she know her own father?”

The question hit you square in the chest, because deep down, you didn’t have a clean answer. Not one that didn’t make you sound like the villain.

The porch light hummed, casting a harsh glow between you. Jisung’s chest heaved, his fists clenched like if he didn’t hold himself together he’d fall apart.

“I want answers,” he said, voice low but shaking with barely restrained fury. “Right now. No more lies, no more bullshit excuses. I deserve to know why.”

Your throat tightened. “Jisung—”

“No.” He cut you off with a sharp shake of his head. His voice cracked as it rose. “You don’t get to stand there and play silent. You owe me this, Y/N. After everything, you owe me the truth.”

Your lips trembled. For once, you couldn’t hide behind deflection or sarcasm or bitterness. His words cornered you, leaving no escape.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and his whole body stiffened at the sound. “I’m sorry for keeping her from you. I’m sorry you didn’t know.”

The words hung heavy in the night, but your voice steadied as you went on. “But I’m not sorry for leaving.”

That made him blink. His brows furrowed, like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud. “What?”

“I’m not sorry I left,” you repeated, louder this time, the steel returning to your voice even as your chest ached. “Because staying? Staying with you back then would’ve been worse. For me. For her. We would’ve been waiting in the dark, waiting for you to come home—”

His face twisted. “Don’t.”

“—waiting for you to remember us when you were too busy with your friends or drowning yourself in work—”

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice breaking.

“Why?” You barked out a humorless laugh, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Because it’s the truth? You barely came home, Jisung! You barely looked at me when you did. And I was supposed to believe you’d suddenly turn into this perfect father when you couldn’t even be a partner?”

His fists unclenched, his arms dropping helplessly at his sides. His eyes were wet, his voice rough. “I would’ve tried. I would’ve made it work—for her, I would’ve. But you never gave me the chance.”

Your heart clenched painfully. “And what was I supposed to do? Wait around hoping you’d change? Raise her while fighting with you every night? Show her that kind of love? No. I wasn’t going to let her grow up thinking that was normal.”

For a long moment, all you could hear was your uneven breathing, his ragged breaths mixing with yours.

Then Jisung let out a bitter laugh, one hand dragging down his face as if he couldn’t believe any of this was real. “So that’s it? You decided I wasn’t enough, and you walked. You took her with you, and you never looked back.”

You flinched, but you didn’t back down. “I did what I had to do.”

His gaze snapped to yours, glassy with pain and rage. “You did what was easiest. For you.”

The words landed heavy, because part of you wondered if there was truth in them. You hadn’t left because it was easy, you’d left because staying had felt like slow death but there was no way to make him see that.

You swallowed hard, arms wrapping around yourself. “I made the choice I thought was best. For Ara. For me. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

Jisung shook his head, his voice low and ragged. “And in the process, you ripped five years away from me. Five years I’ll never get back.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at you like you were both a stranger and the only person he’d ever wanted. And you stood rooted in the doorway, torn between guilt and stubbornness, between sorrow and anger. Neither of you won. Neither of you ever had.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The words already said hung between you like smoke after a fire, acrid and choking, making it impossible to breathe normally. Jisung’s jaw worked like he was fighting himself, fighting to keep from saying something else, something that might burn you both down completely.

Finally, he gave a sharp nod, swallowing hard. His voice was rough, cracked at the edges.
“You know where I’ll be,” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “If you finally decide to let me meet my daughter.”

The words landed like stones in your chest. Daughter. His daughter. He’d said it out loud, not questioning it, not dancing around it, claiming it as though it had always been his right.

“Jisung—” you started, reaching out instinctively. But he’d already turned.

His back was rigid, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders drawn tight like a coiled spring. He didn’t look back, not once, as he descended your porch steps. His steps were heavy, almost uneven, like he wanted to keep himself from running. You opened your mouth, ready to call out again, to say maybe he could meet her, just not tonight, not like this but your voice caught in your throat.

You knew this version of him. When Jisung was upset, truly upset he always walked away. Always left before the storm inside him could make things worse. And you knew chasing after him wouldn’t change that.

The sound of his car engine starting in the distance carried through the night air. Then it faded, leaving only silence.

You stood there for a moment, hand still clutching the doorframe, heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out the quiet of the house. His words kept circling, relentless and sharp: you know where I’ll be…

When you finally closed the door and turned, your breath caught in your throat. A small figure was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Ara.

She was in her pink pajama set, hair mussed from sleep, clutching her blanket in one hand. Her wide eyes peeked at you through the dim glow of the hallway light.

“Mommy?” Her voice was small, uncertain. “Who was that?”

Your heart dropped. You froze for a second too long before forcing a smile, the laugh tumbling out nervous, fragile. “No one, baby. Just… no one.”

Ara blinked at you, her lips turning down in a little frown. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “I woke up. I heard yelling.” Her voice wobbled, the words dragging with sleep. “I got worried. For you.”

Something in you cracked right then. You swallowed the lump in your throat and walked over, crouching to her level. “Oh, baby.”

You gathered her into your arms, pressing a kiss to her warm temple. She wrapped her arms around your neck instantly, small and trusting, her blanket squished between you both.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, carrying her back upstairs. “Mommy’s okay. Nothing for you to worry about, alright?”

She nodded sleepily against your shoulder, her little voice muffled. “Okay.”

You tucked her back into bed, smoothing the hair from her forehead. She was asleep again within minutes, her breathing soft and even, her hand still curled around her blanket. But you couldn’t sleep.

You stood there in the doorway for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall. Jisung’s words echoed in your head, spinning on a loop you couldn’t silence. You know where I’ll be. And the worst part, the part you didn’t want to admit, not even to yourself was that a part of you already knew you couldn’t keep avoiding him. Not forever.

Not when Ara’s world had already brushed against his. Not when your heart still hadn’t let go.

-

The morning crept in slowly, the pale light bleeding through the curtains in streaks. You hadn’t slept much, tossing and turning in sheets that still felt too big, too empty. Every time you closed your eyes, Jisung’s voice resurfaced. That raw edge when he said daughter. That sharp bitterness when he realized how much time had already been lost.

By the time Ara padded into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with one fist and dragging her blanket behind her, you were already on your second cup of coffee. The mug sat warm between your palms, your phone ignored on the counter. You told yourself not to let her see the storm in your head, so you smiled, sliding her usual plate across the table, scrambled eggs, a cut-up apple, her favorite cereal sitting in a small bowl.

Ara climbed onto the chair, legs swinging, and began to munch quietly. She was always slow in the mornings, soft-spoken, her world still fuzzy with leftover dreams. You watched her chew, the way her hair stuck up in uneven tufts from sleep, the way her tiny shoulders hunched as she focused on her food.

For a long moment, you just let yourself breathe her in. The calm before the inevitable.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly, then asked, as lightly as you could manage, “Ara… do you want to see the mechanic again?”

Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. Then her eyes lit up, wide and sparkling in a way. She nodded so eagerly her hair bounced.

“Yes!” she said around a mouthful of egg. “I have so many questions! About cars! And tools! And how he makes the noises stop!”

Your chest tightened. You managed a soft chuckle, even though your throat was dry. “You’d… like to see him again, then?”

Ara squealed, clapping her hands together, the fork clattering against her plate. She bounced in her chair, unable to sit still, her excitement overflowing. “Yes! Yes, Mommy, please! Can we? Can we today?!”

You stared at her, your daughter, your entire world glowing with a joy so pure it broke you a little. Because Jisung was right. She deserved this. She deserved him.

And he… despite everything, despite the broken pieces left scattered from your past, he deserved her too.

You swallowed hard, the decision feeling heavier than anything you’d ever carried, heavier even than leaving him all those years ago. “Finish your breakfast first,” you said softly, forcing your voice steady. “Then we’ll go.”

Ara squealed again, shimmying in her seat like she couldn’t contain it, scarfing down her eggs now with determination.

You turned away, pressing your fingers to your temple, your other hand tightening around your mug. It took everything in you to breathe through it, to be the adult, the mother, the woman who had to do the right thing even when it terrified her.

Because this wasn’t about your anger anymore. This wasn’t about your heartbreak. This wasn’t even about the years you’d lost, years you couldn’t get back.

It was about Ara. And Ara deserved to know her father.

Even if you weren’t sure you were ready to face him again.

-

The shop smelled faintly of oil and metal the way it always did, but this time, stepping through the door felt different like walking straight into a weight pressing down on your chest. Ara’s hand was tucked firmly in yours, warm and eager, tugging you forward as her little sneakers squeaked against the concrete floor.

Seojin was the first to notice you. He leaned against the counter, a rag hanging from his back pocket, his smile easy but his brow lifting slightly at the sight of you.

“Well, well,” he said lightly, straightening. “Back again. Don’t tell me the car’s already giving you trouble?”

You shook your head quickly, feeling Ara’s tug grow stronger on your hand. “No… not that. I was just… looking for Jisung.”

At the mention of his boss’s name, Seojin’s grin faded, replaced by a more cautious look. He lowered his voice as if to warn you. “He’s here, but…” He paused, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s not in the best mood today.”

Your stomach tightened. That didn’t surprise you, not after last night, but hearing it aloud only made your nerves worse. You managed a stiff nod. “Where is he?”

Seojin jerked his thumb toward the back. “In his office. At his desk, sulking.”

You huffed softly, more at yourself than him, and muttered a quick, “Thanks.”

But Ara didn’t wait. The second Seojin gestured, she tugged your hand harder, her small frame determined, her excitement practically vibrating off her.

“Mommy, c’mon!” she squealed, pulling you along.

Her eagerness pulled a weak smile from you, even through your nerves. “Slow down, sweetheart. We’ll get there.”

By the time you reached the door, your heart was hammering. You raised a hand and knocked softly.

A grumble came from inside. Jisung’s voice, low and edged with irritation: “Seojin, I told you, I’m not taking customers today. Handle it yourself.”

Ara blinked at you expectantly, whispering, “Is he mad?”

You swallowed, squeezing her hand, and pushed the door open.

Jisung looked up.

The instant his eyes landed on you, his posture snapped upright. He stood quickly from his chair, the surprise flickering across his face giving way to something unreadable. His lips parted like he had something to say, but before he could, Ara’s little voice cut through the tension.

“Hi!” she chirped, her grin wide, her eyes shining with excitement.

And just like that, something shifted.

Jisung’s shoulders eased, the sharp line of his mouth softening into a smile he didn’t even seem to realize was there. He blinked, glancing from her to you and back, but Ara had already stepped forward, her shyness forgotten.

“I wanted to ask you questions!” she said all in one breath, bouncing on her toes. “About cars and how they work and the noises they make and the tools you use and—”

She didn’t stop, the words tumbling out in an endless stream of curiosity. And Jisung laughed.

It wasn’t bitter or sharp, it was a real laugh, warm and startled, like the sound had caught him off guard. He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped around the desk, crouching slightly so he wasn’t towering over her.

“Slow down, kid,” he said, his grin lingering. “One question at a time, yeah?”

Ara beamed at him, rocking on her heels. “Okay! Then… what’s your favorite car to fix?”

You stood frozen by the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Watching him. The way his entire face softened in her presence, the way the tension that had coiled in his body last night seemed to melt under Ara’s innocent questions. He was looking at her, not like an inconvenience, not like a stranger’s kid he had to tolerate but with real warmth. With a gentleness that tugged at something deep inside your chest.

And Ara… Ara looked at him like he hung the stars.

-

Jisung hadn’t slept.

Not really. He’d laid in bed staring at the ceiling, the glow of his phone screen long since gone dark, the room thick with silence. But his head hadn’t stopped buzzing. Your voice still rang in his ears, sharp and angry, every word you threw at him cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

How was I supposed to tell you? You barely made time for me. You missed everything.

You weren’t wrong. That was the worst part. He had excuses, sure work, exhaustion, the constant noise of life but none of them made him feel less like the kind of man who didn’t show up when it mattered. The thought of Ara, his daughter living her whole life without him knowing… it made him want to put his fist through the wall.

But when he closed his eyes, he hadn’t seen your angry face. He saw Ara. The way she hugged her bunny, thanked him. That sparkle in her eyes when she asked him questions about cars, innocent and bright. And every time the memory replayed, the guilt followed: five years. He’d missed five entire years.

By the time dawn bled into the sky, Jisung gave up. He dragged himself out of bed, showered half-heartedly, and drove to the shop long before he normally opened.

Seojin arrived not long after, hair messy under his cap, energy far too chipper for Jisung’s mood. He greeted him with a, “Morning, boss,” but Jisung only grunted in return.

“Not taking customers today,” Jisung said, his voice rough from lack of sleep. “You handle it. I’ll be in my office.”

Seojin raised a brow but didn’t push. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Jisung snapped, sharper than he meant. “Don’t come to me unless the place is burning down.”

Seojin blinked at him but shrugged, heading for the garage floor. He knew better than to argue when Jisung was in one of his moods.

And Jisung was in one of his moods, grumbling under his breath, running a hand over his face as he sat at his desk, glaring at the scattered paperwork like it had personally wronged him. Every noise outside irritated him, every question Seojin dared to poke his head in to ask was met with a low, frustrated, “Figure it out yourself.”

But beneath the irritation was a restlessness that wouldn’t go away. His foot tapped against the floor, his hands clenched and unclenched. The truth was, he wasn’t angry at Seojin, or at the shop. He was angry at himself.

And then the bell above the shop door jingled faintly. He barely registered it, assuming it was another customer Seojin would handle. He tried to focus on the invoice in front of him, but he caught the sound of small footsteps against the concrete floor. Quick, uneven, almost bouncing.

And then a laugh. Light. Bright. Familiar.

Jisung’s head shot up. He saw you. You, standing just a few steps inside the shop, Ara’s small hand clasped in yours. And Ara, beaming up at him like the sun had followed her in.

In that instant, Jisung’s exhaustion, his anger, all of it was swept aside. His heart didn’t just skip, it burst.

He hadn’t expected to see her again so soon. He hadn’t dared hope. And yet here she was, practically bouncing with excitement, her eyes fixed on him like she’d been waiting all morning for this.

It was enough to knock the air right out of his lungs.

-

You’d told yourself to be strong. To hold your ground, to keep a firm hand on Ara’s excitement and not let your emotions spill into every corner of the shop. But the second she saw Jisung, really saw him, your resolve crumbled.

Ara lit up like it was Christmas morning. She clutched her bunny under one arm, her curls bouncing as she skipped toward him, a dozen questions spilling out of her before you could even catch up.

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing at the rack of wrenches.
“And what’s that smell?” she added quickly, nose scrunching adorably.
“Do the cars talk to you when they’re broken? How do you know what hurts?”

You hovered by the side of the room, leaning against the wall, pretending to be casual when inside your chest, your heart was a mess of thudding and twisting. You crossed your arms, more for stability than anything, because the sight in front of you made your knees weak.

Jisung didn’t hesitate with her. Didn’t brush her off or laugh like she was being silly. He crouched down beside her, pointing at tools, answering every question with a patience you hadn’t seen in years.

“That one’s a wrench,” he said, picking it up and showing her the grip. “Comes in all different sizes because cars like to make us suffer.”

Ara giggled, the sound bouncing through the garage like sunlight.

“The smell is oil,” he continued, his tone softer now. “It’s kind of yucky, huh? But it helps the cars run smooth.”

Ara wrinkled her nose but smiled anyway. “Like medicine?”

Jisung paused, blinking at her before nodding. “Yeah. Exactly like medicine.”

You pressed your lips together tightly, your throat aching. He’d always been like that, good with kids, even when it surprised him. You remembered family gatherings where cousins’ children had latched onto him, following him around, and he never once shooed them away. He’d taught a six-year-old how to use a screwdriver once, beaming at the kid like he’d just handed him the moon.

And now, watching him with Ara, you felt it all over again, the sting of what could have been.

She looked up at him like he was everything she wanted to know about the world. And he… he looked at her like she was the most precious thing that had ever walked into his shop.

He followed her around as she wandered, her bunny tucked tight at her side, her free hand pointing at everything that caught her eye. Jisung trailed after her, answering her questions with quiet ease, like this had always been his role.

And you stood there on the sidelines, silent. Because what else could you do?

This was the thing you’d been dreading, the thing you’d worked so hard to prevent, and yet seeing it, seeing the way she gravitated toward him naturally, the way he softened without even realizing it, it didn’t look wrong.

It looked inevitable. And that scared you more than anything. You tried to stay out of the way.

You told yourself that the best thing you could do was let Ara ask her questions, let her curiosity fill the air and keep you somewhere in the background where your presence wouldn’t ruin the fragile peace of the moment.

But the longer you watched, the harder it became to pretend you weren’t being pulled in.

Ara was unstoppable. She darted from one corner of the shop to the next, her bunny clutched close against her side, her hair bouncing with every step. Jisung followed without hesitation, answering each question she threw his way as if he’d been waiting all morning for them.

Every now and then, she’d turn back toward you, her grin wide, her eyes shining as if she was proud of herself for keeping up with him.

“Mommy! Did you know cars have hearts too?!” she exclaimed at one point, pointing toward an engine.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Hearts?”

“Engines,” Jisung explained from behind her, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly amused. “She asked what makes them alive. I told her it’s kind of like their heart.”

Ara nodded enthusiastically, clearly pleased with her new knowledge. “See? Cars have hearts too! Like us!”

You smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach your eyes. There was a tightness in your chest that only grew the longer you watched them together.

Jisung crouched beside Ara again as she pointed at another tool hanging from the pegboard. She was talking nonstop, her voice full of awe and excitement, and every word pulled a quiet, almost reverent look from him. He was soft with her, gentle in a way that made your throat tighten.

And that’s when Ara’s eyes flicked to you again.

“Mommy,” she said, turning fully this time, her little hand reaching out. “Come here! Come see!”

You froze. “It’s okay, baby. You go ahead, I’m watching.”

But she shook her head, that stubborn spark flashing in her eyes, the same one that reminded you far too much of Jisung. “No, come look!” she insisted, tugging harder at your hand. “He said I can help, but you have to say it’s okay!”

The sound of Jisung’s quiet laugh filled the space. It wasn’t mocking, it was something softer, like he was caught between surprise and something dangerously close to warmth. “She’s persistent,” he murmured. “Wonder where she gets that from.”

You shot him a look, but it lacked venom. The corner of his mouth twitched anyway, that old smirk threatening to surface, but he turned back to Ara, pretending to focus on the wrench in his hand.

“Alright,” you sighed finally, letting Ara’s hand tug you closer. “But just for a second. And you stay right where he tells you to, understood?”

Ara beamed like she’d just won a battle. “Okay!”

She guided you forward until you stood beside Jisung. The smell of oil and metal hit you stronger up close, and beneath it, something familiar. His cologne. It hadn’t changed. It was faint, but it was him.

Jisung straightened a little, eyes flicking to yours, and for a second, the noise of the shop seemed to fade. It was just the two of you standing there, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and Ara’s voice echoing faintly as she talked to her bunny.

He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from lack of sleep, but the kind that settled deep in his bones. Yet when Ara tugged at his sleeve, he smiled again, easy and genuine, like the fatigue didn’t exist.

“She’s got a million questions,” he said, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.

You nodded, your eyes falling to Ara, who was now gently “fixing” the air with a toy screwdriver he’d handed her. “She always does.”

There was a pause. One heavy enough to make your heart ache.

You could feel his gaze on you, could almost sense the thoughts flickering behind his eyes. Regret, maybe. Wonder. Questions he wasn’t sure how to ask.

When you finally looked at him, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but Ara’s voice cut through again before he could.

“Mommy! I’m fixing it!”

You smiled down at her, grateful for the interruption, for the tiny bubble she’d created that kept everything else from spilling out.

“That’s amazing, baby,” you said softly.

The sound of Ara’s small footsteps faded as she darted toward the far side of the shop again, her bunny tucked beneath her arm like a co-conspirator. You watched her go, a mix of affection and unease pulling at your chest.

The quiet she left behind wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy.

When you turned back, Jisung was already watching you.

His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, his jaw tight. You could see the faint trace of grease still clinging to his forearm, the way a thin line of sweat had dried along the curve of his neck from earlier work.

“Didn’t think you’d come back,” he said finally. His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was something in it, something caught between disbelief and exhaustion.

You swallowed. “Ara wanted to see you.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Ara.”

There it was again, that wall between you, invisible but immovable.

You crossed your arms, mirroring him without meaning to. “She had questions. I didn’t want to keep her from getting answers.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before dropping to the floor. “You could’ve sent someone else. Or called. You didn’t have to come yourself.”

You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh but without humor. “Would you have picked up if I called?”

That got him. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was already tired of fighting.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered. “You show up here with her—after all these years and I’m supposed to just… what? Pretend it doesn’t mean anything?”

You stepped closer before you realized you were doing it, your voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s not about you and me anymore, Jisung.”

His eyes lifted, sharp now, cutting through the thin air between you. “It’s always been about you and me. That’s the problem.”

You froze. The words hit harder than you wanted to admit.

He shook his head, almost like he was trying to laugh it off, but his voice cracked when he spoke again. “You think I don’t get it? That I don’t know I screwed up? I know. I lost you. I lost years. But I’m not losing her too.”

You looked away. The sound of Ara humming softly from the back of the shop reached you faintly, grounding you.

“She’s happy,” you said quietly. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

“And you think she wouldn’t be if I was around?” he shot back, stepping closer now. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of oil and metal and something achingly familiar. “You think me being here ruins that?”

You shook your head quickly, but your throat felt too tight to speak.

Jisung let out a breath, the fight in his voice dimming. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said finally. “You don’t even have to like me. But don’t shut me out of her life before I even get the chance to be part of it.”

You looked up at him, eyes softening despite yourself. He looked wrecked, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen in years.

It was easier when you could paint him as the careless one. Easier when he was the reason everything fell apart. But right now, standing in front of him, you couldn’t see that version anymore. You only saw the man who used to hold your hand while you fell asleep, who built his first car in a rusted shed behind his parents’ house, who was now looking at you like you were both ghosts of something that never really ended.

“I’m not shutting you out,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… trying to figure out how to do this without breaking everything again.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, faintly, Ara’s laughter echoed from somewhere near the back of the shop. Jisung’s expression softened instantly, his gaze drifting toward the sound.

“She’s got your laugh,” he said, almost to himself.

You didn’t know what to do with that, how a simple sentence could make your eyes sting and your heart twist at the same time.

So you smiled instead, weak but real. “She’s got your curiosity.”

He looked back at you then, and for the first time since the night he showed up at your door, the tension between you didn’t feel like it was about anger. It felt like possibility. Fragile, terrifying, but real.

You both stood there, not saying another word, while Ara’s voice carried softly through the open space, bright and unaware of the storm she had just calmed without knowing.

Ara’s laughter carried through the garage like sunlight through dust. It was soft and bright, cutting through the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake. You could hear the faint scrape of her sneakers against the concrete floor, the rustle of her little bunny tucked under her arm as she explored again.

Jisung took a small step back, wiping his palms against a rag that was already stained with oil. His eyes followed the sound of her voice, a ghost of a smile appearing before he looked back at you.

“Mind if I… show her a few things?” he asked carefully, like the question might shatter if he said it too fast.

You hesitated, arms folded across your chest out of habit. But Ara’s laugh echoed again, that bubbling, curious sound you loved so much, and suddenly you couldn’t find the heart to say no.

“Just… make sure she doesn’t touch anything sharp,” you murmured.

Jisung’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You watched him move toward her, his steps slow, deliberate, like he was afraid of scaring her off. Ara looked up at him, her eyes wide and trusting in the way children always were when they sensed kindness instead of threat.

“Do all cars sleep here?” she asked, looking around at the vehicles lined up in the shop.

Jisung knelt beside her, resting his arms on his knees. “Sort of,” he said, thinking. “They’re resting. I fix them so they can wake up again.”

Ara gasped softly, clutching her bunny tighter. “You make them wake up?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Want to see how?”

Her excitement was instant, pure. She nodded so hard that her little curls bounced, and your heart clenched.

You leaned against the frame of the office door, half nervous, half unable to look away.

Jisung led her to a car with the hood open, pointing at the various parts carefully, explaining in a tone so gentle you barely recognized it. You’d seen him fix things before focused, serious, his brow furrowed in thought but never like this. Never with this kind of patience, this kind of warmth.

“That one?” Ara asked, pointing to the engine. “Is that where they sleep?”

“Exactly,” Jisung said, his grin growing. “That’s the heart. It’s what makes them move. But sometimes hearts get tired.”

Ara frowned, considering it. “Do you fix hearts too?”

For a second, just one you saw Jisung’s smile falter. He glanced at you. The air thickened between you again, not like before when it was all sharp edges and pain, but something quieter. Sadder.

He looked back at Ara. “Trying to,” he said softly.

She didn’t catch the weight in his voice, just smiled and nodded proudly, as if she’d understood something simple and true. You had to turn away for a moment, pretending to fix your sleeve, because your throat had tightened.

Ara’s attention soon shifted again, as it always did. “Can I help?”

Jisung chuckled, shaking his head. “Tell you what, you can hand me tools. But you have to be really careful. Deal?”

“Deal!”

You smiled despite yourself, watching them. She stood beside him on her tiptoes, handing him a wrench that was too heavy for her small hands. He steadied it with her, guiding her fingers around the handle, showing her how to hold it properly.

It was an image that burned itself into your memory before you even realized it would, Ara’s small hands gripping the tool beside his larger ones, the contrast striking, beautiful, impossible to look away from.

They worked, if it could even be called that for a while. Mostly Jisung pretending to fix things he’d already tightened, Ara “helping” him like it was the most important job in the world.

You found yourself laughing quietly when she looked back at you, grinning from ear to ear.

“Mama, look!” she said proudly. “I’m fixing cars!”

Your eyes met Jisung’s over her head. For a moment, there was nothing else, no years lost, no anger, no lies. Just this small, ridiculous, perfect moment.

He smiled back, faint and uncertain, but real.

When Ara finally started to yawn, clutching her bunny again, Jisung wiped his hands and crouched down to her level. “Looks like my little helper’s all tired out.”

Ara nodded sleepily. “Do cars get tired too?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, brushing a bit of dust from her sleeve. “Everyone does.”

She blinked up at him. “You should sleep too, Mr. Mechanic.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I work better when I’ve got good company.”

Ara giggled softly before you scooped her into your arms. “Say thank you, Ara.”

“Thank you,” she murmured into your shoulder. “For fixing cars and hearts.”

The words hit both of you harder than they should have.

You turned before Jisung could see the emotion rising in your eyes. “We’ll get out of your way,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He only nodded, his gaze still fixed on Ara, that soft, wordless awe in his expression.

You carried her out, her small hand tangled in your hair as she dozed off. As the door shut behind you, Jisung stayed where he was, staring at the empty space she’d left, one hand still hovering near the car engine as if he was afraid to let go.

He didn’t. Not for a long time.

-

By the time you got home, the sun had already slipped behind the hills, and the sky was bruised purple fading into blue. The air was soft, humming with cicadas and the faint rustle of leaves outside the kitchen window. Ara was drowsy in her car seat, clutching her bunny to her chest, her little head nodding forward every few minutes before jerking back up again, like she didn’t want to miss a thing.

You carried her inside, her arms looped lazily around your neck, her breath warm against your collarbone. You could still smell the faint hint of motor oil clinging to her hair, that scent that used to follow you home years ago when you’d wait for Jisung to lock up his shop.

It hit you harder than you wanted it to.

You set Ara down gently on her bed, brushing her hair out of her face as she yawned wide, blinking sleepily at you. Her bunny was tucked under one arm, its worn floral ears peeking out between her fingers.

“Did you have fun today, baby?” you asked softly, sitting beside her.

Her sleepy smile was instant, dreamy and full. “Uh-huh. Mr. Mechanic is funny,” she said, her voice small, already fading with fatigue. “He knows everything about cars.”

You smiled faintly, smoothing your thumb over her cheek. “He’s pretty good at what he does, yeah.”

Ara snuggled deeper into her blankets, the corners of her mouth lifting in a quiet, secret smile. “He let me help him. He said I was a good helper.”

You laughed quietly. “I’m sure you were. You’re always a good helper.”

There was a small pause as she rolled over, her bunny squished between her cheek and the pillow. You could tell she wasn’t done talking, her voice had that restless, drifting quality that came right before she fell asleep.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She turned her head just enough to look up at you. Her eyes were half-lidded but still bright with curiosity, that same curiosity that never seemed to rest.

“Can we see him again?” she asked.

The question was innocent, simple, but it still managed to steal the breath from your lungs. You hesitated, fingers stilling in her hair.

Ara waited, blinking up at you, small and patient in the way children could be when they asked for something they didn’t yet understand the weight of.

You exhaled softly through your nose, trying to smile. “We can,” you said finally. “But remember, he works a lot. We can’t keep bothering him all the time, okay?”

Ara nodded, her face serious in the way that only a child’s could be. “Okay. I’ll be quiet. I’ll just watch him fix the cars.”

Your heart twisted, painfully and sweetly all at once. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you talking to him,” you said softly. “But maybe we’ll let him rest sometimes too, hm?”

“Mmhm.” She yawned again, a soft little sound that made your chest ache.

You thought maybe that was it, that she’d drift off now and give your mind a chance to rest too. But then she spoke again, voice faint but sure, muffled against her bunny.

“I really like him.” You froze.

Ara continued, unaware of how her words were slicing through you. “He smiles a lot. He doesn’t make loud noises like other people. He talks nice. I like him.”

Something trembled deep inside you. You didn’t know if it was guilt, or warmth, or something in between. Maybe all of it.

You reached out and brushed a curl away from her forehead, forcing a smile you didn’t quite feel steady enough to wear. “I like him too,” you admitted quietly.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her hand finding yours and holding it loosely. “Can we see him lots, Mommy?”

You hesitated for a long time, staring at her tiny hand wrapped around your fingers.

There were so many things you could’ve said. You could’ve reminded her that he was just a mechanic you knew. You could’ve told her that grown-ups were complicated, that sometimes people cared about each other but couldn’t stay close. But she was four. She didn’t need all that. She didn’t need your ghosts.

So instead, you smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice trembling just a little. “We’ll see him often. From now on.”

She smiled, eyes already drifting shut for good this time.

You stayed there beside her for a long while, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the tiny curls spilling across her pillow. You traced the edge of her bunny’s ear, your mind racing where your heart refused to go.

“From now on,” you repeated under your breath, though this time it didn’t sound like a promise you made to Ara.

It sounded like one you made to him.

You sighed and leaned back, running a tired hand over your face.

You weren’t sure what tomorrow would bring, if Jisung would keep his distance, or if you would. But one thing you knew now, deep in your bones, was that Ara’s world had already started to shift.

You stood by Ara’s door for a long moment, your hand resting lightly on the frame, listening to the faint rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her earlier words, I really like him, Mommy, still echoed in your chest, warm and aching all at once.

When you finally turned to head downstairs, the wooden steps creaked under your feet. You didn’t bother to turn on the lights; the glow from the streetlamps outside was enough to paint the living room in soft amber. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the candle you’d blown out hours ago, mixed with the sharper edge of the night air seeping through the old house.

You reached the bottom of the stairs and froze.

Through the glass of the front door, you could see a shadow, a tall, familiar silhouette standing on your porch, shifting slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or knock.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Jisung.

You didn’t even think. Your hand moved on its own, unlocking the door and pulling it open before your brain could tell you not to.

He turned, eyes widening in surprise. The porch light caught his face, and you saw the faint exhaustion around his eyes, the kind that came from pacing, from overthinking, from not sleeping.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice low, rougher than usual. “I—uh—I was about to knock, but I wasn’t sure if I should or not.”

You crossed your arms automatically, not in defiance but in defense. “If you were here, you probably should’ve knocked.”

A faint, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Guess so.”

There was a pause, long enough to make the air feel heavier.

“Did you need something?” you asked finally, keeping your tone even.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could we just… talk?” he asked. “No yelling. No fighting. I just—there’s stuff about Ara I think we should talk about. About what this means now.”

You blinked slowly, studying him. The sincerity in his voice disarmed you more than you wanted to admit.

You said nothing, just stepped back and opened the door wider.

His shoulders dropped, a quiet exhale leaving him. “Thanks,” he murmured, stepping inside.

He paused in the entryway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. The house was still half-unpacked, boxes against the walls, a few of Ara’s toys scattered near the couch, and a stack of framed photos leaning against the hallway table waiting to be hung.

“I, uh… I should’ve brought something,” he said suddenly, awkwardly. “I heard about your mom. I meant to stop by sooner, I just—didn’t know if I should.”

You shook your head, swallowing the small lump that formed in your throat. “It’s okay. Really.”

He nodded, still awkward, eyes darting around like he didn’t know where to stand. But then he stopped.

At the end of the hallway, his gaze caught on something. The pictures.

He took a few steps closer, crouching slightly to look at them. His breath hitched softly, and you found yourself moving to stand beside him before you could stop yourself.

They were photos of Ara from her first year, small and soft and perfect. Her eyes still carried that sleepy newness to the world, her smile wide and toothless. There was one of her sitting in her high chair with mashed bananas smeared across her cheeks. Another of her asleep on your chest in a hospital blanket, so tiny she barely took up space.

“That’s her,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Jisung’s eyes didn’t leave the photos. “She was beautiful,” he murmured. “Still is.”

You swallowed, blinking hard. “Yeah. She… she really was.”

He turned to you slowly, his expression soft but unreadable. “What was she like?”

The question caught you off guard. No one had ever asked it like that before, not your sister, not your friends, not even the kind strangers who helped you when you first moved away. But Jisung asked it like it mattered. Like he needed to know.

You took a small breath, letting your eyes rest on the photograph of her swaddled in your arms. “She was a really good baby,” you said, the words coming easier the longer you spoke. “Quiet. She didn’t cry much, not even at night. She slept through early like she just… knew I needed her to.”

You gave a small laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe she could tell I didn’t have anyone else. Or maybe she just had this calmness from the start. I used to think she was trying to make it easier on me.”

Jisung’s throat moved as he swallowed, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “You did all that by yourself?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I had help from a nurse for a little while—she was there when Ara was born. But after that, it was just us.”

He looked back at the photos, jaw tightening just slightly. “You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.”

The words hit you somewhere deep, somewhere you thought had gone numb a long time ago. You glanced at him, and for a second you saw the Jisung you used to know. The one who made promises even when he didn’t know how to keep them. The one who meant well, even when he didn’t always show it.

“I managed,” you said quietly. “We managed.”

He nodded, eyes still locked on Ara’s baby photo, the one where she was grinning up at the camera, all gums and joy. He crouched slightly, running a hand through his hair. “She looks… happy.”

“She is,” you said softly. “She’s a happy kid.”

He smiled faintly. “Guess she got that from you.”

You laughed once, shaking your head. “I don’t know about that.”

He looked up at you then, and for a brief moment, neither of you spoke. The house hummed quietly around you, the refrigerator, the soft tick of the hallway clock, the gentle creak of the floor settling.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be filled. It was the kind that said everything without needing words.

Jisung finally broke it, his voice low, steady. “Thank you. For letting me see this. For letting me… be here.”

You met his gaze, your chest tight but warm. “She deserves to know you,” you said softly. “And you deserve to know her.”

Something flickered behind his eyes hope, guilt, relief. Maybe all of it.

He nodded once, almost to himself. “I won’t mess it up this time,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like you had to doubt him.

The two of you stood there, side by side, staring at the photographs on the floor, fragments of a life you both helped create, but only one of you had lived until now.

And somewhere upstairs, Ara sighed in her sleep, her small voice drifting faintly through the quiet house soft, peaceful, unaware of how much had changed in a single night.

After a few minutes standing in the hallway, you finally exhaled and motioned toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” you said softly. “If we’re going to talk, let’s sit.”

Jisung followed you wordlessly. The faint squeak of his boots against the hardwood filled the silence between you. The kitchen light was dim, a single bulb humming above the table. There were two mugs on the counter, one you’d used earlier for tea, and another still sitting in the dish rack. You grabbed it out of habit, filling both with the coffee that had gone cold in the pot.

You slid one across the table toward him.
“It’s not fresh,” you said.
He took it anyway. “Doesn’t matter.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick not angry anymore, just full of things left unsaid. You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb, waiting, wondering if he’d start.

It was Jisung who finally broke the silence.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that comes when someone’s trying not to sound emotional. “I kept thinking about her. About you. About how I didn’t even know she existed.”

You stared down at your mug. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

“I know.”
He leaned back slightly, exhaling. “I just… I keep thinking how different everything could’ve been.”

You shook your head, almost smiling, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Different doesn’t always mean better, Jisung. You weren’t ready back then. Neither of us were.”

He frowned, eyes lowering. “You think I wouldn’t have stepped up?”

“I think you didn’t even know what stepping up meant at the time,” you replied gently. “You were always gone. Always working, or with your friends, or… avoiding being home. I was barely holding it together. The night I left—” You stopped, catching the tremor in your own voice. “The night I left, I knew if I told you I was pregnant, you’d promise to change. And maybe you would have. For a while. But not because you were ready. Because you felt guilty.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his jaw tightening. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s honest.”

He didn’t argue. He just sighed, a long, tired sound. “I was an idiot,” he said finally. “I didn’t know what I was doing, and I thought I had time to figure it out. I didn’t realize time was something I was wasting.”

Your heart clenched. You weren’t used to hearing him talk like that not defensive, not cocky, just… honest.

“She’s amazing, you know,” you said quietly. “Ara. She’s curious and kind and she has this way of making everyone around her soften without even trying. She asks questions all the time, about everything. Sometimes I think she’s too smart for her own good.”

Jisung smiled faintly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah. I noticed. She talks like she’s been on this earth twice already.”

You laughed softly. “You’re not wrong.”

The laughter faded into a comfortable quiet. You sipped your coffee. He did too, even though it was cold. Then, carefully, he asked, “Can I be in her life? I mean—really be in it. Not just as the guy who fixed your car.”

You met his eyes. There was no hesitation there anymore, only sincerity. Fear, maybe, but also determination.

“She deserves that,” you said slowly. “She deserves to know her dad.”

Relief flickered across his face, though it was quickly followed by guilt. “But?” he asked, hearing the unspoken part.

“But she doesn’t know yet,” you said softly. “She still thinks her dad works far away. I don’t want to just tell her everything all at once. I need to make sure she’s ready. I need to make sure you’re ready.”

He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly. “However long it takes. I don’t care how slow it goes, as long as she knows me eventually.”

You studied him for a long moment. His voice was steady, but you could see it, the guilt behind his eyes, the ache that hadn’t left since last night. For the first time since you’d seen him again, he didn’t look like the boy you left behind. He looked like a man who had learned what loss actually meant.

“Okay,” you said finally. “Then we take it slow.”

Jisung nodded, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator again, the soft tick of the clock.

When he finally stood, you stood too. He lingered by the door, one hand on the knob.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For letting me talk. For letting me… see her. I know I don’t deserve that yet.”

You shook your head. “It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what she deserves.”

He gave a small, almost broken smile. “Still sounds like something you’d say.”

You smiled too, but it was faint, tired. “Get some rest, Jisung.”

He nodded once. “You too.”

He stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against your face as he left. You watched him walk down the path to his car, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, head bowed. He didn’t look back, but you knew he wanted to.

When you closed the door, the house felt quieter than before. You leaned against it for a long moment, the warmth of the conversation still sitting somewhere deep in your chest. Upstairs, Ara stirred softly in her sleep, a small sound, peaceful and untroubled.

-

The next morning felt almost… normal. The kind of quiet, easy morning that came after a storm, when the air still smelled faintly of rain, but everything had settled. Ara had gone off to school humming to herself, her bunny tucked under one arm and a granola bar in the other. You were finally home alone, folding laundry, sipping lukewarm coffee, and pretending you weren’t waiting for something.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for exactly, maybe a sign that last night hadn’t just been another emotionally exhausting blur.

Then your phone buzzed.

You glanced over, half-expecting a message from work or your sister. But the name that popped up on your screen made your stomach twist.

Unknown Number: Is this the right number?

You froze. You didn’t need to ask who it was. There was only one person who would text you like that blunt, half unsure, half confident he was right anyway. You smiled despite yourself.

You: How did you even get my number?

It took less than a minute for him to reply.

Jisung: Can’t tell you. Trade secret.
Jisung: And before you accuse anyone, your sister has nothing to do with this.

You laughed out loud, shaking your head as you set your phone on the counter. He must have definitely run into her. There was no other way. She’d always had a soft spot for Jisung said he was “a pain in the ass, but a charming one.”

You: Right. Totally believe that.

There was a short pause, and then:

Jisung: Okay, so I need help.

You frowned, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You: With what?

Three dots appeared. Then a photo came through. Then another. And another.

You blinked, scrolling through them.

He was clearly at a store, the toy section, judging by the bright shelves and cartoon packaging in the background. Each picture was worse than the last: a sequined pink dress clearly three sizes too big, a toy truck shaped like a dinosaur, and a doll that looked like it had been through several world wars.

Jisung: I’m new to this. Don’t judge me.
Jisung: Would she like any of these?

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. You could almost see him there, standing in the middle of the aisle, frowning at the shelves, his phone tilted in one hand as he tried to pretend he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

You: You have terrible taste.

There was a pause. Then a single message popped up:

Jisung: 😒

You laughed harder this time, covering your mouth. He hadn’t changed, still quick to get mock-offended, still boyish when he wanted to be.

You: She likes anything. Really. Especially if she knows it’s a gift.
You: She loves surprises.

The typing bubble lingered for a moment.

Jisung: Good to know.
Jisung: Guess I’ll have to figure out what kind of surprise then.

You stared at that message longer than you meant to.
Something about the way he said it simple, casual made your chest tighten. Because underneath the playfulness, you could feel the sincerity. He was trying. For Ara. Maybe for you, too.

You leaned back against the counter, smiling to yourself.

You: Don’t go overboard, Jisung.
Jisung: No promises.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small warmth spreading through you. The same man who once couldn’t remember to text you back for days was now standing in a toy aisle, asking what your daughter, his daughter might like.

You stared at your phone for a while after the messages stopped, scrolling back through the photos again.
Somewhere between the blurry doll and the mismatched dresses, you realized that this, this fumbling attempt to be part of Ara’s world was Jisung’s way of saying I’m here now.

And for the first time in years, you believed him.

-
Ara was in the living room, sprawled out on the floor, coloring with her crayons while humming softly under her breath. The sound was comforting, the kind of gentle background noise that made the house feel alive again.

You were in the kitchen rinsing a few dishes, the faint hum of the TV drifting in from the other room, when you heard a knock on the door.

It wasn’t a hesitant knock, but it wasn’t loud either, firm enough that you knew it was someone who didn’t want to wake Ara if she was asleep.

Your stomach dropped before you even looked.

You dried your hands on the nearest towel, heart thudding faster with every step toward the door. You didn’t know why you were nervous, you did know, actually but it didn’t stop the feeling.

When you opened it, there he was.

Jisung stood there holding two paper bags, one in each hand with a look on his face that was halfway between proud and sheepish. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hand through it a dozen times before knocking. His work jacket was unzipped, a soft gray hoodie underneath.

“Hey,” he said.

It was almost soft, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

You blinked. “Hey. What’s all that?”

He glanced down at the bags, suddenly awkward. “Uh… peace offerings?”

You frowned but felt the corners of your mouth twitch. “Peace offerings?”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You said Ara likes surprises. So… surprise.”

Before you could say anything, Ara’s voice echoed from the living room.

“Mommy, who is it?”

Her little footsteps padded quickly toward you, and when she saw him, her eyes went wide.

“Jisung!” she squealed, practically bouncing in place.

You didn’t even have time to react before she ran straight for him, bunny tucked under her arm, and he bent down just in time to catch her in a hug.

The look on his face that pure, startled kind of wonder hit you right in the chest.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice soft and full of something warm. “Got something for you.”

He set one of the bags down and carefully pulled out a small box wrapped in shiny paper. The wrapping job was… terrible. The tape was uneven, one corner sticking up, and it looked like he’d wrestled with it for a good ten minutes before giving up.

Ara didn’t care. Her eyes were glowing as she took it from him, holding it like it was made of gold. She tore it open immediately, and the moment the box was free, she gasped so loud you almost laughed.

It was a dress, soft pink with little embroidered daisies along the skirt. Simple, but beautiful. Not too frilly, not too plain. It looked exactly like something you would’ve picked out for her yourself.

“Can I wear it now?” she asked, already clutching it to her chest.

You smiled, shaking your head. “Maybe later, baby. It’s really pretty, huh?”

She nodded so hard her curls bounced. “It’s sooo pretty!”

Jisung was grinning, almost shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… wasn’t sure. I almost went with something pink and sparkly, but I figured maybe she’s more into… this?”

You met his gaze. “You guessed right.”

He looked down, his smile flickering softer, almost bashful. “Lucky guess.”

Before you could say more, Ara spotted the second bag still in his hand. “What’s that one?”

Jisung laughed. “You have good eyes, huh?”

He crouched down again and opened the second bag. Out came two small toy cars one red, one yellow and a plastic toolkit meant for kids. Ara gasped again, eyes wide, and then immediately started making vroom noises, running them across the floor.

“Oh my gosh!” she said, completely breathless. “They look like the ones in your shop!”

“They’re yours now,” Jisung said softly, smiling as he watched her.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, unable to fight the fond smile tugging at your lips. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen Ara this excited. She was talking so fast she was tripping over her words, jumping from one toy to another.

Jisung’s eyes followed her every move, a quiet smile tugging at his lips that you hadn’t seen in years. It was different from the way he used to smile back then, not cocky or teasing but gentle. Almost reverent.

When Ara ran to her room to show her bunny the new toys, the house fell quiet again.

You spoke first. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

He shrugged, his voice quiet. “I wanted to.”

You sighed softly, your hand brushing through your hair. “Still. You’re spoiling her already.”

He smirked faintly. “Guess I’m making up for lost time.”

The words hung heavy between you not sharp, not bitter. Just… true.

You didn’t know what to say, so you nodded. “She’s really happy. That means a lot.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded too. “Yeah. It means a lot to me too.”

The sound of Ara’s laughter drifted down the hall again, breaking the silence, and Jisung smiled faintly, glancing toward her room before his gaze came back to you.

And in that brief, quiet moment, you realized something had shifted. The tension between you wasn’t gone, it never would be but it wasn’t all anger anymore. There was something else now. Something gentler, still bruised, still scared… but undeniably hopeful.

It started innocently enough with Ara bouncing out of her room, her new dress clutched in her arms and her voice echoing through the hallway.

“Can Jisung stay for dinner?” she blurted, as if the idea had been sitting on her tongue, waiting for the perfect moment to escape.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Dinner?”

“Please?” she said, drawing out the word in that pleading tone you knew all too well. Her eyes were bright, full of hope. “We have spaghetti, right? You always make too much!”

You opened your mouth to respond, to find the polite, reasonable way to say no but she wasn’t finished.

“I can show him my drawings!” she added, twirling her bunny in one hand, the other tugging on Jisung’s sleeve. “And he can tell me if cars can look like the ones I made!”

You looked at her, then at Jisung. He looked startled, his mouth parting slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all.

“Ara…” you started softly, “I’m sure Jisung has things to do. He’s probably tired.”

Before Jisung could even open his mouth, Ara pouted, that dramatic, heart-melting kind of pout that could make even the strictest person bend.

“Please, Mommy? Just dinner.”

You sighed, already feeling yourself crumble. One glance at her face, then another at Jisung, who looked like he didn’t know whether to step in or stay quiet and the decision was made for you.

“Alright,” you said finally, shaking your head. “Just dinner.”

Ara squealed, clapping her hands. “Yay!”

Jisung blinked, rubbing the back of his neck, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “You sure? I don’t want to—”

“You’re already here,” you said, more curtly than you meant to. Then, softer, “Might as well stay.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Alright then.”

-

Dinner turned out warmer than you expected.

Ara planted herself at the dining table, narrating every part of her day as you moved around the kitchen. You worked quietly, still a little tense, stirring sauce, boiling pasta, the familiar motions grounding you.

Jisung stood a few feet away, awkward at first, like he didn’t know where to put his hands. But when he noticed you juggling a hot pot and a dripping strainer, he stepped in without a word.

“Here,” he said, reaching for the colander. “I got it.”

You hesitated but handed it over, muttering a quiet, “Thanks.”

He drained the pasta, the steam curling up between you, carrying the faint scent of garlic and tomatoes. You caught him glancing at you once or twice, subtle, unsure before he set everything down and started setting the table without you asking.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, gentle but firm.

So you let him.

You watched as he moved around your kitchen like it was foreign ground, yet somehow familiar. He fumbled a bit finding the plates, chuckled under his breath when Ara told him where you kept the forks “Middle drawer, Jisung! Mommy always puts them there!”

And somewhere in the middle of it all between the clatter of dishes and Ara’s steady stream of chatter you realized how easily he fit into the space. How natural it felt, even though it shouldn’t.

By the time you all sat down, the sun had slipped below the horizon, casting a golden haze across the dining room. Ara was still talking, about school, about her drawings, about the new toy cars and Jisung listened like every word mattered.

He laughed when she told him about her “imaginary garage,” the one she’d built out of cardboard boxes and crayons. “Sounds like you’re a better mechanic than I am,” he teased.

Ara grinned proudly, twirling spaghetti on her fork. “You can work there too if you want!”

“Oh yeah?” he said, leaning forward, humoring her. “You hiring?”

She nodded seriously. “But you have to fix pink cars too.”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

You sat across from them, quietly smiling into your glass of water. Watching them together was strange, comforting and painful all at once. The way she leaned toward him, the way he smiled at her, the way her laughter filled the spaces that used to feel empty, it all felt like watching something click into place that had been missing for too long.

You caught yourself staring more than once. And every time you did, Jisung’s gaze seemed to find yours fleeting, unsure, but full of something neither of you dared to name yet.

After dinner, Ara insisted on showing him her drawings, car sketches on printer paper with scribbled names like Sparkle Machine and Vroomy. Jisung knelt beside her, pointing out details, pretending to study them like a professional.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smiling softly. For a moment, the years between you didn’t feel so wide.

He looked up once and your eyes met. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

You both knew what that silence meant.

The sound of Ara’s giggle broke it. She’d drawn a picture of the three of you, her in the middle, holding hands with “Mommy” and “Jisung.”

You exhaled slowly, your chest tight and aching.

Jisung smiled faintly, his voice soft. “You’re a really good artist, Ara.”

“Thanks,” she said proudly. “That’s us! We look happy.”

And you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at how true that sounded.

Dinner had ended with laughter, crumbs on the table, and Ara chattering endlessly as you collected dishes. You told her it was time to settle down, that cartoons before bed weren’t part of her routine, but she was already dragging Jisung toward the couch, her little bunny tucked under one arm.

“Just one episode!” she pleaded, grinning up at you from where she’d perched herself beside him.

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, but the corners of your lips betrayed you. “Fine. One.”

She squealed and grabbed the remote before you could change your mind.

You turned away to the kitchen, washing dishes that didn’t really need washing, folding towels that were already folded, doing anything to keep your hands busy while your eyes kept drifting to the living room.

From where you stood, you could see them clearly: Jisung leaned back against the couch, one arm resting on the cushion behind Ara as she pointed at the screen and giggled. He didn’t seem to understand half of what was happening in the cartoon, but he laughed anyway, that quiet, warm laugh that filled the room without trying to.

Something about the sight made your chest ache.

You tried not to linger on it, tried not to think about how natural they looked together. How peaceful Jisung seemed, how easy Ara’s laughter came when he was near.

So you busied yourself, moving from the sink to the counter to the dining table, wiping things that didn’t need wiping, rearranging napkins just to stay occupied.

When you looked up again, the cartoon’s noise had softened. The volume was low, almost muted, and the rhythmic pattern of the end credits played softly through the room.

Jisung was still there, but Ara wasn’t talking anymore.

She was fast asleep, her small body curled against his chest, bunny tucked between them. Her head rested just below his chin, her breathing even and slow.

Jisung didn’t move at first. He just stared down at her, his hand resting lightly on her back, like he was afraid to break the moment. You could see the faint tremor in his chest, the way he exhaled carefully, deeply, as if realizing something he wasn’t sure how to process.

Then, quietly, he called your name.

You walked over, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Yeah?”

“She’s out,” he murmured, smiling softly. “Should I—?”

You hesitated only a second before nodding. “You can carry her. I’ll show you to her room.”

He nodded once, careful and deliberate as he slid his arm beneath her. Ara stirred faintly but didn’t wake, mumbling something incoherent as she nestled into him. Jisung adjusted her easily like he’d been doing it all his life and followed you down the short hallway toward her room.

The moment he stepped inside, his entire demeanor changed. He moved slower, quieter, eyes taking in every little detail, the soft night-light in the corner, the stuffed animals lined neatly across the bed, the faint lavender scent that filled the space.

You pulled the blanket back for him, and he gently laid Ara down, her bunny clutched to her chest.

You watched as he brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead, his hand trembling just slightly. Then he stepped back, letting out a long, quiet breath that sounded half relief, half heartbreak.

“I never thought…” he began, his voice low, almost hoarse. “I never thought I’d carry my daughter to bed.”

You exhaled softly, leaning against the doorframe. “You did good.”

He gave a faint laugh, shaking his head. “She’s amazing. I still can’t believe she’s—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “She’s ours.”

You smiled small, genuine. “She’s something else, that’s for sure.”

He followed you out, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there in the dim hallway, the air thick with exhaustion and something unspoken.

“Coffee?” you asked finally, just to break the silence.

He smiled faintly. “At this hour?”

You shrugged. “You’ve already stayed this long.”

In the kitchen, you poured two mugs one black, one with cream, remembering how he used to take it. He noticed immediately, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“You remembered,” he said.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “Habit.”

He chuckled. “Right.”

What started as small talk about Ara, about her drawings, about her new fixation with cars slowly unraveled into something softer. You talked about the early days: her first word, her favorite foods, her stubborn streak that reminded you so much of him it almost hurt.

He listened intently, a faint smile playing on his lips, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug.

“She sounds a lot like you,” he teased quietly after a while.

You raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said with a smirk. “Bossy. Talks too much. Knows everything.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “You forgot brilliant and patient.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, one that softened his whole face. “Yeah, that too.”

The sound filled the quiet house, and you found yourself laughing along, shaking your head.

You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until your phone buzzed on the counter, the clock flashing past midnight.

“Wow,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “You’ve officially overstayed your welcome.”

Jisung smiled sheepishly, standing and stretching his arms. “Guess I got carried away.”

“You think?” you teased, following him to the door.

He stopped there, hand on the knob, turning back to look at you. The light from the hallway caught the tired edges of his expression but there was warmth there too. Something familiar.

“Thanks for… letting me stay,” he said quietly. “And for tonight. For everything.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

He hesitated, then added softly, “It was nice. Talking again.”

You looked at him for a long moment before answering. “Yeah,” you said finally. “It was.”

He smiled, small but genuine, before slipping out into the cool night air. You closed the door after him, leaning your forehead against it for just a second, breathing him out of your chest.

Then you turned toward the hallway, the faint sound of Ara’s soft breathing drifting from her room, and whispered to yourself half a sigh, half a confession.. It was nice.

-

The shop was too quiet for a Thursday. The kind of quiet that made Jisung’s thoughts too loud.

The half-repaired engine in front of him hissed faintly, the smell of oil and steel heavy in the air, but he wasn’t focused. His wrench hung loosely in his hand, knuckles smudged with grease, his body at the shop, his mind somewhere else entirely.

He’d been useless lately. Couldn’t finish a full job without checking his phone, couldn’t focus for more than a few minutes before a memory crept in, Ara’s laugh, her small hand tugging on his sleeve, the way she’d asked a dozen questions about engines with eyes full of wonder.

And then there was you.

The way you had smiled that night, soft and tired, but genuine. The way your laugh still had the same cadence it did years ago like it was pulling something buried in him to the surface.

He groaned, dragging his gloved hand down his face. Get a grip, Han Jisung.

But the truth was, he couldn’t. Every time his phone buzzed, his pulse jumped before he could stop it. Every time he looked at the photos he’d taken, Ara standing beside the car holding his wrench like it was treasure, the little grin that mirrored his own, he felt his chest twist in ways he didn’t know how to name.

He’d been smiling too much, and it was starting to show.

He caught himself staring at his phone again, scrolling through the few photos like they were the only things keeping him sane. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore until the sharp slam of the shop door made him jump.

He fumbled, nearly dropping his phone into a puddle of oil.

“What the—” he muttered, spinning around.

Chan and Minho stood there, both of them looking like they’d just caught him in the middle of something he shouldn’t be doing. Chan had a knowing smirk, while Minho’s eyebrows were already halfway up his forehead.

“What’s with you?” Chan asked, crossing his arms. “You look like you just got busted doing something illegal.”

“Yeah,” Minho added, leaning against a workbench. “You’ve been MIA for weeks. And now you’re sitting here grinning at your phone like a teenager in love.”

Jisung scowled, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I’m working.”

“Sure you are,” Minho said dryly, eyeing the half-finished car. “That’s why this same engine’s been sitting here since Monday.”

Jisung exhaled loudly, rubbing at his temple. “Can you two not start?”

Chan grinned. “We wouldn’t have to if you’d just tell us what’s going on. You got a girlfriend or something?”

Jisung froze, his back stiffening before he could hide it. That was all the confirmation Chan needed.

“Holy shit, you do!” Chan laughed. “No wonder you’ve been acting like this! Who is she? Wait—don’t tell me. Is it the flirty customer? The one who—”

“It’s not,” Jisung cut in sharply.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Then who?”

Jisung sighed, his patience thinning. “Can we not do this?”

Chan exchanged a look with Minho, then took a deliberate step closer, lowering his voice. “Come on, Ji. You’ve been off for weeks. Either you’re in love, or you’ve got a secret life we don’t know about.”

Jisung let out a rough, humorless laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, something like that.”

Minho leaned against the counter beside him. “So which is it?”

There was a long beat of silence. The hum of the shop’s lights filled the space.

Finally, Jisung groaned under his breath, rubbing at his face. “You’re not gonna drop it, are you?”

Chan smirked. “Not a chance.”

Jisung exhaled heavily through his nose, muttering a curse before saying it, the words he hadn’t told anyone yet.

“Ara’s my daughter.”

Both of them froze.

Chan blinked. “Wait—what?”

Minho straightened, his expression hard to read. “You mean— the Ara? The kid you’ve been talking about nonstop?”

Jisung nodded slowly, his throat tightening. “Yeah. Her.”

Chan stared for a long moment, like he was trying to process the words. “Hold on. You mean Y/N’s kid? She’s actually yours?”

“Yeah,” Jisung said quietly.

“What the hell happened?” Minho asked, his tone more cautious now.

Jisung sighed and leaned back against the hood of the car, crossing his arms. “Remember when you, Chan, started talking about the timeline? About how old she was, how it lined up?”

Chan nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Well,” Jisung continued, “it stuck in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The math made sense. Too much sense. And I realized I’d been too stupid not to see it sooner.”

“So what’d you do?” Minho asked.

“I drove to her place,” Jisung admitted, voice low. “Didn’t even think about it. Just—showed up. Asked her straight out.”

Chan’s eyes widened. “You what?”

“She didn’t deny it,” Jisung said, his voice quieter now, his thumb tapping against the metal beside him. “Didn’t have to. I could tell from the look on her face.”

Minho exhaled slowly, folding his arms. “Damn.”

Chan whistled softly, still stunned. “So that’s who’s been taking up all your time.”

“Yeah,” Jisung said with a tired laugh. “That’s her. And Ara.”

Chan looked at him carefully. “And now?”

Jisung shrugged, the weight of the situation pressing on his shoulders again. “Now I’m trying to figure it out. I missed five years of her life. I don’t even know where to start. I don’t want to mess it up.”

For once, neither of his friends teased. Chan just nodded slowly, his usual grin fading. Minho looked thoughtful, his tone softer when he finally spoke.

“You won’t mess it up,” he said. “You just gotta show up. That’s all she’s gonna remember — that you’re there now.”

Jisung looked down at his hands, the grease under his nails, the small cuts from work. Hands that had built engines, rebuilt cars but never once held his daughter until now.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “That’s the plan.”

But deep down, he wasn’t sure if it would ever feel like enough.

Chan finally broke the silence. “So… what’s next?”

Jisung glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Chan said, lowering his phone. “You told us. You finally know Ara’s yours. You’ve been seeing her, spending time with her, and Y/N’s letting you in. So what’s the plan? What comes after this?”

Minho chimed in, his voice blunt as always. “He means—when are you gonna make things official? Actually be her dad? And maybe—” he tilted his head, smirking faintly, “—try to fix things with Y/N while you’re at it.”

Jisung scoffed immediately, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “You guys don’t get it.”

Chan leaned forward, interested. “Then explain it to us.”

Jisung sighed and tossed the rag onto the workbench, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “I’m not rushing into anything. Not with this.”

“Why not?” Minho asked, though his tone wasn’t mocking, just curious.

Jisung hesitated. His gaze fell to the floor, eyes tracing the oil stains that had marked the same spot for years. “Because if I push too hard, I’ll ruin it.”

Chan and Minho exchanged a look, both sensing the edge of fear in his tone.

He continued quietly, “Ara doesn’t know me like that. She just knows I’m the guy who fixes cars and gave her a bunny back. She’s comfortable with me right now, but if I suddenly tell her I’m her dad—what if that scares her? What if it changes everything too fast?”

Minho frowned slightly. “Kids are smarter than we think, though.”

“I know,” Jisung said, nodding. “She is. She’s amazing. But she’s still a kid. I can’t just dump years of truth on her and expect her to understand it all at once.”

Chan’s voice softened. “And Y/N?”

Jisung let out a breath through his nose, rubbing his thumb over the calloused skin of his palm. “That’s another thing. She’s been through hell doing this on her own. I can’t just show up now, pretending like I have the right to fit perfectly into their lives.”

He paused, glancing at the photos pinned up on the corkboard behind his desk, old Polaroids of the guys, a few car builds, and now, tucked discreetly in the corner, a picture Ara had drawn for him, a messy crayon car with three stick figures, one big, one small, and one holding a wrench.

“She’s letting me in, little by little,” he said softly. “I can’t risk losing that by moving too fast. I don’t want to overwhelm Ara, and I don’t want to make Y/N feel cornered. She deserves to breathe without worrying if I’m going to mess it all up again.”

Chan hummed thoughtfully. “You sound like you’ve actually been thinking this through.”

Jisung gave him a flat look. “You think I’d just wing this?”

Chan laughed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Fair. But you also can’t drag it out forever. You don’t want Ara growing up thinking you’re just her mom’s friend who knows how to fix cars.”

Jisung nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know. I just…” His voice trailed off. “I want her to trust me first. Really trust me. I want her to know she can come to me for anything before she finds out why she can.”

Minho leaned back on his stool. “That’s… actually mature of you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Jisung muttered, but a faint grin tugged at his lips.

“I’m serious,” Minho said. “You’ve always been the ‘act first, deal with it later’ guy. But this? Taking it slow, thinking it through—that’s different. It’s good.”

Jisung shrugged, feigning nonchalance but unable to hide the flicker of warmth the words sparked. “Guess being a dad’ll do that to you.”

Chan smiled knowingly. “You already sound like one.”

That earned a soft, humorless laugh from Jisung. “Yeah, well, let’s see if I can actually live up to it.”

There was a pause, heavier now, filled with quiet understanding.

Chan hopped down from the hood and clapped a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “You will. You’re already doing better than most guys would.”

Minho nodded. “Just don’t overthink it to death. Be there. That’s what matters.”

Jisung looked up at the two of them, his friends who’d seen him at his worst, who’d told him hard truths he didn’t want to hear, who were now standing by him anyway.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah. One step at a time.”

Chan smirked, breaking the moment. “Just don’t wait another five years before making the next move.”

“Shut up,” Jisung muttered, throwing the rag at him.

It missed.

Chan laughed, Minho rolled his eyes, and for a moment, the heaviness in Jisung’s chest lightened. The fear was still there so was the uncertainty, but underneath it all was something stronger.

Hope.

For the first time in a long time, he actually had something worth taking slow.

-

The house smelled like garlic and soy and something a little sweet, maybe too sweet.

You had been moving nonstop since the afternoon, sleeves rolled up, apron tied tight, a thin layer of flour dusting your cheek like proof of how seriously you were taking this. The kitchen counter was a battlefield, cutting board cluttered, sauce simmering, two different pans you weren’t sure you needed both of, and an open cookbook flipped to a recipe you’d already abandoned halfway through.

You kept glancing at the clock.

It wasn’t even six yet, but you’d been pacing since four.

Jisung was supposed to come for dinner again.
Nothing new. Nothing strange. Just dinner.
Except somehow, it didn’t feel just like dinner.

It should’ve been simple, he’d been over before. He’d sat in that same seat at the table, listened to Ara ramble about her favorite cartoons, helped wash dishes after. It wasn’t unusual.

But this time, your stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering.

You wanted everything to be perfect.
Then you caught yourself and realized how ridiculous that was.

With a groan, you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “Get a grip,” you muttered under your breath.

He wasn’t coming over for you. He was coming over for Ara. For dinner. For normalcy.

Still, your eyes flicked around the kitchen, at the table you’d already set, the flowers you’d impulsively placed in a jar, the candles you didn’t mean to light but had anyway. And suddenly it all looked like too much.

You sighed and reached to blow out the candles. The faint scent of wax and vanilla faded, leaving behind the faint hum of the refrigerator and Ara’s soft voice from the living room.

“Mommy, can you help me with my bunny’s dress?”

You peeked over the doorway. Ara was sitting cross-legged on the rug, bunny propped up in her lap, tongue poking out in concentration as she tried to tie a ribbon around its neck.

You smiled, the tension in your shoulders easing. “You’re doing great, baby. Let me just wash my hands first.”

You turned off the stove, wiped your palms on your apron, and crouched beside her. Ara handed you the ribbon with a small frown. “It’s too short. I think the bunny got bigger.”

You chuckled, tying it carefully anyway. “Maybe the bunny just ate too much cake.”

She gasped dramatically. “Like me!”

You laughed, tapping her nose. “Exactly like you.”

Her grin made something inside you melt.

For a few minutes, everything felt light again, simple. But that peace didn’t last long. As you tied the bow, your mind drifted back to the truth sitting heavy in your chest.

Ara deserved to know. She deserved to understand who Jisung really was, but how could you just say it?
How do you tell a five-year-old that the man she’d grown fond of, the one who fixed her car and bought her gifts and listened so patiently, wasn’t just someone kind but her father?

You didn’t want to drop it on her suddenly. You wanted to ease her into it, gently, softly, in a way that made sense to her little world.

Maybe tonight could be the start of that.

You swallowed the knot in your throat and said, carefully, “Hey, Ara?”

She looked up, eyes wide, ribbon in her hands. “Yeah?”

“You know how Jisung’s been coming to visit us lately?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

She nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh. He’s nice! And funny. And he knows everything about cars.”

You smiled faintly. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You paused, fingers fidgeting with the ribbon. “Well… did you know that Jisung isn’t just someone who fixes cars?”

She blinked, her small brows furrowing in confusion. “He’s not?”

“No.” You hesitated for a moment, choosing your words. “He’s… someone I used to know a long time ago. Someone really important to me.”

Ara tilted her head. “Like Auntie?”

“Kind of,” you said softly. “But different. Jisung and I… we used to care about each other a lot. We were very close.”

Her eyes widened. “Like best friends?”

You smiled, the ache in your chest bittersweet. “Yeah. Like best friends.”

She grinned. “Then he’s your best friend again now!”

You laughed quietly. “Maybe. We’re trying to be.”

Ara giggled and went back to fixing her bunny’s dress, humming to herself like you hadn’t just turned your heart inside out. To her, it was simple, people who cared for each other were best friends.
If only it were that simple for adults.

Still, it was a start. You’d said something. You’d planted a seed. And that was enough for tonight.

You stood, smoothing your apron and taking a deep breath. “Alright, baby, I need to finish dinner before he gets here.”

“Can I help?” she asked, hopping to her feet.

You smiled. “Of course.”

She helped you carry napkins to the table, though half of them ended up crumpled. She tasted the sauce when you weren’t looking, got caught, then giggled when you gave her your mock stern look.

By the time you were setting the last dish down, her bunny sitting proudly on one of the chairs, the nervousness had dimmed into something else, something steady.

You weren’t trying to impress him anymore. You were trying to make this work. For Ara. For all of you.

And when you heard the faint rumble of an engine outside, the one you now recognized without needing to look, your chest tightened again, but this time, it wasn’t panic.

It was hope, wrapped in the shape of a heartbeat.

You turned to Ara, brushing a hand over her hair. “He’s here, baby. Go say hi.”

She squealed and bolted for the door, and you let out a slow breath, pressing your palms against the counter.

This wasn’t about the past anymore. It was about what came next.
And for the first time in years, you were ready to take the next step one careful, quiet, hopeful step at a time.

-

Jisung sat in his car longer than he meant to.

The engine was off, but the faint ticking of the cooling metal filled the silence as he stared at the paper bag in the passenger seat. Inside sat a bottle of wine he’d asked the clerk to help him pick, something that sounded more impressive than he actually knew anything about and a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper.

He had stood in the grocery store aisle for nearly twenty minutes debating what flowers to even bring. He almost went with roses, but that felt… wrong. Too loaded, too heavy with meaning neither of them was ready for. Then he considered daisies, because they reminded him of Ara bright, soft, uncomplicated but somehow that felt like cheating, like he was hiding behind his daughter to make something easier.

In the end, he chose tulips.
Simple. Warm. A little hopeful.

He ran a hand over his face, sighed, and muttered to himself, “It’s just dinner.”

But even he didn’t believe that.

Because it wasn’t just dinner anymore, not after everything that had happened, not after the yelling, the late-night confrontation, the tentative peace that had followed.

You had let him back in. Not fully, not completely, but enough to give him space to try. Enough to make him realize that the line between past and present wasn’t as clear as it used to be.

He looked down at his hands gripping the steering wheel, noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, and huffed a dry laugh. He’d handled car engines worth more than a house without flinching, but this walking up to your door with flowers and a bottle of wine, somehow had him more nervous than anything else in his life.

Still, he got out of the car.

The cool evening air brushed against his skin, grounding him. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt alive, faint laughter from somewhere down the street, the hum of a TV through a half-open window, the soft rhythm of leaves brushing together.

By the time he reached your doorstep, he could already hear Ara’s laughter faintly from inside light and quick and happy. The sound eased something in him.

He raised his hand to knock but hesitated.

He could still remember the last time he stood here. The way your face had looked tired, angry, guarded. The way your voice had trembled between fury and heartbreak. He didn’t want that again. Not tonight.

He wanted this to feel different.
Lighter. Maybe even peaceful.

So he straightened his jacket, adjusted his grip on the bag, and finally knocked.

It took a few seconds before the door opened, and when it did, you stood there, surprised but not startled. You looked at him for a moment, then at the bag in his hand, then back at him.

He felt suddenly like a teenager again, awkward and unsure, trying not to fidget under your gaze.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I, uh… wasn’t sure what to bring, so—” He lifted the items slightly. “I brought this. Wine. And… flowers.”

For a moment, you didn’t move. Your expression softened, just barely. Then, to his relief, a faint smile pulled at your lips.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you said quietly, stepping aside.

“Yeah, I figured. But, you know—” He scratched the back of his neck, half-grinning. “Didn’t want to show up empty-handed again. I’m still trying to fix my reputation.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you, and he let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

You took the bag from him, careful, like you weren’t quite sure what to do with it. “These are nice,” you said, fingers brushing over the tulips.

He smiled a little. “They reminded me of you.”

You froze for half a second before glancing up at him startled, maybe even a little flustered. He immediately regretted saying it out loud.

“I mean—not like—” He coughed awkwardly, looking anywhere but at you. “Just, uh, simple and… nice. Not in a weird way.”

You bit back a grin. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I know,” he muttered. “I fix cars, not conversations.”

Before either of you could say more, Ara’s small voice rang out from the living room. “Hi!” Ara came barreling down the hall, bunny in hand, grinning from ear to ear. “Jisung!”

She collided into his leg, and Jisung immediately crouched down, smiling so wide it made his cheeks ache. “Hey, kid. You miss me or something?”

She nodded furiously. “I have so many questions! I even made a list.”

He laughed, looking up at you. “A list, huh?”

You raised your hands helplessly. “Don’t look at me. She’s been talking about you since breakfast.”

Jisung’s grin softened. “Guess I better have good answers then.”

Ara grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the living room like she owned the place which, in her little world, she did. He followed easily, setting the bag on the counter as she talked about her bunny’s “car upgrades” and how she wanted to build one that could fly.

You stood a few steps behind, watching them. Watching him.

After Ara had proudly shown him her drawings and “plans,” Jisung looked back over his shoulder at you, his smile gentler now.

“Dinner smells amazing,” he said softly. “You’ve been busy.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “Just tried something new. No guarantees it’s edible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”

And when you both caught each other’s gaze for a second longer than either meant to you, holding the flowers like they were something fragile, him standing there looking like he wasn’t sure if he should say more, the space between you filled with something wordless.

It wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t anger or guilt. It was something smaller. Softer.
The beginning of something repaired.

-

Dinner felt strangely normal.
That was the part that scared you.

It wasn’t the uncomfortable silence you expected, nor was it overly cheerful. It was somewhere in between soft, warm, and just slightly awkward. Like the three of you were still learning the rhythm of being in the same room again.

The table was set neatly, too neatly, probably. You’d been meticulous earlier, fussing over the placement of plates and silverware until Ara had laughed at you and said you were “acting weird.” Maybe she was right.

Now she was sitting between you and Jisung, humming under her breath as she picked at her food.

He’d taken his jacket off earlier, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted faintly with grease from work that even soap couldn’t scrub out completely. He looked too at home sitting at your dining table, and that familiarity made something twist in your chest.

For the first few minutes, it was just Ara talking, animatedly telling him about a cartoon she’d seen about a race car that could talk, about her plans to build one when she grew up, about how she named her bunny “Turbo” now.

Jisung listened to her with full attention, the same patience he used to have when you’d talk about your job, or your dreams, back when you were both too young to realize how fragile time was. He nodded, laughed in all the right places, even asked her questions. He looked… natural. Too natural.

“Dinner’s really good,” Jisung said after a while, breaking the quiet. “You always did know how to cook better than me.”

You glanced up, giving a half-smile. “That’s not saying much. You used to burn ramen.”

He laughed that familiar, boyish sound that used to make your heart flutter. “True. Guess I still owe you for feeding me half the time back then.”

You shrugged lightly. “You were busy. Someone had to make sure you didn’t starve.”

His laughter faded, just slightly, replaced by something heavier in his eyes. “Yeah. I was busy,” he echoed quietly.

For a few moments, the only sound came from Ara quietly humming as she arranged her vegetables into little color patterns.

Then, out of nowhere, Jisung asked, “So… when do I get to meet him?”

You blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Your boyfriend,” he said casually, too casually. “Or partner. Whatever he is.”

You almost choked on your food. Coughing lightly, you reached for your drink, swallowing hard as your pulse quickened. “My—?”

He tilted his head, tone even but eyes sharp. “You said before that you had someone. The guy who was supposed to be… around. I figured if he’s part of Ara’s life, I should probably meet him, right?”

You put your glass down slowly, trying to keep your face neutral. “About that…”

Jisung’s brows furrowed slightly as he watched you fidget. “What?”

You let out a slow breath. “I lied.”

He froze. “You what?”

You forced a small, awkward laugh. “I wasn’t really dating anyone. I made him up.”

Jisung blinked, his jaw slackening. “You—wait, you made up a whole boyfriend?”

You nodded, embarrassed but firm. “I wasn’t sure how to handle things back then. You and I weren’t exactly in the best place. I just… I thought if you ever found out about Ara, you’d assume she was his.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, staring at you for a long, quiet moment. You could see the relief flicker across his face, though he tried and failed to hide it.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, no boyfriend,” he said, almost under his breath.

You rolled your eyes, sipping your drink again. “No boyfriend.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Can’t believe you actually did that.”

You smiled faintly. “Desperate times.”

Jisung’s expression softened, his voice quieter now. “So… have you? Dated anyone? Since us?”

You looked at him, giving a pointed stare. “Why?”

He shrugged, pretending to look at his plate. “Curiosity.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Once. About a year after Ara was born.”

He lifted his gaze back to you, quiet, waiting.

“He was… good, at first,” you said, your voice calm but distant. “He treated Ara like she was his own. I thought he was perfect. You know that kind of safe, steady person you think you’re supposed to end up with?”

Jisung didn’t answer he just watched you, jaw tight.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Turns out he wasn’t that perfect. I found out he was cheating.”

Jisung’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you said dryly, stabbing at your food. “That’s one word for it.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, shoulders tense, fingers curling around his glass like he needed to hold something steady.

You didn’t need to look at him to know what he was thinking, you could practically feel it. That quiet, burning protectiveness, the way he always got when someone hurt you.

It used to make you feel safe. Now it made you feel… complicated.

-

The air was thick with warmth when dinner ended. The kind that comes after laughter dies down but still lingers in the room. Ara was humming softly, still full of energy despite how late it was, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her crayons spread everywhere. Her bunny sat beside her, wearing the new bow Jisung had tied around its neck earlier, “to make Turbo fancy,” he’d said.

You and Jisung had agreed to clean up together, though the word agreed wasn’t exactly right, he’d insisted, and you’d given in. It was easier than arguing, and honestly… it felt nice. Domestic, even.

You stood at the sink, rinsing the plates as he dried them beside you. The rhythm was easy, you hand him one, he takes it, towel brushing the ceramic in quiet circles. Occasionally, his hand would brush yours. Neither of you said anything about it.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes and Ara’s occasional giggles from the living room.
It felt like a moment stolen from a life you could’ve had, the version where things didn’t fall apart, where you and Jisung grew into each other instead of away.

You tried not to think about that too much.
Tried not to look at the way the light caught in his hair, how his sleeves were still rolled up, how comfortable he looked standing in your kitchen again.

Jisung was the one who broke the silence first, voice low and rough like he’d been debating something in his head for too long.

“She’s… she’s amazing, you know?” he said quietly, not looking up from the plate he was drying. “Ara.”

You smiled softly, rinsing another plate. “Yeah. I know.”

He laughed under his breath. “She’s smart. Brave too. Talks so much.”
There was warmth in his tone, but also awe, the kind that only comes from love. “You did such a good job with her.”

The compliment hit you harder than you expected.
You swallowed. “Thanks,” you said quietly. “It wasn’t easy.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I wasn’t there.”

You turned your head slightly, glancing at him. His shoulders were tense now, jaw working like he was fighting words back.

You wanted to tell him not to do that, not to spiral into guilt, but before you could, he set the plate down and leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

His voice was steady when he spoke again, but his eyes gave him away. They were searching, heavy with something that almost looked like fear.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hesitated, but nodded. “Yeah.”

He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose. “Would you ever… try again? With me?”

Your hand froze under the running water. The sound of the faucet suddenly seemed too loud.
You turned to him slowly, heartbeat thudding in your ears. “Jisung…”

He ran a hand through his hair, wincing. “I know. I know it’s a stupid question. And I’m not trying to push anything, I swear. I just—” He sighed, shaking his head, frustrated with himself. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You dried your hands quickly, turning off the water. “No, it’s not—” you started, but your voice faltered. You could feel that ache building in your throat. “It’s just… a lot.”

“I know.” His tone softened immediately. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
He glanced down at his shoes, then back up at you, and there it was, the raw honesty you hadn’t seen in him for years. “I just… I want to be here. Really be here. For Ara. For you, if you’ll let me.”

You exhaled shakily, trying to find words, but he kept going quietly, carefully, like each word cost him something.

“I missed five years of her life,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I missed her first steps. Her first words. Her first everything. And that’s on me. But I don’t want to miss anything else.”

He looked at you, straight into you and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“I want to take her to school. I want to help her with her homework. I want to be there when she falls off her bike and cries, and when she gets her first crush and I scare the life out of the kid.”
He smiled faintly at that, but there was something watery in it, something trembling. “I want to be her dad. Not just in name, but really. And I want to do it with you.”

You didn’t even realize your hand was gripping the counter until your knuckles hurt. You stared at him, at the honesty in his face, the way his voice cracked slightly at the end. It was too much. Too soon. Too everything.

You looked away, blinking fast. “Jisung…”

He straightened a little, swallowing hard. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“I don’t think you do,” you whispered. “It’s not that I don’t—” You stopped yourself before the words could slip out, before you could say something you weren’t ready to. “I just… Ara’s my whole world. I can’t let her get attached and then—”

“She won’t lose me,” he said quickly, voice firm but not harsh. “Not again. I’m not that guy anymore.”

You stared at him for a long time, and for a second you saw the truth in his eyes, that he meant it. That maybe, just maybe, the boy who once broke your heart had learned what it meant to hold something gently.

The silence stretched. Somewhere in the other room, Ara’s crayons rolled off the table. She giggled, the sound light and pure. It cracked something in both of you.

You sighed softly, shoulders sinking. “Can we… take it slow? For her’s sake. For all of us.”

Jisung nodded almost instantly, relief washing over his face. “Yeah. Of course. Slow’s good. Slow’s great.”

You smiled faintly. “You’ve never been patient before.”

He let out a low laugh, eyes warm. “Guess I’m learning.”

You shook your head, trying to suppress your own smile. “Good.”

When you turned back to finish drying the last dish, Jisung reached out instinctively, fingers brushing your hand before pulling back. The touch was brief, but electric, a reminder that there was still something there, buried under the years of hurt. Neither of you said anything about it. You didn’t have to.

The quiet wasn’t awkward anymore. It was soft, full of something tender and fragile, like the beginnings of forgiveness.

It was Ara’s laughter that pulled you both out of that quiet spell in the kitchen.
Her little voice floated down the hallway, cheerful and full of pride.

“Mommy! Look what I made!”

You wiped your hands quickly on a towel, glancing over your shoulder toward the living room. Jisung followed behind you, still drying his palms, curiosity flickering across his face.

When you reached the living room, Ara was sitting in the middle of the rug, crayons scattered around her like fallen petals. Her bunny was propped up beside her, watching as if it were an audience of one. She held up her drawing with both hands, eyes sparkling.

“Look!” she said again, wiggling the paper so you’d hurry. “It’s us!”

You leaned down, smiling before you even really saw it, the paper was full of bright, clumsy lines and uneven circles, the kind of chaotic joy only a five-year-old could create. Three figures stood in the middle of a grassy field, all holding hands beneath a lopsided yellow sun. One small, one taller, one in the middle.

The small one had pigtails and a pink dress.
The middle one had short brown hair and a smile that stretched too far across their face.
The taller one had a swirl of messy hair sticking out everywhere and a gray scribble that could’ve been a jacket.

You didn’t even have to ask who was who.

You knelt beside her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “This is beautiful, baby. Is this us?”

She nodded eagerly. “It’s me, you, and Mr. Mechanic!” she said proudly, turning to Jisung. “See? That’s you!”

Jisung blinked, taken aback for a second like he wasn’t sure how to react to being included so simply, so easily. Then he smiled, soft and a little unsteady. “You made me look really tall,” he teased gently, crouching down beside you both. “I like it.”

Ara giggled. “That’s because you are tall!”

You laughed quietly, watching the way Jisung smiled at her like every word out of her mouth was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“You should add more!” she said suddenly, pushing the box of crayons toward both of you. “We need more things! Like… a car!”

Jisung chuckled. “Of course, a car.” He picked up a blue crayon, rolling it between his fingers. “Should I draw it here?”

Ara nodded seriously, pointing to the space beside the three stick figures. “Right there!”

He bent over the paper and started sketching a round, bumpy car that was just barely recognizable as one. Ara burst into giggles.

“That doesn’t look like a car!” she teased, pressing her tiny hand over his to “help.” “It looks like a potato!”

Jisung laughed, eyes crinkling. “A potato car, huh? That’s a new one. Guess I’ll have to work on my art skills.”

You sat on the rug beside them, leaning back on your palms, smiling despite yourself. The room felt warm in a way it hadn’t in years, the laughter bouncing off the walls, the sight of Ara perched on Jisung’s lap as she guided his hand with the crayon.

“See, this is how you draw wheels,” she instructed importantly, her voice full of confidence. “Round, like this. Not lumpy!”

“Got it,” Jisung said, playing along, pretending to take mental notes. “No lumpy wheels. I’ll remember that for next time.”

When they were done, the “car” had turned into something between a cartoon spaceship and a loaf of bread, but Ara clapped her hands anyway, proud of their work.

“It’s perfect,” she said decisively, leaning back against his chest. “Now it’s finished.”

Jisung looked down at her, one arm loosely around her shoulders as she yawned. For a moment, his smile faltered, just barely and you caught it. The quiet, wistful look in his eyes. The kind that said he was trying to take in every second because he didn’t know if he’d ever get moments like this again.

And that’s when it hit you. How natural they looked together. How easy it all was.

You swallowed hard, eyes drifting back to the picture, three stick figures, a crooked sun, a potato car and something twisted in your chest.

This was what you’d wanted for Ara. Stability. Love.
A home that didn’t feel half-empty.
And yet, sitting there, watching Jisung laugh softly when Ara poked his cheek, you realized what scared you most wasn’t letting him in, it was losing this, if it all went wrong again.

You knew what the two of you were like at your worst.
The shouting. The slammed doors. The exhaustion of trying to love someone who didn’t seem to know how to meet you halfway. Those last months before the breakup had been nothing but tension and silence. You’d cried more than you’d smiled. You couldn’t let Ara see that, couldn’t let her learn love that way.

But this? This version of him softer, grounded, patient it was new. It was unfamiliar. And it made you want to believe in him again.

You looked up to find Jisung already looking at you, a small, hesitant smile on his face. The kind that said he knew exactly what you were thinking and that he was thinking it too.

Ara yawned again, rubbing her eyes and mumbling something about wanting to hang the picture on the fridge. Jisung gently helped her up, still holding the drawing carefully like it was fragile glass.

As he taped it to the fridge door, Ara beamed, proud and sleepy.
“Now it’s perfect,” she said again, turning to both of you.

Jisung smiled down at her, brushing her hair lightly. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”

You didn’t say anything, just stood there, watching them both, the warmth curling up in your chest like a quiet, dangerous hope. Maybe slow wasn’t such a bad idea.
Maybe, for the first time in a long while, you wanted to see where this could go.

-

The house had gone quiet again.

The kind of quiet that settled heavy and warm after a long day filled with laughter, crayons, and the faint hum of cartoons that still lingered in the air like an echo.

You’d tucked Ara in over an hour ago. She’d fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, her bunny clutched under her arm and her new drawing still taped proudly to the fridge downstairs. The picture, the three of you felt like a symbol you didn’t know how to look at for too long. It made your chest ache in that way hope sometimes does.

You walked back into the living room, where Jisung was sitting on the couch. The lamp beside him cast a soft, honeyed light across the room, washing him in a warm glow that made it easy to forget the years that had passed the distance, the arguments, the heartbreak. His jacket was draped lazily over the back of the couch, his hair slightly tousled from Ara tugging at it earlier.

He looked comfortable here. Too comfortable.

You hesitated in the doorway for a moment, unsure if you were intruding on something you’d already let go of years ago. But then he looked up, catching your gaze and just like that, the hesitation softened. He gave you that same small, boyish smile that used to undo you every single time.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably should’ve left an hour ago.”

You smiled faintly, folding your arms. “You say that every time.”

He chuckled, leaning back. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

You moved to sit beside him not too close, but close enough that you could feel the heat from his arm next to yours. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched, gentle but heavy, filled with the unspoken things hanging in the space between you.

You broke it first.
“So… are you still friends with Chan and Minho?”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a grin, like the question caught him off guard. “Yeah,” he said, a small laugh slipping out. “They’re still around. Haven’t changed much either. Still loud. Still annoying.”

You laughed softly. “Figures. I don’t think anything could change them.”

“They, uh…” He glanced at you, hesitating. “They actually said they missed you.”

That made you laugh outright. “Missed me? Please. I spent half my time complaining about them stealing you away.”

Jisung laughed too, the sound low and genuine. “Yeah, I remember. You used to glare at me every time they called.”

“Because they always called,” you pointed out, giving him a teasing look. “And you always went.”

He looked down, that faint smile fading into something more thoughtful. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I did.”

You exhaled quietly, fiddling with your sleeve. “I used to tell myself I hated them. But… I think I was just lonely. I felt like I was competing with everyone for your attention.”

He looked at you then and you could see the regret flicker across his expression.
“I know,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry for that. I didn’t get it back then. I thought I had time. I didn’t realize I was wasting it on the wrong things.”

The honesty in his tone caught you off guard. For once, there wasn’t any defensiveness. No excuses. Just sincerity.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “We were both kids. We didn’t know how to be anything else.”

He gave a small, rueful smile. “Still feels like I’m learning.”

You smiled too, faint, but real. “At least you’re trying now.”

Something in the air shifted then. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even obvious. It was quiet, a slow, careful tilt of the world as you met his eyes. The light between you flickered faintly, catching on the faint sheen of his eyes, the curve of his jaw. You hadn’t been this close in years, and suddenly the space between you felt too thin, too charged.

He didn’t think. You could see that in the way his breath hitched, in the way his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second before flicking back up to your eyes, searching for something. Permission. Fear. Familiarity.

And before you could say anything, he leaned in.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, hesitant like he was testing the waters of something sacred and long-forgotten. The faint smell of engine grease still clung to him, mixed with the soft scent of detergent and wine.

You could’ve pulled away. You could’ve told him no, reminded him of the boundaries you’d both promised to keep. But you didn’t.

Instead, your hand came up instinctively, fingers brushing against the curve of his cheek, warm and rough beneath your touch. His breath caught, and when your lips met his, it was like time folded in on itself.

Everything was familiar, the softness of his mouth, the way he tilted his head just so, the gentle pressure that felt like memory. But it was also new. Slower. Tender.

It wasn’t the frantic kind of kiss you used to share, the ones fueled by arguments and apologies. This one felt like a question neither of you knew how to answer.

He deepened it slightly, his hand coming up to the side of your face, thumb brushing lightly against your jaw. You let him, for just a moment until a faint creak from upstairs made your heart leap.

You broke the kiss immediately, breathless. “Wait—” you whispered, eyes darting toward the hallway.

Jisung froze, eyes wide, listening. There was a soft sound, the faintest shuffle of tiny feet, but it didn’t come closer. You exhaled slowly, a hand pressed to your chest. “I thought I heard Ara.”

Jisung nodded, still slightly dazed, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. The silence stretched again, thick and full of everything that just happened. You could still feel the warmth of his skin on your fingertips, the ghost of his mouth on yours.

Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have—”

You shook your head quickly. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.”

He blinked, surprised.

You met his eyes, heart pounding. “It just… it happened. That’s all.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood exactly what you meant. That it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a reminder, of what you once were, and what you still could be. But it also wasn’t a promise. Not yet.

You both sat there in silence for a long moment, the house quiet again, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock. Finally, you stood, brushing invisible lint from your pants. “You should probably get going,” you said softly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

You walked him to the door. He paused in the doorway, turning to look at you one last time, his eyes lingering like he wanted to say something more. But instead, he just offered you a small, quiet smile, the kind that carried more meaning than words could.

“Goodnight,” he said.

You nodded, voice softer. “Goodnight, Jisung.”

When the door closed, you leaned against it, your pulse still unsteady. Upstairs, the floor creaked again, Ara shifting in her sleep, maybe. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You weren’t sure what you’d just done. But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a mistake.

-

Jisung didn’t sleep. He tried, he really did. But every time he shut his eyes, he saw you.

The faint glow of the lamp against your skin. The way you looked at him just before he kissed you. The sound of your breath catching, not in protest, but in surprise. The way his heart had nearly leapt out of his chest when you didn’t push him away. And then the way you did, the instant that tiny noise came from upstairs, the faint creak of Ara’s door.

He had never sobered faster in his life.

He kept replaying it all, the look in your eyes, the pause that followed, the quiet way you’d told him, “You should probably get going.”

He’d heard that line before. Not in the same tone, not after the same kind of moment, but enough times to know what it meant. Distance. Boundaries. A reminder of what he wasn’t supposed to cross. And now, lying awake in the dim light of his room, he couldn’t stop thinking that maybe he’d just ruined everything. The progress. The fragile trust. The small, careful steps that had taken weeks to build.

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “God, you’re an idiot,” he muttered into the quiet.

He didn’t regret the kiss. Not even for a second. He could still feel the warmth of it lingering on his lips, the ghost of your touch on his cheek, the way his pulse had quickened in that soft, dizzying moment. But he regretted when. The timing. The risk. You’d only just started trusting him again, letting him in, letting Ara see him regularly. He was part of your days now, part of Ara’s little world, and he’d jeopardized it all over one impulsive, selfish moment.

He’d spent the morning at the shop on autopilot, barely functioning. Every time Seojin asked him something, he just grunted or waved him off. He couldn’t focus on the engine in front of him, couldn’t even remember which part he’d been working on.

By noon, Chan had stopped by for a tune-up, and immediately noticed.

“Ji,” Chan had said flatly, leaning against the hood of the car, arms crossed. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Jisung didn’t even bother denying it.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

He almost did. Almost told him about the kiss, the way his heart felt like it was splitting between guilt and hope. But the words stuck in his throat. What would he even say? That he kissed you, the woman he’d spent years regretting losing, the mother of his child, who still didn’t know if she could trust him fully?

Instead, he just shrugged, muttered something about being tired, and went back to work. But the truth was, he wasn’t tired, he was wired. Every nerve in his body felt frayed.

By evening, when the last customer left, he was slouched against his workbench, staring blankly at the same bolt he’d been pretending to fix for half an hour. The air in the shop smelled faintly of oil and rain, it had started drizzling outside, and the gray light that came with it made everything feel heavier. He was so caught up in his own head that when his phone buzzed against the metal surface, he jumped.

He grabbed it quickly, expecting some random update from Minho or another part order. But when he saw your name on the screen, his heart nearly stopped.

You: Can you come over after work? We need to talk.

He read it again. And again. And again. The words blurred a little. Not because he didn’t understand them, he did, all too well, but because they could mean anything.

And his mind, of course, immediately jumped to the worst.

He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to say back. Finally, he typed a simple:

Jisung: Yeah. I’ll be there.

Then he locked his phone and let out a long, shaky breath, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the workbench.

His thoughts spiraled instantly. Was this it? Was she going to tell him to stop coming around? That he crossed a line, that Ara didn’t need confusion in her life?

He hadn’t realized until now just how much the idea of losing that hurt. Ara wasn’t just his daughter in name anymore, she was his. The way she laughed when she saw him, the way she’d tug at his sleeve to show him something, the way she’d lean on him without hesitation. He’d only just begun to earn that kind of trust, to see what it felt like to have her in his life, to watch her grow, to know she looked at him with joy and not fear. And now he might’ve ruined it.

The kiss had been his undoing.

//

masterlist.

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“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

When Jongseob doesn't reply, Keeho resorts to insistently jabbing at his arm until he catches his attention. He only turns to acknowledge Keeho when the pain from his sharp pokes outweighs the pressure from the plug nestled deep in his hole. 

“H-hm?” 

“I said, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Why do you seem so… jittery and distracted?”

Jongseob did his best to control his expression, not wanting to let slip that the reason he’s so jittery and distracted is because he couldn't think straight, not with how unbelievably full he felt. Not when with every single step he took, he could feel it pressing into the deepest parts of him, stimulating him in ways he's never felt before. Not when it—along with the metal ring attached to the thick black choker you’d made him wear—is a constant reminder of exactly what was waiting for him at home.

But he also couldn't deny the thrill he feels at the little secret he’s hiding in his pants.

So with flushed cheeks that do little to hide his true feelings, he settles on replying with, “I’m just a little nervous for the show.”

Keeho scoffs at him. “The show? That we’ve played a hundred times? You're nervous for the show.” 

He knows it’s a bad lie but it's too late to back out now, so all he does is nod dumbly and Keeho oddly doesn't pry further. 

Now, all he has to do is get through the show. Just get through the show. 

Except it was easier said than done, and he should have known that if simply walking around was a challenge, then he would be fucked dancing and jumping around on stage. 

He was, fucked.

Because by the third song he could already feel himself leaking in his pants and if it wasn't for the thousands of people in the room and the threat of eternal mortification, he’s sure he could have come. So he gathers every last bit of self control he has and is able to distract himself just enough to survive it. 

Right when he gets off stage, he b-lines to the dressing room to grab his things and is out the door, passing by the members who stare at him curiously, and reaching the private car waiting for him outside.

His leg shakes the whole ride to you, eager and impatient to be finally taken care of after a whole week of no orgasms. It was a silly challenge to accept, but ever since the first time he let you peg him, he's been waiting to relive the feeling he didn't know would be so euphoric. And you promised him it as a reward if he could get through the whole week without touching himself. 

He was doing fine the first few days, the thought of how good his reward would be warding off any urges he felt. It was in the middle of the week when things got difficult, when you first bent him over to carefully insert the metal plug into his ass, sliding past the tough ring of muscle until his hole sucked it in completely, leaving only the pretty black gem sticking out, contrasting his pretty pale skin. 

“We have to work you open so you can take me properly Jongseobie.” You explained to him, and he nodded, unable to form words over the mix of pain and pleasure at the stretch.

He’s punching in the code to your door, entering in no time to find you curled on the couch with a book in your lap. 

You don't look up, not even when he’s standing so close that his shadow falls over you. He waits as patiently as he can until he's shuffling from foot to foot, an ache forming deep in his chest that can only be mended by your attention.

In a desperate attempt to garner a response, he drops to his knees in front of you, the movement sending a fresh wave of pressure through him as the plug shifts and he fights to bite back a whimper. 

But you keep reading, eyes tracking across the page with every line.

He whispers your name, the soft sound dripping with a raw need that has you re-reading the same sentence over again. You lift a finger, not even glancing his way, as he falls silent again. You turn the page and he tries to be good and listen to you but he’s been aching all week and every nerve in his body craves your touch and the plug—

It’s been lodged inside him for hours, his body has started instinctively clenching around it, his glands begging for any sort of relief from the deep pressure. He knows his underwear is probably soaked by now, full of pre-cum, he’s surprised it hasn't leaked through his jeans. He shifts in place to alleviate the pressure, but it only makes it worse and this time he whines, loud and unfiltered.

“Please…” 

You still don't look up at him, but you do hold out your hand, palm up, an invitation that he eagerly accepts. His chin finds it naturally, a tiny broken sigh of relief leaves him as he nuzzles into your hand, his lips brushing wet open-mouthed kisses to your soft skin. 

Your fingers curl, gripping his jaw tight to still his movements as he melts in your hold, his eyes fluttering shut as you drag your thumb across his lips to part them. He takes your finger into his mouth with a grateful moan, tonguing at it to taste the faint saltiness of your skin while his hands curl obediently on his lap, waiting for you to grant him permission to touch him.

As you finish the page you gently shut the book and cast it aside to watch him, your pupils dilating at the sight of him so wrecked and flushed already. He opens his eyes and is surprised to see you just watching him and his jaw goes slack, his lips loosening around your thumb as you pull it free and drag it down his bottom lip.

“How was the concert?” you casually ask, the sight of him kneeling at your feet with spit smeared lips not phasing you.

He’s already struggling to focus, the concert is the last thing on his mind. He was barely present there, going through the motions of it mindlessly just so it could end and he could be here with you. 

“I—I don’t know… I was only thinking about you.” He doesn’t actually mean to say it out loud, but he can’t form any other thoughts and the smile that brushes your lips makes it worth the embarrassing confession.

“You look so pretty like this Seobie.” Your hand trails down until it catches on the ring of the choker you bought for him. You tug him forward, his heart doing a little flip as his breath hitches. “Did anyone ask why you ‘wanted to wear this’?”

He shakes his head, the movement restricted by your tight grip. “No. They—they said it suits me.”

You laugh, low and knowing. “Oh, so does everyone think you’re a dumb puppy?”

You’ve never seen him turn red so fast and you’re sure it’s because it wasn’t completely false, his fandom’s perception of him more so in the same ballpark. Nonetheless, he looks so fucking cute like this all needy and embarrassed, even you can’t hold back any longer so you yank him forward by the ring and crush your mouth to his. 

There is no structure to the kiss, just a mess of uncoordinated lips and tongues and a desperation that has him losing himself in your mouth, completely void of anything that wasn’t you. You swallow every noise he makes until between kisses, you murmur, “Do you still have the plug in?”

“Yes,” he speaks into your mouth.

You bite down harshly on his lip just to hear him whimper—which he does—and whisper, “Good boy,” watching the way his eyes light up.

“Have you touched yourself at all this week?”

He shakes his head frantically.

“You haven’t come at all?” You know the answer, but you devilishly ask anyway just to hear him say it.

“I promise,” he whispers, leaning into you. “I haven’t. Not once.”

You wonder what you look like right now, probably equally as dazed because just the sound of Jongseob being so dedicated to you has you wanting to do unspeakable things to him.

“Poor baby.” Your hand brushes his cheek. “It must hurt.”

His hips buck forward and he slumps against your knee, whining out, “It does. It hurts so much.”

“Do you want your reward?” He lifts his head, eyes brightening with hope until you force him back, holding him at a distance. “But did you forget our number one rule?”

He blanks for a second, then through the fog the words come to him. “Have to make you come first.”

“That’s right.” You release the ring and lean back against the couch. “So… are you going to make me come so we can get you your reward?”

He scrambles into action, his hands reaching for his belt, his movements freezing when you speak over the clink of metal. 

“What are you doing?”

His eyes widen, confusion flicking across his face. “I… wanna make you come.”

Your pulse thuds beneath your skin before you speak with a condescending laugh. “You think fucking me with that useless little thing is going to make me come?”

You can see the shock on his face first, immediately followed by the effect of your words. His whole body ignites. The humiliations burns through him like wildfire, searing and so shameful, but above all else so intensely arousing that his cock twitches painfully in his pants, a fresh wave of precome soaking into the fabric. He can feel how small he is, how inadequate, and the best part is how much he fucking loves it.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can make you feel good. I promise. Please let me try.”

You breathe a quiet sigh of relief when he doesn’t safeword out and clearly enjoys the degradation. When he first brought it up to you, you were unsure, but seeing how much one miniscule comment affects him increases your staunchness.

You shake your head at him, tsking with pity. “Not like that, Seobie.”

You slip off your bottoms and slide forward on the couch, spreading your legs to make room for him between them. His eyes glue to your core when you part your thighs to reveal the slick glistening heat of your cunt. He’s mesmerized by the way your folds slowly separate from where they stick together until you're fully open for him to see, his mouth watering at the way your clit pulses in the cool air.

You've done a good job at concealing how horny you are but the proof before him is undeniable and he knows, it’s because you’ve been waiting for this too the whole week. You’ve been waiting to use him.

You lift one leg and drape your ankle over his shoulder, urging him closer. The scent of your sopping arousal hits him and he licks his lips in anticipation.

“Come here,” you purr, your head falling back lazily to watch him have at it, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hands finally raise from his thighs to fist at your own, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He presses his face into your pussy like a starving man, his tongue wasting no time tracing a path from your hole to your clit. The taste of you floods his tongue and he groans against your sensitive flesh.

“Fucking hell,” you manage between choked gasps as you lower your chin to watch him work his tongue on you with muddled circles around your stiff bud, alternating between flicking and sucking it between his lips. He’s so sloppy with it, his spit and your slick mixing together and dribbling down his chin, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way your thighs tighten around his head and your fingers weave through his hair to pull. 

“T-that’s it,” you pant, grinding up against his mouth. “Right there.”

He doesn’t even notice his hips rutting up into the air as he eats you out. What he does notice is the plug jutting right against his most sensitive spot, motivation to keep going and be good enough to earn your reward. He shoves two fingers into your cunt, and they slip in with no resistance as he curls them up just how you like until your back arches off the couch.

“Jongseob—”

He’s drunk on you, on the sounds you're making, the way you scream his name, how you’re pulling his hair. He loves it all so deeply so he doesn’t stop for a second, not even when his jaw begins to ache, he just buries his face deeper and lets you ride his tongue.

“You’re lucky you’re good at this,” you pant, your hole clenching when his tongue dips into it. “Because that pathetic cock sure wouldn’t get the job done.”

He whimpers into your cunt as his legs shake and for a terrifying second he thinks he might come. He fights it as best as he can by clenching his thighs together and doubling his effort between your legs.

Your grip on his hair tightens, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

You shove his face deeper into your pussy until you’re fucking his tongue and grinding against him like he’s nothing more than a toy for you to use. His nose presses to your clit as he works his tongue deeper, then back up to suck harder  on the sensitive bud, alternating with quick flicks of his tongue, and he feels your start to tighten. It doesn’t take long for you to shatter.

White-hot lightning rips through you, your thighs clamping around his head as you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. He’s a blabbering mess on your cunt, eager to lick up every drop of your release and only pulls back when you tug at his hair. But even then, he doesn’t want to be away from you so he moves to the inside of your  thigh and kisses it with long brushes of his tongue. 

You catch your breath and grip his chin to tilt his face up at you. He’s so enticing, his makeup ruined with eyeliner smudges and glitter falling as well as your slick glistening on his cheeks and chin. He looked other worldly.

“Such a good puppy,” you mumble, thumb smearing the mess further around his cheek.

He beams at you and you were sure if he had a tail, it would be wagging. “Can I have my reward now?”

You want to smother him tight in your arms with how adorably eager he is. You chuckle and rise from the couch, catching the ring of his choker to tug him along with you to your room.

When you reach the bed you release him and turn to the closet, giving him a simple command. “Get on the bed. Undress. Wait on your knees.”

You hear the rustling of movement behind you as you pull the brand-new strap from your closet. You tug off your top so you're completely bare and step into the harness to fasten it around your hips. 

Jongseob’s lips part at the sight, the silicone dildo curved and just long enough to make him question whether or not it will fit. He waits anxiously until you're in front of him, angling his face up for a kiss, then sliding your hands down to his thighs and gently parting them to reveal what he’s been hiding.

His cock sits nestled between his legs, barely peeking out behind the thatch of dark hair. You pull back from the kiss just enough to look down at it with a snicker. 

“This is what you want to fuck me with?” You trace a fingertip along his length, your nails barely scratching as it twitches. “So tiny and pathetic.”

His whines and arches his back, pushing forward to get closer when you start jerking him between two fingers, toying with his inadequate cock. 

“Can barely jerk it… Is this why you want to be pegged so bad? Because you know this useless thing can never satisfy anything?”

You barely finish the sentence when he smashes his lips back to yours, though he's moaning so much that his mouth stays parted and you're practically licking into his mouth. He's driving his hips up as much as he can to increase the friction on his cock but you're pulling away before anything can come of it and Jongseob’s hips shake at the neglect.

You coo at him, “It’s okay puppy, I’m going to take good care of you. Don’t worry.” You pat his cheek lightly and grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand. “Turn around, ass up. Let's get this plug out of you.”

He flips over and leans down on his elbows, hiking his ass up high and arching his back as much as he could to present himself to you. The pretty black jewel glints between his cheeks and beneath it, his cock dangles flushed and leaking down to the mattress. 

You rub the curve of his ass while he trembles beneath your hand, grabbing the base of the plug to shimmy it out. His rim widens around the thickest part of the metal plug, his hole stretching and clenching around it until it begins to ease out. He’s a mess of pants and whimpers, his fingers grasping at the sheets as the plug slides free. The emptiness he feels is jarring, his walls clenching around nothing, his hole contracting and winking, desperate to be filled again.

“How does it feel?” You ask, setting the plug aside.

“Empty,” he gasps, “‘M so empty… wanna be full again.”

Your smirk at how empty-headed he sounds and you circle his entrance with your fingers, admiring the way he pushes against you to try and suck you in. “You look looser, should be able to take my strap now. You want it, Seobie? Want me to show you what a real cock feels like?”

“Yes!” He begs, “Yes, please, I want it so bad—show me.”

You flip open the cap on the lube bottle and squeeze a generous amount over his hole, his body jolting when he feels the cool gel on his heated skin. He shivers and bites his lip as you rub it around, pressing two fingers against his rim, circling slowly then sliding in.

“The strap is bigger than the plug,” you explain, pumping your fingers deeper into him. “So I have to get you nice and slippery first. Don't wanna break my pretty puppy.”

He grunts and pushes back to meet every thrust. You curl your fingers just right until you’re grazing his g-spot, and he cries out, his whines muffled when he shoves his face into the blanket below him. 

When you withdraw, he lets out a devastated little sound at the loss. You step back to douse the dildo in lube, stroking it along the length, thrilled at how ready Jongseob is for you.

You find it cute how he doesn't move an inch, frozen in place, waiting so patiently for you. You don't make him wait any longer.

You climb onto the bed behind him, pressing into him until the dildo is nestled along his ass, and you dip a hand down his curved spine to hold his slim figure in your hands. He shudders when the tip teases his waiting entrance.

“Ready puppy?”

“Please,” he’s lost all sense of pride as he begs, “Please fill me up, I—”

His mouth drops into a silent scream when you press forward and breach his hole, the skin stretching around the silicone head. You can feel how tight he still is even after the anal training, his body clenching to stop the intrusion as he pushes against it. 

“Fuck—ngh, s-so big—Ah!” He yelps, forcing himself up onto his hands as his back bows. “T-too big, I can’t—it won't fit—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” You rub his ass softly, encouraging him even as he tries to squirm away. “You’re tensing up, baby. Just relax.” 

“I’m trying,” he hiccups, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m trying but it’s so—you’re so—”

“I know,” you lean down as far as you can to press a kiss to his spine. “I know it's big. That’s the point baby. But I’ll make it fit, don't worry.” 

He sobs unrestrained, but his hole flutters around the tip. 

“There we go. See? Just need a bit of encouragement.” You straighten back up, gripping his hips with both hands now to inch in deeper. “Gonna stretch this tight hole, gonna fuck you so deep so you can take an even bigger one next time.”

He’s babbling now, useless incoherent sounds, as you keep pushing in. Your clit throbs against the harness at the way he swallows up the length until you're buried all the way in and he’s mewling with pleasure.

“There,” you breathe, admiring the way his rim grips the base of your strap. “See? Told you it would fit. So snug, your hole was made for this Jongseosbie.”

“F-feel so full…” he slurs. “Can feel you in my stomach.”

“Yeah?” You struggle to inch back out from how tight he clings to you. “Must be nice. Your little cock could never reach that deep in me. You can never fill me up like this. Might need to get another boyfriend so he can fuck me right.”

You push back into him with less resistance now until you're rocking your hips, every thrust drawing out a choked whine from his lips. His back arches even deeper with every thrust, like he's trying to take you even further inside.

“God, I want to ruin you,” you hiss, squeezing his ass in a tight grip to force him back harder into you. “Wanna ruin this pretty hole until you can't walk straight.”

“P-please ruin me…” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, all he can focus on is the tight pressure, his tears rushing down and mixing with the mess of drool and slickness at his chin. 

“Look at how much you’re enjoying this, such a greedy little whore.”

“Yes—I’m your greedy little whore.”

Your hips slap against his, hard and fast, until the tip is fucking relentlessly into his prostrate and his arms are give our completely, his chest slumping down into the mattress. He sounds so fucking pretty and wrecked; you can hear him crying and can only imagine his glassy and blissed out eyes—

You pull out so suddenly and he shrieks at the gaping loss, his lower body falling to the bed now that he is no longer being held up by you. He’s so weak and overstimulated, he can't find the strength to move so you push him onto his back instead, his thighs parting instinctively for you. 

And god—the sight of him is enough to make your knees feel weak. His face is a disaster, makeup-smudged tears tracking down his cheeks, lips bitten red and swollen. And his eyes… so dazed and unfocused, pupils blown wide with pleasure. Your eyes narrow in on his stomach, and they widen in surprise when you see his once hard cock completely limp against his belly, twitching weakly, a milky liquid still oozing from the tip.

“Did you fucking come?” 

He shys away from your gaze, turning his head to bury it in the pillow. You bark out a laugh that makes him curl further in on himself until you force his jaw back to face you and he nods, barely perceptible, his lips tremble.

“And you didn't say anything? You just let me keep going?”

“I didn't want you to stop,” he sobs. “It felt so good—want more.”

You settle between his parted legs, hooking your hands around his thighs and guiding the strap back to his hole with a shake of your head. “You can't even stay hard long enough to get fucked properly. And you want more?”

"I'm sorry," he sobs, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, it just— it happened, I couldn't control it—"

“It’s okay puppy. I should have known better, since you’re such a greedy slut. If you want more I’ll give you more.” You grip his thighs and slam back into him. 

Jongseob’s eyes clench shut and he throws his head back on the pillow at the rough intrusion, his torso twisting until you force him back down. You set a brutal pace, fucking his sensitive hole with no regard to his comfort. If he wants to be stuffed so badly, you would make sure you did so.

He forces his eyes open, so disheveled and unfocused but locking on where you're entering him. You fuck him through the overstimulation until he's trembling and babbling nonsense. 

"You like watching me fuck you, huh?" You hitch his leg higher and press it against his chest, the new angle allowing you to penetrate him deeper. His soft cock bounces against his belly with every thrust, still leaking thin trails of cum.

"Can't even get hard again.” you coo, glancing down. “One orgasm and it's completely done. Such a loser."

"I’m so pathetic," you groan when he agrees, his voice barely a whisper. "So small and pathetic—"

Your hips are aching with exhaustion, begging you to slow down but you ignore the pain as you aim for that sweet spot inside him that makes his vision white out. And then you notice it, a faint, subtle bulge in his lower belly every time you thrust all the way in.

"Look at that," you breathe, pressing your palm against the bulge. "You feel that? That's how deep I am inside you. You're so full of me you can see it."

He glances down, sees the outline of your cock through his stomach, and nearly sobs. "Please, d-deeper—"

You scoff at him, not believing what you were hearing. You can literally see the dildo protruding from his stomach, and it still wasn’t enough. You knew he would like it, the whole reason you suggested it in the first place, but this really is a whole new level of greed.

“Fuck, how much deeper can I go? you want me to rearrange your guts?”

You say it sarcastically but he still whimpers and reaches a hand out for you mindlessly seeking your comforting touch amongst the chaos. You catch his wrist and he chokes on a sob, probably expecting you to pin it down or shove it away. But you don’t. Instead, you thread your fingers through his, palm to palm, and hold them at his hip.

“There,” you murmur, leaning over him. “That’s what you needed, puppy?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, squeezing your hand so hard it becomes painful. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You kiss his knee, and focus back on splitting him open on your strap. You can tell he’s close with the effort it takes to drive in and out from how tight he was squeezing the dildo. 

"Can feel you squeezing me."

"Yes— yes— I'm gonna… I'm so close—"

His words dissolve into strangled whines, his body tensing and trembling beneath you. You smooth your free hand up his torso to palm at his chest, taking his nipple between your fingers and rolling the sensitive bud until he screams, a raw, broken sound that tears from his chest. Then his body seizes and you push all the way to the hilt so that you are shoved up into his prostrate.

His soft and untouched cock pulses, spurting thick ropes of white across his own stomach and chest. His hole clenches around the strap hard, keeping you in, his whole body spasms as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through him. You slowly move again, fucking him through it, slow and deep, drawing out every last tremor until he collapses boneless against the mattress.

His chest heaves. His eyes are glazed, unseeing. A thin trail of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth.

You pull out gently, watching his stomach tighten as he whimpers at the loss. You brush his long hair back from his sweaty forehead. He leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Good puppy," you murmur. "Such a good, good puppy. Took your reward so well."

You sit back on your knees and take a moment to breathe and let the adrenaline settle. You find peace in watching the rise and fall of Jongseob’s chest as he floats somewhere soft and hazy beneath you. The mess on his stomach is starting to cool, and you know you need to clean him up. You unbuckle the harness and slip it off, reaching back for him with a gentle hand to grab his attention. 

“Hey, baby,” You keep your voice low and gentle in comparison to your harsh tone just minutes ago. “I’m just leaving to grab a towel to clean you up, okay? I’ll be back. I’m not going anywhere.”

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement, his hand still twitching to reach for you despite what you just told him. You squeeze his fingers briefly before slipping off the bed.

When you return you find him exactly how you left him, sprawled on his back with his legs still open, his chest still rising and falling to control his breathing. His eyes are open now, though half-lidded, tracking you lazily as you settle beside him. 

“I’m back, sweetheart.” You press a careful kiss to his forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? Then we can cuddle.”

You start from his stomach and work your way up to his chest, wiping away the mess of cum as he sighs at the warmth of the cloth. 

“That’s it, just relax for me.”

You move to his face next, wiping away his ruined makeup with makeup remover and the mix of spit and slick at his mouth. He tilts his head into your touch, your heart clenching at how he never fails to seek out your affection. 

“There’s my pretty boy,” you say softly, wiping away the last bit of smudged shadow. His lips quirk into a small, exhausted smile.

You clean between his thighs last, careful not to hurt him. He winces slightly when you pass over his used hole, and you press a kiss to his inner thigh in apology. 

Finally, you pull back the blanket for him to slip under, and you follow, opening your arms for him to slide into. He presses his face into your chest, his body curling against yours as you hold him close, one hand brushing down his spine. 

“Hey, I know we talked about all the humiliation stuff a while ago,” you start, a hint of anxiety behind your words. “And you probably weren’t expecting it but that was… intense. More intense than usual. And I just want to know if it was too much. Or if I crossed a line. If any of it made you feel actually bad instead of just—”

He seals his lips over yours to stop your nervous rambling, and only parting to whisper against your lips, “It was perfect.”

You search his face for any ounce of hesitance. “Are you sure? Because really, you can tell me. I won’t be upset.”

He pushes himself up just enough to see you properly, his eyes carrying a clarity beneath the haze. 

“It was perfect,” he repeats. “I promise. It makes me feel taken care of. Like I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.”

He leans forward to kiss you again and you pull back this time when you feel the smirk on his lips. He meets your eyes and stares into them, letting you feel the weight of the next words he speaks. “I like feeling small and useless with you. Love feeling owned by you.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and you reach up to cup his cheek, his chin turning to press his lips to your palm, reminding you of how this all began.

“You are mine,” you tell him. “All mine.”

He rubs his nose gently across yours, then returns to his place on your chest, his body growing heavy and slack in the safety of your hold.

Taglist: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx, @missingjulia , @hxraiiii @mingijelly, @bluedenebii, @kukkurookkoo, @tilly-death @mysweetjongseob, @lycxee @willowedjelly , @l5byrinth @tinastar13 @evemds @jellyybelly @elmolovesw33d @missmaiamay @stxrxyyz @seonghwaswifeuuuu @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta @vvalever @oyasumiaikko @chandlxa @choxochip @ji-eun-bun @cryptothecat @ava-lazaza @princessthelsa @kyoluvrs @jiungs-wednesdaygirl @delicatechris @chandlxa @rockstartaeyang @orchidves @straystar-8 @liveyourownlife4good @boptak @dreamerliya @keeilly @alienslostinworld @mydearandy @embobema @madelineblackwell @hoe4yunhoooo @jiuchocopie @qiqivv @whoowannarockwjennie @kamxstar @progiggl3r @decodedollie111 @lorena4piwon

But tonight you weren’t blind anymore. Tonight, your chest burned too much, your patience bled out too quickly, and Jisung… Jisung was leaning against the kitchen counter like he had every right to look that calm while your whole world splintered.

“You don’t get it,” you snapped, pacing back and forth because sitting still would mean giving in to the pressure in your chest, and you weren’t ready to fold. “You never get it, Jisung. I’m not asking for diamonds or trips or whatever shit you keep saying you’ll give me when the shop finally ‘takes off.’ I’m asking for you. Just you. For once.”

His jaw worked like he was grinding the words before they even left his mouth. “Don’t start with that again. You know I’m working my ass off. Everything I do is for us—”

“Us?” You barked out a laugh, bitter and sharp, like glass breaking. “There hasn’t been an us in months. There’s your job, your friends, your long nights at the bar after shifts. And then there’s me, waiting around like an idiot hoping you’ll come home before midnight.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t move. He just lit another cigarette from the crumpled pack on the counter, dragging in the smoke like it was a shield between the two of you. You hated it, hated how the smell clung to him, hated how it felt like he was already gone even when he was standing right there.

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, exhaling a cloud that blurred the lines of his face for a second.

That broke something in you. “Dramatic? You promised me we’d go to my sister’s engagement dinner last week, and what did you do? You went drinking with Minho and Chan. Again. And you didn’t even call. Do you know how fucking humiliating it was to sit there alone and make excuses for you? To say you were ‘working late’ when I knew damn well where you were?”

He didn’t look at you then. He just dragged his hand through his hair, messy and tired. And you knew that gesture too well, it meant he was walling up, building those invisible barricades he thought you couldn’t see through.

“I needed that night,” he said finally, voice flat. “The shop’s been killing me. Minho offered to buy a round, I—”

“You always ‘need’ those nights,” you cut in, your chest heaving. “And you always promise you’ll make it up to me. That you’ll take me out, that we’ll spend a day together, that you’ll be home early. But you don’t. You never do, Jisung. You break promise after promise and I’m supposed to keep smiling through it, pretending it doesn’t hurt?”

Something in him snapped then, though not in the way you wanted. His head whipped toward you, eyes flashing, and his voice came out louder than it had in weeks.

“What the hell do you want from me? You think it’s easy trying to build a life? You think I don’t feel like shit every time I see the bills pile up? You think I don’t notice the way you look at me like I’m already failing you?”

You froze, the words hitting hard and fast. But anger flared just as quickly. “Failing me? Jisung, I never cared about the money. I never cared that you weren’t rich, or that the shop wasn’t some glamorous job. I cared about being with you. About us actually mattering more than another night wasted on beer and bullshit with your friends. But you don’t even try anymore.”

For a second, you saw it, just the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the hesitation in his clenched fists. But then it was gone, buried under that wall of pride and exhaustion he wore like armor.

“I’m trying the only way I know how,” he said, quieter now but no softer. “I work. I fix cars until my hands bleed. I give everything I have so you don’t have to worry. But I guess that’s not enough for you.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, because you refused to cry in front of him, not tonight. “No, Jisung. It’s not enough. Because you don’t let me in. You don’t talk to me, you don’t let me carry the weight with you. You’d rather run to them than to me. And maybe I was too blind to admit it before, but you don’t want me the way I want you.”

Silence stretched, heavy and unbearable. The hum of the fridge, the faint crackle of the cigarette, it was all too loud in the absence of his answer.

Finally, he said it, the words that felt like final nails in the coffin.
“Maybe we just want different things.”

You stared at him, waiting, hoping he’d take it back. That he’d reach for you, that he’d fight for what you were both losing. But he didn’t move. He just stubbed out the cigarette and looked away.

And that was it.
That was the moment you knew.

Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Then maybe we shouldn’t want each other at all.”

You grabbed your jacket, your hands shaking as you shoved your keys into your pocket, and walked out before he could see the tears finally spill over.

Behind you, the silence swallowed him whole.

You had left with your jacket, your keys, and your pride barely stitched together. And he hadn’t followed. That was the part that kept circling back, gnawing at you. Jisung didn’t run after you, didn’t call, didn’t even fight to stop you when you closed the door behind you.

If that wasn’t an answer, you didn’t know what was.

The first nights were brutal. You slept on your sister’s couch, staring at the ceiling until your eyes burned, replaying every second of the fight in your head, over and over. Your chest ached in a way that felt physical, like someone had carved you open and scooped everything out, leaving only the hollow sound of your heartbeat to echo in the emptiness.

You didn’t eat much. You didn’t talk much either. When your sister pressed you for details, you brushed her off with muttered excuses. She told you he was never good enough for you anyway, that you deserved better. And maybe she was right. Maybe. But the part of you that still loved him, the part that remembered the boy who used to hold your hand while driving nowhere at midnight, who used to kiss you like you were oxygen, couldn’t reconcile that with the man who let you walk away without a word.

And then came the test.
A small, plastic stick clutched in shaking hands, the bathroom light buzzing overhead.

You sat there on the edge of the tub, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the two pink lines that blurred and refocused through your tears. Positive. You’d known, deep down, long before you bought it. The fatigue, the nausea, the late nights crying when your body felt strange in ways you couldn’t explain, it all clicked now.

You pressed your hand against your stomach, breath hitching.
There was a part of him inside you. A part of you and him both, growing without his knowledge.

For one fleeting second, you imagined telling him. You imagined the way his face might soften, the way his hands might tremble as he reached for you. You imagined him changing, imagined him choosing you, choosing this, because he’d always wanted family, even when he didn’t admit it out loud.

But then the memory of that night rushed back. His voice, flat and tired, telling you maybe you just wanted different things. The cigarette stubbed out on the counter. The way he didn’t stop you when you left.

If you told him, it would chain you to him forever. And not the version of him you once loved, but the one who never showed up when it mattered, the one who chose everyone but you when you needed him most.

You weren’t sure which hurt more, the idea of raising a child alone, or the idea of raising it with someone who couldn’t love you the way you needed.

So you made the decision. Quietly, without fanfare. You wouldn’t tell him. You would protect this child from disappointment, from broken promises and lonely nights spent waiting by the door.

You’d protect yourself too, even if it meant carrying the weight of this secret for the rest of your life.

Leaving town wasn’t easy, but staying was impossible. Everywhere you turned, there were ghosts. The greasy smell of the auto shop that drifted down Main Street when the bay doors were open. The cracked sidewalk you’d walked side by side on, arguing about nothing, laughing until your stomach hurt. The tiny diner booth where he’d once slid you an extra fry from his plate like it was a treasure.

You couldn’t breathe there anymore.

So you packed. Slowly, carefully, folding your life into boxes that didn’t feel big enough to contain the weight of your memories. You found an apartment in a city two hours away, big enough for you and the baby you’d never planned for but already loved with a fierceness that frightened you.

When you loaded the last box into your sister’s car, you stood on the curb and looked back at the town you’d grown up in, the place where you’d loved and lost him. The air felt thick with ghosts, but also with finality.

You whispered goodbye, though you weren’t sure who you were saying it to, him, the life you once imagined, or the version of yourself who had believed love could be enough.

And then you got in the car.

In the months that followed, grief and hope wove themselves into your every day. You worked, you saved, you bought tiny clothes in soft colors and tucked them into drawers that still smelled like fresh paint. You learned to breathe again, even when it was hard.

And when your daughter was born, squalling and pink and perfect, you held her against your chest and cried harder than you ever had in your life.

“Ara,” you whispered, the name rolling off your tongue like a prayer. A piece of you. A piece of him. A piece of something new.

In that moment, you swore you’d never let her feel unwanted. You’d never let her doubt she was enough. And if that meant keeping her father’s name buried deep inside you like a wound that would never quite heal, then so be it.

Because this wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about her.

And she was everything.

The city didn’t love you at first.

It was loud, messy, and crowded in a way that felt alien after years of small-town quiet. The streets were always humming with noise, horns, chatter, the metallic groan of subway brakes and you felt like a ghost slipping between strangers who never looked you in the eye.

But anonymity was what you wanted. What you needed. A place where nobody knew your name, where you weren’t just “Jisung’s girl,” where no one could look at you with pitying eyes and whisper about the mechanic who broke your heart.

So you made it work.

The first apartment was tiny, with thin walls and a view of another brick building that blocked the light. But it was yours. Yours and Ara’s. You painted the walls soft cream and put cheap curtains up in pastel colors, trying to turn the boxy rooms into a home. You worked long hours at a bookstore café, breathing in the smell of paper and coffee while saving every extra tip in a jar labeled “tomorrow.”

Tomorrow meant diapers. Formula. Rent. Sometimes tomorrow meant maybe one day a bigger apartment, a yard, a life where Ara wouldn’t know how tight things really were.

Ara was your anchor. From the first moment you held her, with her tiny fists curling against your chest, you had known you could survive anything as long as she was with you. And you did. Through the sleepless nights, through the exhaustion that pressed on your bones, through the ache of missing him when you caught glimpses of fathers holding their daughters’ hands on crowded sidewalks, you survived.

You learned the rhythm of it all. Waking before dawn to feed her, whispering lullabies into the soft darkness while the city outside never truly slept. Rushing to daycare before your shift, juggling grocery bags on the way home, eating ramen at the kitchen table while Ara babbled nonsense words in her high chair.

Some days were harder than others. There were moments when you’d find yourself staring at her face, at the way her lashes brushed her cheeks when she slept, and your chest would tighten because you saw him there. Not fully, not in ways anyone else would notice, but in her half-smile, in the way her brow furrowed even as a toddler when she was concentrating.

And sometimes, when Ara laughed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of sound that filled every corner of the room, you could almost hear him. The echo of Jisung’s laugh in hers, like some cruel reminder that no matter how far you’d run, part of him had followed.

You hated yourself for it. For missing him, for wondering if he would have loved her the way you did. You’d chosen not to tell him, and some nights you questioned that decision, lying awake with Ara asleep beside you, her small hand gripping your shirt as though she knew you needed grounding. Would he have changed, if he knew? Would he have fought for you, for her?

But then you remembered the boy who had chosen his friends over you, the man who hadn’t run after you when you walked away. You remembered the way promises had crumbled in his mouth. And you told yourself you had made the right choice. You had to believe it. For Ara’s sake, if not for your own.

Years passed that way. Slowly, steadily, a rhythm that became routine. Ara grew, and with her, so did you. She learned her first words, her first steps. She went from clumsy toddler to bright-eyed little girl, chasing pigeons across city parks and coloring the walls when you turned your back. She loved stories, especially the ones you made up on the fly, and sometimes she’d fall asleep in your lap with a book half-open in her tiny hands.

On her fifth birthday, you threw her a party in the park. Nothing fancy, just cupcakes, balloons, a handful of kids from daycare, but the way her eyes lit up made every sacrifice worth it.

“You’re the best, Mommy,” she said, hugging you so tightly your chest ached.

In that moment, you believed it.

And yet, no matter how far you’d come, the past lingered. Sometimes in the quiet, when Ara was asleep and the apartment was dark, you’d catch yourself reaching for your phone, tempted to look him up. To see if he was still in town, if he was still fixing cars, if he was still the boy who broke your heart or if time had shaped him into someone else.

But you never pressed send. You never searched. You told yourself you were stronger than that, that you’d built something on your own and you didn’t need him.

It was easier to pretend you’d left him behind completely than to admit the truth: that part of you was still tethered to him, no matter how much distance you put in between.

The city had become a kind of armor for you. Its chaos gave you cover, its size gave you safety. But when the phone call came, when your sister’s voice cracked as she told you your mother was gone, the armor shattered.

Suddenly, you weren’t a stranger in the city anymore, you were a daughter who had to go home.

And with that came the inevitability you’d spent years trying to outrun.

Because home wasn’t just your mother’s house. It wasn’t just grief and inheritance and old memories. Home was where Jisung still lived.

And fate, cruel as ever, was waiting for you both.

-

You hadn’t driven those roads in years.

The highway stretched out before you like a thread leading back to a version of yourself you weren’t sure you wanted to face. Each passing mile felt heavier, like the weight of the past was crawling into the backseat with you, settling between the suitcases and bags stuffed with Ara’s toys.

Ara was humming softly beside you, her small voice weaving through the low music from the car speakers. Her head bobbed as she played with the stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin from years of being loved too hard.

“Are we almost there, Mommy?” she asked, her eyes bright with the innocent curiosity only a child could have.

“Almost,” you said, forcing a smile. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Home. The word sat like a stone in your stomach. It wasn’t just a place, it was everything you had left behind. Your mother’s kitchen, the familiar creak of the staircase, the smell of lilacs that always bloomed by the porch in spring. But it was also him. The town had always been too small, too full of memories, too impossible to avoid people you once loved.

And you had loved him. Once. Maybe still, though you hated yourself for even letting the thought exist.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. To her, “Daddy” was just a word she saw in picture books, a role other kids at daycare had, something abstract and distant. She only asked if she had a dad a few times, never pressed further than you could handle. But you knew the questions would come eventually. And what would you say?

You didn’t let yourself imagine that yet.

The town sign appeared before you realized it, the letters faded but familiar. You felt your throat close. The streets hadn’t changed much, same rows of houses, same diner on the corner, same gas station where you and Jisung used to buy cheap sodas in the summer heat. Time had moved forward everywhere else, but here it seemed to hold its breath.

Your mother’s house was waiting, just as you remembered. Big, with peeling paint on the porch rail and windows that seemed to watch you with tired familiarity. The sight of it knocked the air out of you.

This wasn’t how you wanted to come back. Not carrying grief like a second skin. Not with Ara holding your hand, asking in her sweet little voice if Grandma was really gone.

You knelt down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “She’s gone, baby,” you said softly, your chest tightening. “But this was her home, and now it’s ours. We’ll take care of it together.”

Ara nodded solemnly, in the way only children could, as if the world’s heaviest truths could be accepted if you explained them simply enough. She pressed the rabbit to her chest and smiled, and in that moment you felt something shift. The ache in your heart didn’t go away, but it dulled under the reminder that you weren’t alone.

-

The funeral was a blur. People you hadn’t seen in years pressed your hands, told you how sorry they were, how beautiful Ara was. You nodded, smiled when you could, kept your eyes down when they lingered too long. You caught whispers, speculation about Ara’s father, about where you’d been all this time, but you pushed them aside.

Not once did you see him. Not once did Jisung appear in the crowd of faces, and a twisted part of you was grateful for it.

But the town was small. You knew it was only a matter of time.

That night, after Ara fell asleep in the big upstairs bedroom that used to be yours, you stood at the window and looked out at the familiar street. The air was still, the kind of quiet you only ever got in places like this. The city never slept, but your hometown did. And in that silence, you could almost hear echoes of the past, laughter, arguments, the slam of a car door, the way he used to call your name from the curb.

Your chest ached. You pressed a hand against the glass and shut your eyes.

You weren’t that girl anymore. You had a daughter now, a life you built from the wreckage. You didn’t need him. You didn’t.

But fate, you knew, had never cared much for what you needed.

The first encounter didn’t come at the funeral, or the grocery store, or the gas station where you caught yourself checking the pumps with a nervous glance.

It came the way fate always worked best: cruel and inconvenient.

Late at night, with Ara asleep in the backseat, the car sputtered as you were turning off the main road.

You cursed under your breath, pulling over.

The car coughed like it had swallowed something it couldn’t handle, and then the engine cut out.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, as the headlights dimmed and the silence of the small-town road pressed in around you. You tried the ignition again, once, twice, three times, but the engine only groaned like it was mocking you.

“Not now,” you whispered under your breath, panic clawing up your throat. Ara was curled up in the back seat, her cheek pressed against her stuffed rabbit, her chest rising and falling with the soft rhythm of sleep. The thought of her waking up out here, scared, was enough to make your heart race harder.

You killed the headlights and sat back in the driver’s seat, rubbing your forehead. The glow of your phone screen was weak, barely a bar of service. You scrolled through your contacts, debating who you could call. A tow truck, maybe. Another shop in the next town over. Anyone but.. then the smell hit you.
Cigarette smoke.

Your body froze, stomach sinking. Slowly, against every prayer in your chest, you turned your head.

There he was.

Leaning against the front of the auto shop across the street, the faint orange glow of the cigarette burning in his hand. His hair was a little longer now, his shoulders broader, the darkness of night carving deeper lines into his face. For a second, he was just a stranger, a man in coveralls finishing a smoke break.

But you’d know him anywhere.

Han Jisung.

Your lungs locked up. You ducked your head instinctively, as if bowing to fate might undo the impossible cruelty of the moment. You fumbled for your phone again, whispering to yourself, Don’t come over, don’t come over, please don’t come over. You’d call someone else, anyone else, even if it meant waiting hours by the side of the road. He couldn’t see you. He couldn’t know you were back.

And then he moved.

You heard the scrape of his boots against the pavement, the lazy shuffle of someone heading toward a problem they thought they could fix. His voice carried across the space before he was even close, warm and cocky in a way that made your skin crawl with recognition.

“Rough night, huh? You’re lucky—car breaks down right in front of the best shop in town.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d assume you were just another woman stranded at his doorstep. Of course he’d play the part, the helpful mechanic with the flirt tucked into his tone. That used to make you laugh, once upon a time. Now it only made you want to scream.

You didn’t turn at first. You just swallowed hard and forced your voice steady. “I’m fine. I can call someone.”

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. “Come on, don’t be stubborn. Let me take a look. Won’t even charge you a pretty face fee.”

The words cut sharper than they should’ve, a knife of familiarity in your gut. You turned then, slowly, reluctantly like pulling off a bandage you knew would hurt.

And when your eyes met his, the world stopped.

He froze. Completely, utterly froze. The half-smile on his lips fell away as if someone had knocked the breath from his lungs. The cigarette between his fingers burned dangerously close, forgotten, the ash long and trembling.

“...Y/N.”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak at first. The sound of your name on his lips, after all these years, carried too much, anger, longing, regret. It was all there in the single syllable.

You forced yourself to scoff, to summon up a brittle armor. “Don’t. Just… don’t. I’ll call someone else.”

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the reality in front of him. “You’re… you’re back.”

“It’s temporary,” you lied quickly, the words tripping over themselves. Anything to put distance between you and the storm in his eyes. “I don’t need your help.”

But Jisung had never been one to listen when you said no. He rolled his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world and brushed past you, leaning over the hood of your car. His arm brushed yours briefly, barely there, but enough to send your heart careening into your ribs.

“Pop the hood,” he said, his tone clipped now, stripped of the flirt but not the stubbornness.

“I said I can call someone,” you snapped, but your voice cracked on the edge of it, betraying you.

He glanced at you, and for a moment it wasn’t anger in his eyes but something softer, hurt, maybe, or confusion. But then it was gone, replaced with the same determination he wore when he fixed any machine. He pulled the lever himself, ignoring your protests, and leaned into the car with practiced ease.

You stood there, fists clenched at your sides, pulse racing. Every second he bent over the car felt like a countdown to disaster. Ara shifted in her sleep in the back seat, and you prayed, begged that she wouldn’t wake up just yet.

Because if Jisung saw her…

Your chest tightened. That was the one thing you weren’t ready for. The one truth you had fought to bury, the reason you hadn’t wanted him to see you at all.

He straightened finally, wiping his hands on his coveralls, and looked at you again. The night air between you buzzed with everything unsaid.

“You always were shit at cars,” he muttered, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop himself.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “And you always were shit at promises.”

The words landed like a slap. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of the cooling engine.

Jisung’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. Not this time.

And in the backseat, Ara stirred.

The dim streetlight above cast shadows over his shoulders, making him look broader, older, harder than the boy you’d once known.

He poked around for a few moments, muttering under his breath as his hands moved with ease through the mess of wires and bolts. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly around him, mixed with oil and steel. It was dizzying, too familiar, too dangerous.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed so tightly they might as well have been shackles, eyes darting nervously toward the backseat. Ara shifted slightly in her sleep, her rabbit tumbling from her grasp, but she didn’t wake. You exhaled quietly, relief pooling in your lungs.

“Loose belt,” Jisung said finally, straightening and wiping his hands on his coveralls. He nodded toward the engine. “That’s why it shut down on you. Car’s been rattling a while, hasn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t want him to sound so casual, like years hadn’t passed, like he had any right to read your car the same way he used to read you.

“I’ll figure it out,” you said flatly, hugging your arms tighter around yourself.

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? You’re gonna ‘figure it out’ sitting here on the side of the road in the middle of the night?” His tone was sharper than you wanted to admit, sharper than you were ready for. “You never could fix shit like this.”

Your jaw clenched. “Then I’ll call someone else. I don’t need you.”

That hit him, just a little, you saw the flicker in his eyes, but he smirked anyway, slipping back into that irritating calm that always made you want to scream. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the side of your car like he had all the time in the world.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, mocking but edged with something heavier. “Call whoever you want. There’s only one other shop around here, and it’s over an hour away. Not to mention, they’ve been closed since six.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You’ll be sitting out here ‘til sunrise waiting on a tow truck..if you’re lucky.”

You hated how much you knew he was right. The town hadn’t changed in years, you knew exactly how few options there were, how isolated the roads felt once the sun went down. You hated even more the smug look on his face, like he’d already won.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at the ground just to avoid looking at him.

“Unbelievable is you showing back up out of nowhere and acting like you’d rather die than let me help you,” he shot back.

That made your head snap up, anger rising hot and fast in your chest. “Don’t. Don’t you dare make this about me showing up. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted you to be the one standing here right now?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The night air was heavy, thick with all the words you’d swallowed for years. He studied you the way he used to when you argued like he was trying to find the real truth under every syllable.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice softer but no less sharp. “Still mad, huh? After all this time?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it, Jisung. You think one broken-down car is gonna erase the fact that you let me walk away? That you never once tried to fix us the way you fix everything else?”

His mouth opened, then closed again, like the words were there but too jagged to force out. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dark. “You really think I didn’t want to?”

“I think you didn’t,” you snapped, the venom in your voice surprising even you. “Because if you did, we wouldn’t be standing here like strangers, years later, pretending this is just about a car.”

The silence stretched, your breaths harsh in the cool night.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t stand the weight of it all. “Look, you don’t want me here, fine. But the fact is, your car’s not going anywhere without me. So either swallow your pride and let me fix it, or sit here all night proving a point that doesn’t matter anymore.”

You crossed your arms tighter, matching his stance, your glare sharp enough to cut through the dark. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he countered, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, biting back every retort clawing its way up your throat. He always knew how to push, how to needle you until you snapped. And worse, he knew you’d give in because he was right, because the options were limited, because the last thing you wanted was Ara waking up on the side of the road in the dead of night.

“Fine,” you bit out, each letter sharp enough to slice through your teeth. “Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

His smirk deepened, though his eyes were unreadable. “Won’t even take that long.”

You rolled your eyes again, mirroring his posture with your arms crossed, the two of you standing there like a reflection of your younger selves angry, defensive, always circling the same wounds.

But this wasn’t the past anymore. This was now.
And in the backseat, your biggest secret shifted in her sleep, dangerously close to being discovered.

The hood groaned as Jisung propped it open fully, grabbing a flashlight from the side pocket of his coveralls. His movements were sharp, practiced, the kind of motions he could do half-asleep. But every time he shifted, every clang of his tools against the engine, you flinched. Not because of the noise, but because he was here. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from watching the slope of his shoulders, the grease-smudged lines of his hands, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.

It was like being dropped into a memory you didn’t ask for.

You stood a few feet away with your arms crossed, tapping your foot impatiently just to remind yourself you had the upper hand, even though you didn’t. Every second Ara slept in the back seat was a gift, a fragile layer of protection you prayed wouldn’t crack.

Jisung broke the silence first, voice low but pointed.
“Funny how some things don’t change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You,” he said simply, shining the flashlight deeper into the engine bay. “Still crossing your arms, still glaring at me like I kicked your dog, when all I’m trying to do is help.”

Your jaw clenched. “Help? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to throw that word around, Jisung.”

He scoffed, leaning further in as if he could hide behind the shadow of the hood. “Right. Because God forbid I do one decent thing without you twisting the knife.”

Your chest burned. The old arguments spilled out as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “You call it twisting the knife, I call it the truth. You were never there when it mattered. Not then, not now.”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours across the open hood. “I worked myself into the ground trying to give us a future. Don’t stand there and act like I didn’t care.”

You took a step closer before you could stop yourself, anger sparking hot and fast. “Caring isn’t just paying bills and fixing cars. It’s showing up. It’s keeping your promises. It’s choosing me instead of drowning yourself in work and friends every damn night.”

The words cracked the air between you, sharp enough to sting. His mouth opened, ready with a retort, but before it could land, a soft whimper rose from the back seat.

Both of you froze.

It started small, a muffled sound like a dream breaking. Then Ara’s cry burst louder, fragile and frightened, echoing in the still night.

Your heart lurched. You spun on your heel and rushed to the back door, fumbling it open. She was sitting up in her car seat, cheeks flushed, eyes wet with sleepy tears.

“Shh, baby,” you whispered, unbuckling her quickly and lifting her into your arms. She buried her face into your neck immediately, her little hands clutching at your shirt. Her rabbit tumbled to the seat, forgotten. “It’s okay, I’m here. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

Her sniffles were soft, pitiful, cutting you open with every sound. You kissed her hair, swaying instinctively the way you had when she was smaller. The warmth of her pressed into you, steadying your heart even as panic clawed at the edges.

Behind you, you felt Jisung’s gaze before you saw it.

When you turned slightly, you caught him standing there, flashlight dangling uselessly in his hand. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they gave him away. A flicker of something raw, sharp, and unspoken. His chest rose and fell heavier than before, as though he’d taken a hit he wasn’t expecting.

Of course he would think it.
Of course he would see your daughter and assume she wasn’t his.

And maybe that was better. Safer.

So you didn’t explain. You just turned back to Ara, murmuring softly until her tears slowed. She nuzzled closer into your neck with a sigh, her small body relaxing, her breath warm against your skin.

Jisung cleared his throat harshly, turning back to the car with a force that felt almost violent. The clang of his wrench against metal echoed louder than necessary. He didn’t say a word.

You muttered under your breath, shifting Ara in your arms. “Taking your sweet time, aren’t you?”

The scoff that left him was bitter, sharp enough to cut. “You don’t like it? Call your boyfriend. Or your husband. Whoever he is.”

The words froze you mid-step. Your pulse jumped to your throat, heat flushing through you.

For a split second, you thought about telling the truth, that there was no one. That Ara was his. But the fear was stronger. Fear of what it would mean, fear of how he’d look at her, at you. Fear of reopening a wound that had never healed.

So you lied.

“He’s at work,” you said, hating how easy the words came out.

There was silence. Then a dry, humorless laugh. He rolled his eyes, turned his attention back to the engine, and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

But the slip in his hand told you more than his words ever could. The wrench slipped, pinching his fingers against the belt, and he hissed sharply, shaking his hand.

You caught the flash of pain in his face, not just from the sting of the metal, but from the words you’d fed him.

The idea that you had moved on. That you belonged to someone else. That you had a life he wasn’t part of.

And though he didn’t say it, you saw it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way his jaw locked tight.

It gutted him.

Jisung kept his head bent over the engine, the beam of the flashlight casting harsh shadows over his face. His knuckles were scuffed and faintly red where the wrench had bitten into them, but he didn’t stop. His hands moved rougher now, less patient, every turn of his wrist sharp enough to sound like anger.

The steady clang and scrape of his tools filled the silence, an ugly soundtrack to the storm brewing inside both of you.

He muttered something under his breath, half to himself, half meant for you to hear. “Almost done. Don’t want to keep your man worrying too long.”

The words landed like a punch to your ribs.

You hugged Ara closer, her small body heavy in your arms as she drifted in and out of sleep, her damp lashes brushing your neck. The lie burned in your chest like fire, spreading through every vein.

He thought you’d moved on. He thought Ara wasn’t his. And maybe that was the safest version of the truth for now. Maybe telling him in the middle of a dark roadside, when you had nowhere else to go, would only blow everything open in ways you couldn’t control.

So you said nothing.

Instead, you shifted Ara higher against your shoulder, pressing your lips to her hair. “It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, your words meant more for yourself than her. “Almost done. We’ll be home soon.”

Jisung’s shoulders tensed at the word home. You saw it in the set of his back, in the slight pause of his wrench. His jaw worked, muscles tightening like he was chewing on something he couldn’t swallow.

“Home,” he repeated under his breath, almost bitter. “Guess that’s not here anymore, huh?”

You froze. The words cut too deep, too exact, pulling you back into the years you’d spent telling yourself leaving was the only way to survive him.

“You don’t get to talk about home,” you said sharply, your voice hushed but venom-laced. “You don’t get to bring that up after everything.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the sound low and broken. “Right. Because I was the only one who messed everything up. Got it.”

The accusation hung there, heavy, dragging you back into every late-night fight, every slammed door, every broken promise.

Your grip on Ara tightened. She stirred, mumbling softly against your neck, and you rocked her instinctively, forcing yourself to calm down. You couldn’t fight with him now, not with her here. Not with the truth sitting between you like a loaded gun.

“Just fix the damn car,” you muttered.

Jisung’s wrench slipped again, clanging against the engine with a harsh metallic snap. He cursed loudly, shaking his hand out with a hiss.

“Damn it.”

You flinched, your heart jumping. But Ara stayed nestled against you, too tired to wake fully this time.

You watched him flex his fingers, the skin reddened and raw. For a moment, it was almost too familiar, the boy who always worked too hard, who never wore gloves, who’d come home with busted knuckles and grease stains and swear he didn’t feel a thing.

But now he wasn’t your boy. He wasn’t anything to you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked slightly under the weight of it, and you weren’t sure if he meant the car, the situation, or himself.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, heart hammering. “Are you—” You stopped yourself. Bit the inside of your cheek. Swallowed the concern before it slipped out. “Forget it.”

He glanced up then, eyes catching yours across the open hood. For a split second, there was something raw in them. A question he wouldn’t ask. A truth you couldn’t say.

And then it was gone.

Jisung ducked his head back down, his voice flat, clipped. “Five more minutes.”

You exhaled shakily, holding Ara tighter, feeling the lie burn deeper in your chest. Because five minutes might’ve been all he needed to fix the car, but it wasn’t nearly enough to fix the wreckage between you.

The last clang of his wrench against the engine cut through the silence like a closing door.

Jisung straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag, the muscles in his forearm tense, his jaw locked tight. He didn’t look at you right away. Didn’t say anything until the hood dropped shut with a solid metallic thud that echoed in the night air.

“There,” he muttered, stepping back. His voice was steady, but you caught the edge underneath. “Should run smooth now. But…” He hesitated, dragging the rag across his already bruised knuckles. “You’ve got another issue starting in there. Your… boyfriend should take care of that before it gets worse.”

The word boyfriend came out clipped, deliberate, like he wanted to spit it on the ground instead of say it.

You rolled your eyes, hugging Ara closer against your shoulder. “Noted,” you said dryly.

He didn’t react. He only closed the hood fully, dusting his palms together like he was erasing the whole thing.

You shifted Ara in your arms, her soft breaths brushing your collarbone. “So… can we go now?”

Finally, his eyes met yours. For the first time tonight, there was no smirk, no sharp edge. Just a long, unreadable stare that made your stomach twist. He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The relief that washed through you was immediate, heavy enough to make your knees weak. You turned quickly, pulling the back door open and carefully placing Ara back into her car seat. She murmured a soft protest in her sleep, fingers curling instinctively, but she settled once you tucked the strap across her chest.

Her rabbit slipped from her lap unnoticed, landing on the gravel beside the tire.

You closed the door quietly, forcing your focus on the task, buckling her in, making sure she was safe, doing anything to avoid looking at him again.

When you finally slid into the driver’s seat, the engine turned over smoothly under your hand, just like he’d said.

Jisung lingered near the curb, his figure lit by the glow of the streetlight. He didn’t lean against the car this time. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t argue. He just stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his rag loosely at his side.

“Drive safe,” he said quietly.

The words caught you off guard, not because of what he said, but how he said it. Low, even, stripped of every layer of bitterness. Almost like the boy he used to be.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze forward. “Thanks,” you muttered, the word brittle on your tongue.

And then you pressed down on the gas, the tires crunching against the gravel as you sped off into the dark, desperate to put distance between yourself and everything that had just cracked open.

You didn’t look back. But he did.

Jisung’s eyes followed the car until the red taillights disappeared into the night. A strange emptiness tugged at his chest, something that felt too familiar and too foreign all at once.

That’s when he saw it.

A small shape near the curb, half-hidden in the shadows. He crouched down, reaching for it.

It was soft against his calloused fingers. A bunny. Slightly worn, its fur faded from years of being loved too much. The ears were patterned with little faded florals, the stitching just beginning to fray at the corners.

Jisung froze.

He turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing against the seam where the fabric had thinned. A child’s toy. Clearly treasured, clearly carried everywhere.

And it had fallen out of her car.

His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain. He stared at the bunny for a long moment, his mind quieter than it had been in years.

“Kid, huh?” he muttered to himself, the words sticking in his throat. He swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t ask, didn’t think too hard about it. But he didn’t throw the bunny aside, either.

Instead, he stood, walking back toward the shop with the toy in his hand. The door creaked open, the smell of oil and grease rushing out to meet him like an old companion.

He set the bunny on his desk carefully, almost reverently.

It sat there against the clutter of bolts and spare parts, delicate and out of place. But when he stepped back, Jisung felt something strange twist inside him. A smile ghosted across his lips, not the cocky grin he wore when he was trying to get under your skin, but softer. Sadder.

He brushed a thumb across the fabric one last time before sinking into his chair, staring at the bunny like it might have answers he couldn’t reach.

The shop was quiet now.

The hum of the fluorescent light above his desk was the only sound filling the hollow space, a soft buzz that made the silence feel even heavier. The smell of oil and steel clung to the air, the same as it always had, but tonight it felt different like it pressed harder against his lungs, thick and suffocating.

Jisung leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing absently at his bruised knuckles. His eyes weren’t on the scrape, though. They were fixed on the bunny sitting on the desk in front of him.

The toy looked so out of place there, perched between scattered bolts, oil-stained rags, and an unopened pack of cigarettes he hadn’t touched. Its ears flopped sideways, the floral fabric fraying at the edges, the stuffing worn thin in places from years of being held too tight.

It didn’t belong here.

And neither did the memories it dragged out of him.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected this. Hell, he hadn’t expected to see you again ever. He’d told himself you were gone for good, that you’d built a new life somewhere far from this town, somewhere far from him.

For years, his friends had told him the same. “She’s not coming back, Ji. You gotta move on.”

Move on. Like it was simple. Like it was just a switch he could flip.

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

Not when every girl he tried to take out to dinner ended up being a pale shadow of you. Not when he found himself staring across a table, hearing their voices fade into static because they didn’t smile like you did, didn’t roll their eyes the way you had, didn’t make his chest ache just by walking into the room.

Every date ended the same, him forcing conversation, pretending to be present, until the night fizzled out and he left with nothing but guilt gnawing at him.

And the hookups? He hated them. Hated the way they were supposed to mean something, supposed to help him forget. They never did. They were shallow, fleeting, skin without soul. He never called them back. Never wanted to. He couldn’t stand to look at them in the morning and pretend they were more than just a distraction.

Because at the end of the day, he always ended up right back here. In this shop. At this desk. Alone.

Thinking about you.

His chest tightened as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. The bunny sat in the glow of the lamp, almost accusing in its silence.

So you had a kid now.

He let the thought roll through him like smoke. He tried to ignore the sting of it, tried to shove it into a corner of his mind where it couldn’t hurt. But it did.

The image replayed over and over, the way you’d held her, the way her tiny hands clutched at your shirt, the way you’d rocked her without even thinking about it. There’d been such tenderness in the movement, such natural love in the way you whispered to her.

Jisung swallowed hard, dragging a hand over his mouth.

You looked like a mother. You looked happy.

And for the first time in years, he realized he hated himself for hoping otherwise.

He had spent so long imagining what it would be like if you came back, if fate was stupid enough to throw you into his path again. He’d thought about it on nights when the shop was too quiet, when the beers went down too easy, when his bed felt too cold. He’d thought maybe, if you ever did come back, it’d be because you missed him too.

But you hadn’t. You’d built something without him. With someone else.

The bunny sat there like proof.

He picked it up again, turning it in his hand, his thumb brushing across the worn fabric on its ear. It was small, too small to belong to anyone but a little kid who loved it fiercely. He wondered how many nights it had been clutched through tears, how many mornings it had been dragged from the bed to the kitchen table.

It wasn’t his. It wasn’t part of him. But holding it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Soft. Sad. Almost bitter.

“Lucky kid,” he muttered into the empty room, voice low and rough.

The words sat there, unanswered, bouncing off the walls of the shop like ghosts.

He set the bunny back down, careful this time, almost reverent.

And as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the toy under the dim glow of the lamp, one truth pressed heavier on him than anything else:

He was still hung up on you. Maybe he always would be.

-

The morning began the way it always did.

The sun crept through the curtains in faded gold streaks, painting the kitchen in light. You sat at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, your phone in the other. The quiet was rare, precious, a sliver of time before Ara woke and the day began in earnest.

You scrolled idly, half-reading, half-lost in thought. The house still felt foreign, too big and too quiet after years in the cramped city apartment. Your mother’s presence lingered in every corner, in every piece of furniture you hadn’t yet decided what to do with. It was like moving back into a memory you weren’t sure you wanted to live in again.

You took another sip of coffee, savoring the warmth. Then the sound came.

“Mommy!”

Ara’s voice, sharp with panic, cut through the stillness. Your head shot up instantly, the mug rattling against the table as you set it down too hard.

She stumbled into the kitchen seconds later, hair tangled from sleep, her pajamas wrinkled. Her little face was scrunched with worry, her eyes wide and already glassy with the threat of tears.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you asked quickly, already crouching down to meet her at eye level.

“I can’t find Bunny,” she blurted out, breathless, like the words themselves hurt. Her small hands twisted in the hem of her shirt, fidgeting, restless. “She’s gone. I looked everywhere.”

Your chest tightened.

The bunny. Not just any toy, her toy. The one she never slept without. The one she carried on road trips, to doctor’s visits, to the park. The one that had been tucked under her arm the day you brought her home from the hospital.

The one that meant more than Ara could possibly understand.

Your voice stayed steady, even as panic bloomed hot in your chest. “Okay, let’s not worry yet. We’ll find her. She’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

Ara nodded quickly, her lips trembling, as you brushed a hand over her messy hair.

Together, you searched.

First her room, tearing through blankets, pillows, the space under the bed. Then the hallway, the bathroom, the laundry basket. You checked the couch cushions in the living room, the space behind the curtains where toys sometimes got tangled. Ara trailed behind you, her small voice piping up every time she thought of a new spot.

“Maybe in the closet! Maybe in the kitchen!”

But each time, you came up empty.

Her anxiety grew with each failed attempt, and yours rose with it.

“Okay, maybe she’s in the car,” you said finally, forcing calm into your voice. You grabbed your keys, ushering Ara outside as fast as you could.

The morning air was cool, the street quiet. You opened the car doors and began pulling everything apart, floor mats, seat pockets, glove compartment. Ara climbed into the back, patting the seat beside her, checking under her booster.

Nothing.

You dropped onto the driver’s seat, rubbing a hand over your face. A heaviness settled over your chest.

The bunny wasn’t just Ara’s comfort. It was yours, too.

You could still remember the nurse’s face, the woman who had sat by your side during the hardest night of your life, who had held your hand when you were shaking, who had told you you weren’t alone even when you felt like you were. She’d pressed the toy into your arms after Ara’s first cry, a soft little rabbit with floral ears. “For her,” the nurse had whispered. “Her first friend.”

You had clung to it as much as Ara had over the years. It had become a symbol of everything you had survived. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The choices you’d made. And now it was gone.

You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to steady yourself before Ara saw. She was kneeling on the seat, looking up at you with wide, damp eyes.

“Where is she, Mommy?” Ara asked softly, voice cracking. “What if she’s gone forever?”

The words shattered you.

You pulled her into your lap, wrapping her tight in your arms. “No, no, baby. We’ll find her. I promise. Bunny’s not gone. She’s just… hiding. She’s waiting for us to find her.”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t remember where you’d last seen the toy.

-

The morning had started like any other at least, it was supposed to.

The shop opened at eight sharp. The first customers trickled in before the coffee had even finished brewing, complaining about their brakes, their batteries, their rattling engines. Normally, Jisung moved through these problems with clockwork precision, his hands steady, his focus razor-sharp. Fixing cars was the one thing in his life that had always made sense. Machines didn’t lie, didn’t leave, didn’t break promises. They just broke down. And he knew how to put them back together.

But today?

Today, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The wrench slipped from his grip twice before he even touched the first engine. He misdiagnosed a transmission issue on the second car, only to get corrected by a younger mechanic he’d been training for six months. By the third, he was so distracted he forgot to refill the coolant he’d drained and the customer came storming back thirty minutes later, livid.

Jisung took it on the chin, gritting his teeth, muttering an apology that barely sounded like one. The words rolled off him like static, his head somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere on a quiet roadside. With you.

With the daughter you’d cradled in your arms like she was your entire world.

His jaw ached from how hard he clenched it every time the memory replayed in his mind. The way you looked back at him with fire in your eyes. The soft sniffles of the little girl against your shoulder. The rabbit toy he’d found on the ground when you drove away.

He couldn’t shake it.

By the time the sun dipped low and the day’s work slowed, his brain felt like it had been grinding in the wrong gear all day. Tools clattered where they shouldn’t. His knuckles were scraped raw from stupid slips. He could practically feel the complaints piling up in his voicemail.

Not that it mattered. It was his shop. His name on the sign. No one could fire him.

But the frustration gnawed at him anyway.

By the time evening settled in, he was sitting slumped at his desk, half-empty coffee cups scattered around, his grease-stained rag abandoned beside the bunny. He hadn’t touched it since last night. Couldn’t bring himself to. But he couldn’t stop looking at it either.

The door swung open then, the bell chiming as familiar voices cut through the stale air.

“Yo,” Minho said, strolling in with a six-pack dangling from one hand. “Shop looks like shit today.”

“Looks like you look,” Chan added, grinning crookedly, though his eyes narrowed when he got a better look at Jisung. “Damn. What’s with the face? You lose a bet or something?”

Jisung let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Not now.”

But of course, it was always now with his friends.

Minho plopped down on the edge of the desk, cracking open a can. “No, no. You don’t get to sit here sulking like some tragic drama lead and not spill. What’s going on?”

Chan slid into the chair opposite him, popping a tab open with one practiced motion. “You’re off today. Like, really off. Seojin said you yelled at a customer? Ji, you never do that.”

Jisung sighed, snatched one of the cans out of the box, and cracked it open. The first sip burned down his throat, cold and bitter. Exactly what he needed.

For a while, he said nothing. Just let the silence stretch, let the sound of his friends sipping fill the space. His gaze kept drifting to the bunny on the desk, and he caught Minho’s eyes flicking to it too.

Finally, the words clawed their way out.

“I saw her.”

Both Minho and Chan froze mid-sip.

“…Her?” Chan asked carefully.

Jisung nodded, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Y/N.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with disbelief. Minho set his beer down slowly, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait—what? As in… Y/N, Y/N?”

“The only one that matters,” Jisung muttered, taking another swig.

“Holy shit,” Chan breathed, leaning back in his chair. “I thought she was gone. Like gone for good.”

“She was.” Jisung let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Until she wasn’t.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed, studying him. “What happened?”

Jisung hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He felt like the words might choke him if he said them out loud. But the beer loosened his tongue, and the anger underneath shoved the words forward.

“She’s back. And she’s not alone.”

Chan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She’s got a kid.” The bitterness in his voice cracked like glass. “A daughter. Little thing. Couldn’t be more than four or five. Clung to her like she was her whole damn world.”

Minho’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Jisung laughed again, sharp and ugly. “Yeah. Guess she moved on after all. Has herself a family now.”

The words burned coming out of his mouth, each syllable soaked in jealousy he couldn’t hide. He drained more of his beer, the metal can crunching slightly under his grip.

Chan leaned forward carefully. “And the guy? Who’s the dad?”

“Don’t know,” Jisung muttered, his tone dripping venom. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to. She said he was at work. Probably some white-collar asshole who doesn’t get his hands dirty.”

The bitterness stuck in his throat, choking him even as he took another swig.

But deep down, beneath the anger, beneath the sharp edges of jealousy, he felt something else. Something softer.

That little girl’s face. The way her tiny arms had wrapped around your neck. And it scared the hell out of him.

The night wore on.

Empty beer cans lined the edge of the desk, condensation dripping onto stacks of old invoices Jisung hadn’t bothered to file. The overhead light buzzed softly, too harsh against the dark shop. His hands rested limp in his lap, fingers tapping restless against the denim of his jeans, his leg bouncing as though that nervous energy had nowhere else to go.

But his mind was anything but still.

It was caught, tangled, in the same loop it had been in since last night, your voice, sharp with irritation, the way you’d stood in front of him like he was still the man you hated, the way you’d clutched your daughter like the world would fall apart if you let go. His chest tightened again at the thought. Her daughter. Not his. Not theirs.

Yours. And someone else’s.

The words ran like poison through his head, bitter enough to curdle his stomach.

Chan let out a heavy sigh, dragging him out of his spiral. He leaned back in the creaky chair opposite Jisung, stretching his long legs out like he owned the space. “You gotta let this go, Ji.”

Jisung’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You heard me.” Chan’s tone was calm but firm, the way it always got when he was about to push buttons. “It’s been years. She left. She’s got her own life now. You need to stop… whatever this is. Wallowing. Torturing yourself over someone who clearly moved on.”

The words landed heavy, each one like a punch to the ribs. Jisung’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists.

“She didn’t just move on,” he said quietly, the bitterness lacing his voice. “She replaced me.”

Chan didn’t flinch. “Maybe she did. Maybe she had to. People do what they need to do. And you? You’ve been stuck in the same place this whole time.” He gestured around the messy shop, the empty bottles, the grease-stained rags. “You’ve made this your prison.”

Jisung bristled, leaning forward. “This is my life. My work. Don’t talk like you know—”

“I do know,” Chan cut him off, sharper now. “Because I’ve been watching you for years. You haven’t gone on a real date since her. You don’t try. You shut everyone down before they even have a chance. You don’t even want to move on.”

Minho, quiet until now, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. I’ve offered to set you up with people, remember? A couple girls who would’ve treated you well. And every time, you rolled your eyes and said no.”

“I don’t need you playing matchmaker,” Jisung muttered, leaning back hard against his chair, arms crossing like a shield.

“You don’t need to, or you don’t want to?” Minho asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

Jisung didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, hot and jagged.

The silence stretched until Chan shifted forward, his gaze flicking to the corner of the desk. “What’s this, then?”

Before Jisung realized what was happening, Chan reached for the bunny.

The soft toy sat in the dim light like it didn’t belong, its floral ears flopped sideways, the fabric worn thin. Chan picked it up between his fingers, brows furrowing. “This yours? Didn’t know you had a thing for—”

“Don’t touch that.”

The words ripped out of Jisung’s mouth before he even thought them. His voice was low, sharp, threaded with a protectiveness that startled even him.

Chan blinked at him, still holding the toy, caught off guard.

In one swift motion, Jisung reached out, snatched the bunny from his hands, and tossed it back onto the desk with more force than necessary. It landed with a soft thud, its ears splayed, as if the poor thing had absorbed the tension bristling in the room.

“Seriously?” Chan asked, eyebrows raised. “It’s a stuffed animal, Ji.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not yours,” Jisung shot back, his tone clipped.

The room went quiet again. Minho studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. Chan just leaned back slowly, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes lingered on Jisung’s clenched jaw and the way his hands trembled slightly as they fell back into his lap.

For Jisung, the air felt thick, suffocating. He stared at the bunny on the desk, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t his. It wasn’t part of him. But the thought of anyone else touching it, of it belonging to someone else felt unbearable.

So he sat there, silent, seething, the weight of denial pressing down like lead.

-

From the moment Ara’s eyes fluttered open that morning, nothing had gone right.

She woke up with a frown, her small body twisting in the sheets as she whined your name. The first words out of her mouth were about Bunny, how she couldn’t find her, how she must be hiding, how maybe someone took her. You tried to soothe her, brushing her hair back, promising you’d find it together, but it didn’t help.

By breakfast, she pushed her plate away, crossing her arms stubbornly.

By midmorning, she was stomping around the living room, tears pooling in her eyes because she didn’t want to play with any of her other toys.

And by noon, she was in full tantrum mode, yelling, crying, refusing to put on her shoes when you suggested going outside for some air.

You had seen her upset before. Kids had bad days. But this? This was different.

It wasn’t just about Bunny. It was about the weight that little stuffed rabbit carried, the comfort and safety it had given her every night of her life. And it wasn’t just her. It was you, too. Every tantrum, every sniffle, scraped against your already frayed nerves because you knew exactly what Bunny meant, and the thought of it being gone for good made your own chest ache.

By the time she finally wore herself out and dozed off on the couch in the early afternoon, you felt drained, bone-deep exhaustion pulling at you as you sank into the armchair across from her.

But you didn’t rest.

You couldn’t.

Your mind whirred, desperate, retracing every step from yesterday.

The grocery store. You could still see Ara with Bunny in the back seat as you loaded bags into the trunk.

The post office. She had clutched it in her lap while you waited in line.

Your sister’s house. You remembered teasing Ara about Bunny “needing a nap” when she tried to bring it to the dinner table.

The park. Clear as day, you remembered watching her run across the grass with Bunny tucked under her arm, her laughter echoing.

Each memory was sharp, vivid. Each ended with Bunny still safe in her grasp.

Which meant the only place left, the only blank spot was that night.

The roadside. The garage. Jisung.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. You muttered a curse under your breath, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple.

Of course. Of course. In your rush to get away from him, in your stubborn desperation not to let him see one more piece of your life, you hadn’t even noticed the toy slipping from Ara’s arms.

And if that was the case, then the bunny, the one thing Ara couldn’t live without, the one piece of comfort you refused to let her lose was most likely sitting in his shop.

You slumped back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. A knot twisted in your stomach, tight and relentless.

The last place you wanted to go was exactly where you had to go.

When Ara stirred awake a little while later, her lashes still damp from crying, you were at her side in an instant. She blinked up at you, her lips trembling.

“Bunny’s still gone,” she whispered, her voice small, shaky.

Your heart cracked. You cupped her cheek, forcing a soft smile you didn’t feel. “I think I know where she is.”

Her eyes widened instantly, hope sparking like sunlight through storm clouds. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding firmly, even as your stomach churned. “When you’re ready, we’ll go find her.”

You didn’t tell her where. Didn’t tell her who you’d have to face to get there.

Because saying it out loud made it real, and real was the last thing you were ready for.

But you had no choice.

You’d do anything for Ara. Even if it meant walking back into the lion’s den you’d sworn to avoid.

-

The drive to the shop felt shorter than it should have.

You had half a mind to take the long way, to circle around the block a few times, to stall until Ara forgot why you were even leaving the house. But she hadn’t. Not even close.

She sat in her booster in the back, her little legs swinging restlessly, face lit up with impatient hope. Every few minutes, she piped up with another question, her voice bright and bubbling in a way that twisted your stomach.

“Do you think Bunny’s really there?”

“Will she be mad that I left her?”

“What if someone else took her? What if she’s all alone?”

Each question tugged at your heart. You forced yourself to answer gently, reassuringly, even while dread coiled tighter and tighter in your chest with every mile closer to Jisung’s garage.

By the time you pulled into the lot, your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached.

The garage looked the same as always, grey brick walls, the wide bay door rolled up, the faint smell of oil and rubber drifting into the warm afternoon air. A couple of cars sat parked out front, and you spotted someone moving inside, hunched over an engine.

You cut the ignition but didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the building like maybe you could will it into disappearing.

Ara noticed instantly.

“Why aren’t we going in?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat, her small fingers tugging at the strap of her booster. Her voice carried that impatient edge only kids could muster, equal parts excitement and frustration.

You forced a slow inhale, steadying yourself. “Just… give Mommy a second.”

“But Bunny’s in there!” she whined, her bottom lip jutting out. “We have to go get her!”

You closed your eyes briefly, pressing your palms against the wheel. You hated how right she was.

When you finally turned to look at her, her big eyes were round with expectation, shimmering with hope. You couldn’t stall any longer.

With a resigned sigh, you unbuckled her straps and helped her out of the car. Her small hand slipped into yours, warm and trusting, and you held onto it like it was the only thing tethering you in place.

“Alright,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. “Let’s do this.”

Together, you walked toward the shop.

Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of oil and metal. The hum of a machine whirred somewhere in the back. A young man you didn’t recognize, dark hair, grease smudged across his cheek looked up from under the hood of a car when you stepped inside.

“Hey,” he called, wiping his hands on a rag as he walked over. “You having car trouble?”

You shook your head quickly, nerves sparking under your skin. “No, not exactly. I, um… I was here yesterday. My car broke down outside, and—” You hesitated, fumbling for words that didn’t sound ridiculous. “I think my daughter left something behind. A stuffed toy. A bunny.”

Recognition didn’t cross his face. He just nodded politely. “I’ll check—”

“Get back to work.”

The voice cut through the air, firm and familiar.

Your breath caught before you even looked.

Jisung stood in the doorway at the back of the shop, wiping his hands with a rag. His coveralls were half-zipped, his hair pushed back and slightly damp with sweat. He looked the same, and yet not, the boy you’d once known carved into someone older, wearier.

Your heart stumbled in your chest.

He didn’t look at the younger mechanic again, just gave him a pointed glance until the kid muttered a quick “yes, boss” and went back to the car.

Then his eyes landed on you.

Your throat went dry.

Ara tugged at your sleeve, her voice small but urgent. “Mommy, is Bunny here? Is she really here?”

The words made your stomach twist. You glanced down at her, brushing her hair back, but before you could answer, another voice echoed the word.

“Bunny?”

Jisung’s tone was strange, curious, almost tentative. His gaze flicked from you to Ara and back again, his brow furrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t realized existed.

Ara nodded eagerly, stepping forward a little. “Yeah! Have you seen my Bunny?”

Something flickered across Jisung’s face, unreadable. Without saying anything else, he turned, disappearing into the office at the side of the shop.

You held your breath the entire time he was gone, your pulse thudding in your ears.

And then he came back.

The bunny dangled from his hand, floppy ears brushing against his wrist.

The moment Ara saw it, her entire face lit up.

“Bunny!” she squealed, breaking free of your grasp. She sprinted across the shop floor, her little sneakers slapping against the concrete, and all but launched herself at the toy.

Jisung crouched down to meet her, holding it out carefully. She snatched it up, hugging it tight against her chest like it had been missing for years instead of one night.

“Thank you!” she said brightly, looking up at him with a wide grin. “Thank you for saving her!”

Your heart clenched.

Jisung smiled back at her, soft, genuine, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen in years. He reached out, ruffling her hair gently, his voice warm in a way that made something inside you ache.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Ara beamed, clutching Bunny tight in one arm as she answered proudly, her name ringing out in the shop air like a bell.

And you stood there frozen, your heartstrings pulled taut, because this was the moment you had been terrified of. The first time they met.

Father and daughter. And neither of them had any idea.

Ara clutched Bunny to her chest like she was afraid it might disappear again if she let go. The relief on her face made your heart ache in ways you weren’t ready for. You should’ve been glad, it was what you came for. The one thing she needed most was back in her arms, and now you could leave, put this entire awkward, dangerous encounter behind you.

You cleared your throat, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Alright, baby, we’ve got Bunny. Time to go.”

But Ara didn’t move.

She lingered near Jisung, her wide eyes drifting around the garage, taking in the cars parked in various states of repair. The greasy tools lined neatly along the wall, the tang of oil and gasoline in the air.

“Wow,” she breathed softly, tugging at your arm. “There’s so many cars.”

“Yes,” you said quickly, impatient. “But they’re not for us. Come on.”

Instead of following, Ara tilted her head toward Jisung. “Do you fix all of them?”

Jisung, crouched still at her height, glanced up at you briefly before answering her, his tone soft and easy. “Yeah. Every single one. That’s my job.”

Ara’s eyes lit up, sparkling with interest. “Can I help?”

The question made your stomach clench.

You stepped forward immediately, your voice firmer than you intended. “No. Absolutely not.”

Ara’s face fell. “But—”

“You could get hurt,” you cut her off sharply, more to Jisung than her. “This is not a place for kids.”

Jisung shifted, his gaze flicking between you and Ara, his expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he said quietly, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

The words dug under your skin, tightening every muscle in your body. You shook your head, your tone final. “We’re leaving.”

Ara’s lips pressed together, disappointment written all over her small face. Still, she nodded obediently, though her eyes lingered on Jisung with something sad, like she was already missing a friend she hadn’t gotten the chance to make.

“Bye,” she said softly, lifting her little hand to wave.

Jisung returned it with a small smile, crouching back to her level again. “Bye, Ara. Take care of Bunny, yeah?”

Your heart clenched again, but you forced yourself to turn away, to usher her out of the shop before anything else could happen.

Outside, the air felt too heavy.

You buckled Ara into her booster seat, smoothing her hair back as you leaned down to press a kiss to her temple. She clutched Bunny tightly, still pouting a little.

“Don’t be upset,” you whispered softly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Ara looked up at you, her wide eyes softening. She nodded, the disappointment melting into something more understanding. “Okay, Mommy.”

You gave her a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes, before shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s seat.

Relief flooded you as you slid inside, exhaling shakily. You’d gotten through it. Bunny was back. Ara was safe. And you’d managed to pull her away before anything could happen, before Jisung could ask too many questions.

You jammed the key into the ignition, twisting it.

The engine sputtered. Coughed. Died.

You froze.

“No,” you muttered, trying again. The sound repeated, weaker this time. The car shuddered like it wanted to start but couldn’t.

Your stomach sank.

Jisung’s words from the other night came back to you, clear as if he were whispering them right into your ear: “You should get it checked soon. Otherwise, it won’t start on you when you need it.”

You hadn’t listened. You hadn’t wanted to. Too caught up in his smug tone, too desperate to get away, too distracted by the lie that had slipped from your lips about a boyfriend who didn’t exist.

Now the universe was laughing in your face.

Ara leaned forward in her seat, clutching Bunny tighter. “Is everything okay, Mommy?”

You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead against the steering wheel with a groan. “It’s fine, baby. Just… give me a second.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not even close.

Because the car was dead. And the only person who could fix it was the one person you had been trying to avoid since the day you came back.

You stayed like that for a long moment, forehead pressed to the wheel, your pulse thudding in your ears. Every nerve in your body screamed against what you had to do next.

But you didn’t have a choice.

With a shaky exhale, you straightened up and turned to Ara, forcing another soft smile. “Stay here, okay? i just has to… talk to someone real quick.”

Ara nodded, stroking Bunny’s ear absentmindedly.

And with dread pooling in your chest, you climbed out of the car, every step back toward the shop heavy as lead.

You had to ask Jisung for help. Again.

-

The hum of the garage carried into the late afternoon, quieter now that most customers had come and gone. Jisung leaned against the counter in the front office, a rag tucked loosely into his back pocket, his arms crossed casually over his chest.

The woman perched on the other side of the counter was one of his regulars, a customer who didn’t always need work done but somehow always found an excuse to stop by. Her car, her brother’s car, her cousin’s car, he’d lost count of how many vehicles she had “issues” with.

She was pretty, dressed in neat office clothes that clung just right, her perfume faint but noticeable. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she giggled at something he’d said, her eyes darting up at him in that way that left no mystery about her intentions.

Jisung smirked faintly, letting the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He leaned a little further over the counter, tossing back some dry remark that made her laugh harder. He knew this game well.

She flirted. He flirted back. Easy. Effortless.

But that’s all it ever was.

Because no matter how close she leaned in, no matter how obvious her hints became, Jisung could never make himself take that next step. He couldn’t ask her out. Couldn’t let himself believe she was anything more than a distraction.

Because when he closed his eyes at night, when his hands weren’t busy, when his chest tightened in ways he couldn’t control, it was still you. Always you. And that was the problem.

He was mid-laugh, shaking his head at something she said, when the sound of the door opening cut through the moment. He glanced over automatically then froze. You stood there.

Shifting awkwardly in the doorway, like you wanted to turn around and bolt but had forced yourself to step inside. His breath caught, the easy smirk falling from his face, his chest tightening instantly.

And just like that, the air changed.

You avoided his eyes, walking quickly past the counter as though you hadn’t even noticed him there. Relief pricked sharp in your chest when you spotted the younger mechanic from earlier, Seojin, his name tag had read, still bent over his tools in the corner.

You went straight for him, your voice a little rushed as you explained, “Hey, um—, my car broke down again just now. It won’t even start. I was hoping maybe you could take a look?”

Seojin blinked, wiping his hands. “Yeah, of course. Did it make any noise? Or completely dead?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand over your face. “Completely dead. Won’t even catch.”

From the corner of his eye, Jisung caught everything. Your voice, hurried and tense, the way you leaned just slightly toward Seojin like you were desperate for him to solve this problem so you didn’t have to deal with anyone else.

But he was still stuck at the counter, the regular woman still giggling, still trying to keep his attention. He heard her laugh, but the sound grated now, pulled thin and meaningless.

His jaw tightened.

Finally, he cut her off mid-sentence, sliding a clipboard across the counter without even glancing at it. “Yeah, uh—give me a day. I’ll get it sorted.”

Her brows lifted. “But I didn’t even—”

“Tomorrow,” he interrupted, his tone clipped. “End of day.”

She blinked, her flirtatious smile faltering just slightly. But she nodded anyway, clearly thrown by the sudden dismissal.

By the time she turned to leave, Jisung had already pushed off the counter, his rag still in hand, striding toward where you and Seojin stood.

Seojin was mid-question when Jisung’s shadow fell over the both of you.

“Get back to work,” Jisung said flatly, his voice carrying that authoritative edge that made it clear he wasn’t asking.

Seojin frowned, glancing up. “But she already explained the issue. I got it, boss.”

“Lunch,” Jisung shot back without missing a beat. “Didn’t you say you needed one?”

“I can take it after—”

“Now.”

The weight in his tone made Seojin pause. He looked between you and Jisung, catching the way Jisung’s eyes hadn’t left you once since walking over. Understanding flickered in his expression, and his shoulders slumped.

“Right,” he muttered, tossing his rag aside. “Lunch.”

You reached out instinctively, your voice sharp. “Wait—no, he can help me. It’s fine. He already knows—”

But Jisung cut you off, his gaze steady, unyielding. “What’s the issue?”

You froze, your stomach flipping. Of course. Of course it had to be him.

You muttered a curse under your breath, low but not quiet enough, and his mouth twitched upward in a half-smirk.

“Not even twenty-four hours,” he said, his voice laced with teasing disbelief. “Couldn’t even make it a full day before you came running back, huh?”

Heat prickled your cheeks, frustration clawing its way through your chest. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. And that was exactly what made it worse.

The second Jisung’s teasing words slipped out, you felt the heat flare in your chest, your throat tightening with equal parts frustration and dread.

You huffed sharply, shaking your head, and spun on your heel, putting your back to him. “Unbelievable.”

But of course he followed.

His boots echoed on the concrete as he trailed you, his voice low, taunting. “So what, your boyfriend doesn’t like to get his hands dirty? Too busy to bother checking his girl’s car?”

You froze mid-step, whipping around to glare at him. “That is none of your business.”

The words were sharp, bitten out between clenched teeth.

Jisung just scoffed, like he’d expected nothing else. “Right.” His jaw flexed as he crouched beside your car, popping the hood with a practiced tug. He leaned in, hands moving automatically, the scrape of metal against metal filling the silence.

You stood a few steps back, arms crossed tight, your nails digging into your skin as you watched him work. Every second felt like too much.

Finally, his voice cut through, low and even. “Battery’s gone. Starter’s weak. Told you the other night you were pushing it.” He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes cutting toward you. “You’ll need a replacement, or this thing’s not going anywhere.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because all you could think about was how right he was and how much you hated it.

From the backseat, Ara’s small voice piped up, breaking the heavy silence.

“Hi!” she called brightly, her little hand waving from behind the glass.

Jisung’s expression shifted instantly, his features softening as he looked over and lifted his own hand in return. “Hey, Bunny’s keeper,” he said with a faint grin.

Ara giggled, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter as she waved again, before disappearing into her seat with a squeal.

The sight made your stomach twist.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back into control. “So how long?”

“An hour. Maybe two.” Jisung’s voice was steady, casual, but his eyes lingered on you like he was searching for something beneath the surface.

You nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

Turning to the car, you opened the door and crouched to help Ara out of her booster. She hopped down happily, Bunny tucked under one arm, her eyes wide with curiosity as she took in the garage.

“Ara,” you said softly, brushing her hair back. “We’re stuck here for a few hours, okay? So we’ll just… wait.”

Ara didn’t seem bothered at all. She grinned, already distracted by the rows of tools and cars scattered around. “I don’t mind!” she chirped.

You gave her a faint smile, relieved she wasn’t upset, but dread coiled in your chest again as she toddled away almost immediately, her small sneakers squeaking faintly against the shop floor.

Straight toward Jisung.

“Wow,” she said, eyes wide as she peered up at him. “Do you fix all of these?”

He glanced down at her, a soft laugh escaping before he could stop it. “Every single one.”

Ara gasped, awed, clutching Bunny tighter as she leaned closer. “That’s so cool! How do you do it? Can I see? Can I help?”

You tensed instantly, your lips parting to call her back, but Jisung crouched a little, his rag still in hand, answering her with easy patience.

“Well, you gotta know where to look first. Cars are like puzzles—you just find the broken piece and figure out how to put it back right.”

Ara’s face lit up like it was the best thing she’d ever heard. “That’s amazing!”

And you, standing a few feet away felt your chest tighten so painfully you could barely breathe.

Because watching them together like this, her innocence, his warmth, it was everything you’d wanted and everything you feared.

And he still had no idea.

-

Ara stood on her tiptoes at the side of the car, Bunny clutched under one arm while her free hand hovered in the air, eager to reach out.

Jisung, crouched under the hood, shot her a sideways look. “Not that one,” he said firmly, nudging a tool out of her reach. His tone wasn’t sharp gentle, measured but there was no room for argument either.

Ara scrunched her nose but grinned up at him anyway. “Okay. Which one’s safe?”

He sighed, shaking his head, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch in something dangerously close to a smile. He pointed toward a dull wrench sitting harmlessly at the edge of the worktable. “That one. You can hold it.”

Ara squealed with delight, darting over and grabbing it with both hands like it was a treasure. “Look, Mommy!” she shouted, waving it proudly in the air. “I’m helping!”

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Helping. That was the last thing you wanted her to think she was doing here.

“Careful!” you called, your voice sharper than intended. She flinched, looking down, and your chest immediately ached at her wilted expression.

Jisung straightened from the hood, wiping his hands, his brows furrowed as his gaze flicked from Ara to you. For a brief second, it almost looked like he wanted to say something, maybe even defend her.

You quickly looked away, heat crawling up your neck. You needed to distract yourself, to put some space between you and this scene before it unraveled completely.

That’s when you spotted Seojin.

He was leaning casually against the far wall, sipping from a bottle of water, his shirt clinging to his skin in the heat of the garage. His hair stuck up at odd angles, but somehow it worked for him, and there was an ease in the way he carried himself that made him seem much younger than Jisung, more playful.

When your eyes met his, he grinned.

You felt it immediately, the flutter in your chest, the quick shift of your pulse.

Seojin pushed off the wall and strolled over, his rag draped over his shoulder. “So, you’re the one who’s got him all worked up, huh?” he said lightly, jerking his chin toward Jisung at the car.

Your brows shot up. “What?”

He chuckled. “Boss doesn’t usually look twice at anyone. But you walk in here, and suddenly he’s glaring at me for breathing too close.”

Your face heated. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But I don’t think so.”

The way he looked at you open, easy, curious made something stir inside you, something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.

Then he said it. Bold. Direct.

“You wanna give me your number?”

Your stomach flipped. The words made your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been asked before, but this was different. Here, now, with Ara in sight and Jisung only feet away, it felt like a test of something you didn’t even understand yet.

You hesitated, fumbling for a response, when—

“Y/N.”

Your head snapped up.

Jisung’s voice cut through the air, firm but casual, like he had perfect timing. He didn’t look at Seojin, didn’t acknowledge him at all. His eyes were fixed squarely on you.

“Come here a second,” he called, one hand resting on the edge of the hood. “Wanna show you something.”

The tone was neutral enough, but something about it felt pointed. Heavy.

Seojin’s brow arched, his lips twitching with amusement. He knew.

You glanced between the two men, your heart racing, and finally muttered something under your breath before walking toward Jisung.

When you reached him, he leaned back against the car, rag in hand, eyes narrowed slightly as if he’d been caught off guard himself. He gestured vaguely toward the exposed engine.

“Just showing you what I’m doing,” he said simply, as though that had always been his intent.

But you weren’t oblivious.

And you were sure, deep down, that this had nothing to do with the engine.

It had everything to do with stopping Seojin.

And that realization sent your heart into a messy, confusing spin you weren’t ready to face.

The sound of clanking tools and Ara’s cheerful chatter blended with the low hum of the shop.

She had parked herself at Jisung’s side, standing on tiptoe to peek into the hood of the car. Every so often she’d ask a question in her curious, sing-song voice, and Jisung, patient despite the smudges of grease on his arms and the sweat at his temples answered each one like it mattered.

You hovered near the counter, too tense to move closer, your eyes darting constantly between Ara and Jisung. Every part of you wanted to pull her away, to tuck her back at your side, but you knew the fight that would cause. And for now, Jisung was careful, keeping her hands far from anything sharp or dangerous.

Still, it felt like your heart was walking a tightrope.

That’s when Seojin reappeared.

He strolled back from his so-called lunch, a bottle of soda in hand, and leaned casually against the counter beside you. His eyes slid to where Jisung bent under the hood, then back to you, and his grin widened.

“Looks like she’s got him wrapped around her finger already,” he said lightly, nodding toward Ara. “Cute kid.”

You stiffened. Your lips pressed tight, but you forced yourself to murmur, “She’s… yeah. She’s a handful sometimes.”

Seojin chuckled. “Bet she gets it from her mom.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. You opened your mouth to deflect, to steer the conversation elsewhere, but he pressed forward.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice a little, “I wasn’t kidding earlier. You should let me take you out sometime. Get a break from… all this.” He gestured vaguely, like the stress of your car trouble was just an appetizer to whatever else you were dealing with.

Your chest tightened. “I don’t think—”

“Come on.” His smile was easy, coaxing. “Dinner, coffee, doesn’t matter. Just you and me. You deserve it.”

For a moment, something inside you fluttered. The words felt good, someone wanting you, openly, without the weight of the past hanging over it. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you that way.

But before you could even respond, another voice cut in.

“She’s got a boyfriend.”

The words snapped through the space like a whip.

Your head jerked toward Jisung. He was still bent at the hood, rag in hand, but his eyes were on Seojin now, sharp and steady. His jaw worked tight, and though his tone was calm, there was nothing casual about it.

Seojin blinked, thrown off. “Wait—you do?”

Your stomach dropped.

The lie you’d told, too fast, too desperate was circling back around, and now Jisung was weaponizing it right in front of you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah. I do.”

Seojin raised a brow but didn’t back down. He gave a slow shrug, lips curving into a half-smile. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have friends.”

“Friends don’t ask for numbers,” Jisung shot back, his tone colder this time. He straightened fully, standing tall beside the car, grease smeared across his knuckles. The look he leveled at Seojin could’ve cut steel.

The younger mechanic hesitated, his grin faltering under the weight of it. For a moment, silence stretched thick, charged.

And then Seojin lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just asking. No harm done.”

He sauntered back toward the workbench, but not before shooting you a sly little wink that made your face burn.

Jisung’s eyes followed him until he was out of earshot. Then he turned his gaze on you.

The look in his eyes was worse than the teasing, worse than the smugness you’d expected. It was sharper, heavier. Like he wasn’t just reminding you of your lie, he was testing how far you’d go to keep it alive.

You folded your arms over your chest, biting the inside of your cheek. “You didn’t have to say anything,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” Jisung replied, wiping his hands again, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Guess I didn’t.”

But he had. And you both knew why.

Even if he refused to admit it.

The rest of the shop felt different after Seojin’s little stunt.

Jisung moved around with his usual sharp efficiency, but there was an edge to every motion, wrenches dropped harder than they needed to be, drawers slammed instead of closed, his voice clipped when he barked orders at Seojin.

The younger mechanic tried to play it cool, cracking a joke here and there, but each time, Jisung cut him off before the words could even land.

You saw it. Everyone in the shop could see it.

And you hated how much of it was your fault.

Ara, oblivious to the storm brewing under Jisung’s skin, toddled back and forth between you and him, her bunny clutched tightly in her arms now that she’d reclaimed it. She’d peek into the hood of the car, tilt her head, then run back to tug on your sleeve with some new discovery.

“Mommy, he said the car drinks water like I do juice,” she giggled, eyes wide.

You forced a smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

But the knot in your stomach twisted tighter each time she ran back to Jisung. Each time he crouched a little to meet her eye level, answering her questions with more patience than you remembered him having for anyone else. Each time his lips curved into that small, soft smile, the one you hadn’t seen in years.

It was dangerous. All of it.

“Hey, careful with that,” Jisung murmured when Ara leaned a little too close to the open hood. His hand shot out instinctively, steadying her by the shoulder. Gentle. Protective. Like it was second nature.

Your chest tightened painfully at the sight.

“Come on, Ara,” you called, sharper than you meant to. “Give him some space.”

She pouted. “But he said I can help.”

Jisung glanced at you, something unspoken in his eyes. Then he wiped his hands on a rag and crouched fully beside Ara.

“You know what? You’re already helping a lot just by keeping me company,” he said, his tone light but careful. “Mechanics get lonely working by themselves all day.”

Ara’s smile was blinding. She hugged her bunny to her chest and whispered loudly, “Then I’ll stay!”

Jisung chuckled, the sound low, soft. Too soft.

You crossed your arms over your chest and stared hard at the floor, hoping the ground would swallow you.

Seojin chose that exact moment to walk by with a box of tools, his eyes flicking to you again. He gave a lopsided grin, like he hadn’t been shut down earlier. “Need anything, pretty?” he teased, voice low.

Before you could answer, Jisung’s head snapped up.

“She’s fine,” he said flatly, too fast, too sharp.

Seojin raised his brows, amused. “Touchy.”

“Get back to work,” Jisung growled.

The tension hung thick, choking. Seojin lingered just long enough to make his point, then shrugged and walked off.

Ara, completely missing the undercurrent, turned to Jisung and asked innocently, “Why’s he always smiling at my mommy?”

The question landed like a stone in your stomach.

You froze.

Jisung, too, went still. His jaw flexed, his eyes darting briefly to you before returning to Ara. For a second, you thought he’d ignore it. But then he spoke, his voice steady but low.

“Some people smile because they want attention.” He stood, tossing the rag onto the workbench with more force than necessary. “Doesn’t mean it’s real.”

Ara blinked up at him, clearly confused, before nodding solemnly like she’d just been given an important piece of wisdom.

You, on the other hand, wanted to sink into the floor.

The lie about your so-called boyfriend was already heavy enough, but with Jisung throwing himself into this strange mix of protectiveness and bitterness, every word felt like it carried a blade.

When Ara returned to your side, you smoothed her hair, trying to keep your voice steady. “We won’t be here much longer,” you murmured.

But deep down, you weren’t sure if you were saying it to her… or to yourself.

By the time Jisung slammed the hood of your car shut, the sun had dipped low enough that the light filtering through the shop windows was a dusky gold. Sweat slicked his temple and ran down the column of his neck, sliding along his collarbone before disappearing beneath the edge of his shirt. His t-shirt clung to him, damp at the back, and when he dragged his rag across his face, streaks of grease smeared darker against his skin.

You tried not to look. Tried not to feel the sudden, uninvited flutter in your stomach. But it was impossible to ignore, the way his forearms flexed when he tossed the rag aside, the line of his jaw tight with concentration, the way his chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths.

Damn him. Damn you for even noticing.

Shaking it off, you cleared your throat, arms crossed protectively over your chest. “So,” you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “What do I owe you? For last night, for keeping Ara’s bunny safe, and for today.”

It came out clipped, transactional. Business-like. That was all you wanted this to be.

But Jisung’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and you knew instantly he wasn’t going to let you have that distance.

Before he could even answer, Seojin emerged from the back, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “I can give you an estimate,” he said easily, already reaching for the clipboard on the counter. He scribbled quickly, then held it up for you to see. “Parts, labor, and the extra hours—comes to about—”

“Don’t,” Jisung cut in sharply.

Both you and Seojin froze.

Jisung strode over, pulling the clipboard out of Seojin’s hand without so much as a glance. He set it face-down on the counter, then turned to you, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“It’s on me,” he said flatly.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I—”

“I said it’s on me.” His voice was harder this time, brooking no argument.

Seojin frowned. “Hyung, that’s not how it works. She still owes for the work. You can’t just—”

Jisung’s glare cut him off mid-sentence. It was sharp, pointed, and loaded with a warning Seojin seemed to understand instantly. He huffed, muttered something under his breath, and stomped back toward the tool rack, leaving you and Jisung in the thick silence.

You swallowed, shaking your head. “I didn’t ask you for charity, Jisung.”

“It’s not charity.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his voice low and tight. “It’s the least I can do.”

The least he could do.

The words scraped against you, pulling something raw and bitter to the surface.

You exhaled sharply. “Fine. Then consider me even. For everything.”

That, that, made his jaw clench. His lips pressed into a hard line, and for a moment you thought he might let it drop. But then his eyes flicked up, pinning you in place, and his voice dropped lower.

“Does your boyfriend even know you’re here?”

The words cut like a blade.

Your stomach dropped, blood rushing hot to your ears. “Don’t.”

“No, seriously.” He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his voice dripping with a bitterness you hadn’t heard in years. “Does he know you’re running around town, dragging your kid to broken-down shops in the middle of the night, lying awake in some stranger’s garage because your car can’t make it ten miles without choking?”

Your hands curled into fists. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Not my business?” His laugh was humorless, sharp. He shook his head, eyes burning into you. “Then why the hell do I feel like I’m the only one around here giving a damn?”

Your breath hitched. The words stung, not because he was wrong, but because of how close they came to the truth.

You wanted to scream, to throw the truth in his face, to tell him everything. But the risk was too great. The secret you carried was too heavy, too fragile to let spill now, in front of Seojin, in front of Ara.

So you did what you always did. You shut it down.

You swallowed hard, forcing steel into your voice. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Jisung. You lost the right years ago.”

His expression flickered, just for a second, hurt flashing behind the anger. But then his walls went up again, his smirk cold and sharp.

“Right. Years ago.” He stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets like he needed to stop himself from saying more. “Guess your boyfriend doesn’t mind picking up where I left off.”

The air between you cracked.

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream at him until your throat bled. But instead, you bit your tongue so hard it ached and turned toward Ara, who was watching curiously from the corner, bunny clutched to her chest.

You forced a smile for her. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Her little hand slid into yours without hesitation.

But as you walked past Jisung, his voice followed you, softer this time, almost broken at the edges.

“Tell him he should check under the hood himself next time.”

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

-

The shop was quieter that evening, though the air still smelled of oil, gasoline, and lingering smoke. The kind of quiet Jisung hated because quiet left room for thoughts. And his thoughts weren’t kind tonight.

Every clang of a tool he picked up felt like it echoed too loud. Every engine hum rang hollow. He found himself staring at the bay door too often, like maybe your car would pull back in. Like maybe Ara’s small voice would carry through the space again.

Instead, there was nothing but silence and the gnawing replay of your words. You lost the right years ago. don’t talk about things you don’t understand.

Jisung threw the wrench down harder than necessary, the metal clattering across the workbench.

“You’re sulking,” a familiar voice announced.

He looked up sharply. Minho leaned against the frame of the open doorway, smirk tugging at his lips, while Chan followed behind him with a six-pack swinging casually in one hand.

Jisung groaned. “Don’t you two have better things to do than annoy me?”

Chan grinned, already setting the beer down on the counter. “Nope. Besides, we heard you’ve been in a mood. Figured we’d check in.”

“More like we were bored,” Minho added dryly, grabbing a bottle for himself. “But hey, same difference.”

Jisung scowled, grabbing a rag to wipe his already filthy hands. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Chan popped open his drink, took a long swig, then leaned an elbow on the counter. “So fine you’re throwing wrenches like they insulted your mother.”

Minho snorted. “What happened? Don’t tell me you actually scared off a customer.”

Jisung’s silence was all the answer they needed.

Chan’s eyebrows shot up, and then, just as quickly, he burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you did. You actually did. What’d you do, glare at them until they ran out?”

Jisung’s scowl deepened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Minho pressed, his tone sharper but curious. “Because word on the street is, you don’t let anyone walk out without paying and yet rumor has it you comped someone. Whole damn job.”

Chan’s grin widened. “Wait, no. You didn’t.”

When Jisung didn’t answer, Chan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer. “Oh, you did. You’re so whipped.”

Jisung rolled his eyes and muttered, “Shut up.”

But Minho wasn’t laughing. He set his drink down with a dull thunk, staring hard at him. “Hold on. You make us pay. Full price. For everything. You make your friends cough up cash for oil changes, but her? She gets a free ride?”

“That’s different,” Jisung snapped before he could stop himself.

“Different how?” Minho challenged.

Jisung opened his mouth, but no words came. Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that it wasn’t just about the car? That it was you, you standing in front of him again, the only person who’d ever left him gutted enough to make him a mess five years later.

Chan, recovering from his laughter, tipped his bottle toward Jisung with a knowing smirk. “He’s right, you know. You’re still hung up. You’ve always been hung up.”

Jisung glared at him. “I’m not—”

“Please.” Chan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “We know you, Jisung. Every girl since her? A mess. Either you don’t call them back, or they don’t stick around. And don’t even get me started on your little one night stands.”

Jisung’s jaw flexed, his grip tightening on the rag in his hand. “I’m not talking about this with you two.”

But Chan only smirked wider. “Fine. Let’s talk about her kid then.”

That froze Jisung in place.

Chan’s tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Cute, huh? What’s her name?”

Jisung’s throat worked. “Ara,” he muttered.

“Adorable,” Chan repeated, sipping his beer. “She looks a little like her mom, doesn’t she?”

Something in Jisung’s chest twisted. “She’s not mine,” he said quickly, firmly. Too firmly.

Minho raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

Jisung blinked at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Chan leaned in slightly, his voice low and even. “Think about it. She’s what..four? Maybe five? And how long ago did she leave?”

Jisung froze. The math was too simple. Too clean.

Chan shrugged. “So unless she cheated on you—which, let’s be real, she wouldn’t or she jumped into bed with someone else the second you broke up, there’s a real chance Ara could be yours.”

The rag slipped from Jisung’s hand.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No. She said she’s with someone. A boyfriend. That’s probably Ara’s dad.”

Minho crossed his arms, studying him. “Have you even seen him? A picture? Heard his name?”

Jisung opened his mouth then closed it again. His stomach dropped.

“No,” he admitted finally, his voice rough.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing.

Chan leaned back, satisfied. “Just saying, Ji. You should think about it. ‘Cause if she is yours, and you’re here acting like she’s someone else’s kid…”

Jisung shoved a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. His heart hammered against his ribs, his thoughts spiraling.

The image of Ara’s smile flashed in his head. The way she’d clutched her bunny. The way she’d lit up when he crouched down to talk to her.

It tugged at him in a way he couldn’t explain, and now, now Chan’s words lodged in his chest like a knife.

He wanted to dismiss it, to shove it down. But he couldn’t.

Not when the timeline fit too neatly.

Not when, for the first time in years, he let himself wonder:

What if she wasn’t just some kid?

What if she was his?

//

masterlist.

a/n: lol this ended up being way longer than i thought so it’s split into 3(?) parts, if i’m not too busy i will post part 2 tomorrow since it’s alr finished. <3 thank you for waiting, i missed posting.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

March 16 | 4:47 PM | Villa Entrance, Jeju Island

The car door opens before your hand even reaches the handle, and for a moment you sit there, caught between the instinct to do it yourself and the reality of the camera already pointed at your face.

Outside, a production assistant in a headset stands holding a clipboard. You step out. The gravel path leading up to the villa stretches long and pale ahead of you. Your heels press slightly into it with each step while two cameras track you from either side, their lenses adjusting with a faint mechanical sound that you feel more than hear.

The villa rises at the edge of a cliff above open water, all white stone and dark timber and floor to ceiling glass that collects the late afternoon light and pushes it back outward in broad sheets. Bougainvillea climbs the left side of the entrance in dense, trailing clusters, arranged to suggest wildness while clearly being nothing of the kind. Someone planted it to look as though no one had.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the production assistant says, gesturing toward the front door.

You are not ready. The thought arrives plainly, without panic, and you walk through the door anyway.

Inside, a producer named Chaerin meets you near the entrance. She’s in her early thirties, with a lanyard and the bearing of someone who has been managing seventeen simultaneous problems for long enough that it no longer reads as stress but simply as her face. She moves quickly through the space and you follow, a camera operator trailing at a short distance behind you both. You become aware of the sound of your own breathing in a way you have never been before.

The common area runs the length of the ground floor. Two long sofas face each other across a coffee table holding a fruit arrangement so geometrically precise it borders on unsettling. The kitchen opens directly into the dining space, marble countertops and pendant lighting and a refrigerator already stocked with things you never requested. Tucked beside the staircase, cordoned off with a velvet rope, sits a confessional booth: a single chair, a ring light, a small camera on a tripod. It has the quality of something meant to be taken seriously.

“Confessionals are available twenty-four hours,” Chaerin says, still not looking at you. “We encourage frequent use.”

“Of course you do,” you say.

She doesn’t respond to that.

Your room is on the second floor, third door on the left. It overlooks the water, which you notice before you notice anything else about it. The bed has been made with a level of precision that makes you feel preemptively apologetic about sleeping in it, and on the dresser sits a welcome basket with your name written on a card placed exactly in the center. You sit on the edge of the bed for four seconds before a camera operator materializes in the doorway and you stand back up.

Chaerin gives you twenty minutes before they need you downstairs. You spend three of them at the window watching the water move. Six more unpacking things you will not need until tomorrow. The last eleven you spend sitting on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub, which is, as far as you can tell, the only room without cameras.

It is quieter here. You let yourself exist in it for a moment.

You think about the intake form you filled out eight weeks ago. One of the questions asked, on a scale of one to ten, how ready you are to start a family. You wrote seven. You meant four. You have spent some time since then suspecting that the distance between those two numbers is exactly what got you cast. 

You think, also, that there is a reasonable chance none of them will interest you at all, and that this would be the funniest possible outcome. You’ve read their profiles, but there were no pictures attached. The staff had explained that your first reactions should be caught on camera. You let yourself laugh at it quietly in the bathroom, just for a moment, before you wash your hands and check your reflection and walk back downstairs.

The front porch faces the road. Two cameras are already positioned along the entrance path, and a third is mounted above the door frame angled outward. Chaerin hands you a glass of something sparkling and nods toward the top of the path.

“First candidate in four minutes.”

You take a sip. The bubbles go up your nose. “Great,” you say.

The sun has dropped to just above the treeline, and the light it casts at this angle makes everything appear warmer than it actually is. You stand with both your hands wrapped around the glass. From somewhere beyond the trees, a car door closes. Then another. Gravel shifts under the weight of footsteps before anyone comes into view, and your stomach does something involuntary that you would prefer it not to.

You take another sip and wait.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He comes up the path the way some people move through rooms they have never been in before, the performance of a first impression. Lee Heeseung has clearly done something like this enough times that the doing of it no longer costs him anything.

You are still holding your glass with both hands when he clears the top of the path. The first thing you register, before anything else, is that he is taller than you built him to be in your head. Six weeks of a name in your inbox and a production profile and somehow your imagination still got it wrong. He finds you at the top of the steps and something in his posture shifts.

The camera to your left closes in. You had almost forgotten about it. You remember now.

He stops two feet in front of you and says hi, and you say it back. For a moment the two of you are just standing there in the golden late afternoon light and the entire production crew pretending to be invisible.

He holds out his hand. You transfer your glass to one hand and shake it, and his grip is confident without making a point of being confident, and then he says his own name like a formal introduction, easy and unhurried.

“I know,” you say, and then you hear yourself. “They briefed us. On all of you.” You gesture in the general direction of Chaerin and the crew. “It was not weird.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. “Sure.”

Chaerin steps forward from behind you, which is your cue to move into the icebreaker portion. You had been told about it during the walkthrough earlier, delivered in the same brisk, clipboard-adjacent tone Chaerin uses for everything. Each candidate, she had explained, was asked ahead of time to bring a flavored condom that they felt represented them in some way. The production team’s framing had been something about intimacy and communication and starting a family requiring honesty about who you are, but you had stopped fully listening around the third euphemism.

You turn back to Heeseung and nod toward his jacket pocket. “I think you have something for me.”

He reaches in and produces a small box, presenting it with both hands and a completely level expression. Pasante. Strawberry. Pink foil with a ribbon around it that you are almost certain one of the production assistants tied there and not him, though you cannot prove that.

You look at it for a moment. “Strawberry.”

“There’s something about strawberry,” he says. “It sounds simple and uncomplicated until you realize it is actually the one you keep coming back to.” He tilts his head slightly. “That is my pitch. I’m not complicated. I’m just the kind of thing that stays.”

You look at the box and back at him. “You put a lot of weight on a strawberry.”

“I had the whole drive from the airport to figure out what I was going to say.”

The laugh comes out before you get the chance to decide about it, short and slightly undignified. You press your lips together right after like you can retroactively contain it. A camera operator steps to the side to get your face and you develop a sudden intense interest in the ribbon on the box.

“You can wait at the end of the porch,” you tell him, nodding toward where a production assistant is already stationed with a second glass. “Until everyone else has arrived.”

He takes a step back, unhurried about it, and does not immediately look away from you. “Good start, though.”

You say nothing. You turn back toward the road, where the car that pulls into the driveway arrives at the exact minute it was supposed to. Heeseung had shown up two minutes ahead of schedule and there is something fundamentally different about the way Jay’s timing lands.

When he emerges from the vehicle and starts up the walkway, his hands rest deep in the pockets of his coat and his posture holds a kind of controlled formality that makes him seem older than he probably is. He acknowledges the cameras with the same detached awareness you might give to a coat rack or a potted plant, noting their existence without allowing them to influence his behavior. His attractiveness registers immediately. Everything from the cut of his coat to the measured rhythm of his stride communicates that he has already mapped out this interaction in his head and knows precisely how he wants it to unfold.

He comes to a stop directly in front of you and offers his hand with the kind of smooth formality that belongs in a business meeting rather than a reality show introduction.

“Park Jay,” he says. His voice carries no inflection that might betray nervousness or excitement. It is steady and deliberate, the voice of someone who has learned to control the pace of a conversation by controlling the pace of his own speech.

You take his hand and return the greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

His gaze stays locked on yours for a beat longer than casual politeness requires. “Likewise.”

Chaerin shifts her weight beside you and clears her throat in a way that suggests the cameras have captured enough of this particular moment.

Jay reaches into his coat without hesitation, and the box he withdraws appears in his hand with such fluidity that you suspect he has been holding it in a specific position this entire time. The packaging is plain and elegant, vanilla printed across the label in simple lettering. There is no ribbon or decorative flourish. 

“Vanilla,” you say, because it seems like the kind of observation that should be spoken aloud.

“Most people hear that and think boring,” he replies. “That’s because most people are wrong. There is no pastry without it. No base, no depth, nothing worth building on top of. Every serious kitchen in the world keeps it in stock because without it everything else falls apart.” 

His eyes return to yours with the same measured intensity as before. “I’m not the most exciting thing in the room. I’m the thing that makes the room work.”

You let it sit there for a moment, weighing the sincerity of the speech against the obvious rehearsal that preceded it.

“You practiced that,” you say finally. 

“I refined it,” he corrects without missing a beat. “There’s a difference.”

From somewhere behind you comes a sound that resembles a stifled laugh, and you recognize it as Heeseung’s voice breaking through whatever composure he has been maintaining on the porch. Jay does not turn toward the noise. He doesn’t acknowledge that anyone else exists in this moment except the two of you. He extends the box toward you with both hands, the gesture clean and final, as though he is closing a deal rather than introducing himself to a stranger.

You accept it and gesture toward the spot on the porch where you need him to stand. He follows the direction without comment, moving with the same unhurried precision that brought him up the walkway. 

The third car arrives and the door swings open. Before you see anything else, you hear his voice carrying across the driveway as he thanks the driver. The words are not projected for the cameras, not staged for effect. They’re quiet and genuine, delivered with the kind of direct eye contact that suggests he means them. You watch this exchange unfold from your position on the porch and feel something small and uncomfortable tighten in your chest. You make an immediate decision not to think about what that feeling means or why it appeared in the first place.

Jake Sim walks toward you with his arms hanging naturally at his sides, no tension in his shoulders or performative awareness of the cameras tracking his approach. His eyes find yours before he has even crossed half the distance. He looks at you the way someone looks at a person they are simply happy to see. His clothes are casual and understated, the kind of outfit that could have been thrown together without much thought, though you suspect he put more effort into appearing effortless than he would ever admit. You appreciate the illusion anyway.

He comes to a stop directly in front of you and his face breaks into a smile that does not stay contained in his mouth. It spreads into his eyes. His entire expression softens and opens.

“Jaeyun,” he says, and then adds quickly, as though worried you might actually use the full version, “But Jake is fine.”

You test the name aloud, letting it sit in your mouth for a moment. “Jake.”

“Yeah.” He says it with a kind of quiet satisfaction, as though you have just confirmed something he was hoping to hear.

Chaerin shifts beside you and clears her throat in the same pointed way she did with Jay, a reminder that the cameras are recording and the moment needs to move forward. Jake’s eyes widen slightly as the awareness returns to him. He reaches into his jacket with a sudden urgency that suggests he has been mildly anxious about this specific part of the process and is relieved to finally get it over with.

The box he pulls free is cradled carefully in both hands. Honey. The packaging glows a soft, warm gold. 

“Honey,” you say, naming it the same way you had with the others.

“It’s—okay, so.” He takes a breath, steadying himself, and you watch his chest rise and fall as he gathers his thoughts. “Honey doesn’t expire, like ever. They’ve found it in Egyptian tombs and it’s still good.” 

His eyes meet yours again and hold there, earnest and unguarded. “And it makes everything better without overpowering it. It just brings out what’s already there. I think I do that. I think I’m pretty good at making people feel like the best version of themselves without them noticing I’m doing it.”

“That was genuinely good,” you tell him, and you mean it.

The relief that floods his face is so immediate and so transparent that it almost hurts to witness. “Yeah?”

“Don’t push it.”

His laugh bursts out of him without restraint, loud and completely unself­conscious. You lift your hand and gesture toward the spot on the porch where he needs to stand. He goes willingly, still smiling, and you turn your attention back toward the empty road and raise your drink to your lips, taking a long, deliberate sip that gives you an excuse not to look at anyone.

The fourth car arrives and settles at the base of the driveway, but the door doesn’t open immediately. You stare at it from your position on the porch, aware that the cameras are doing the same, all of you waiting for movement that does not come. Chaerin glances down at her clipboard, scanning whatever notes or schedule she has written there, and then looks up again as though expecting the information to have changed. It has not. She checks a second time anyway. At the far end of the porch, Heeseung shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a small restless motion that suggests he has noticed the unusual pause. Jay remains perfectly still, his posture unchanged.

Then the door finally swings open.

Park Sunghoon emerges from the backseat, slow and unhurried. He takes his time, rising to his full height and adjusting the line of his jacket with a brief tug at the hem. His gaze travels up the walkway, pausing first on the cameras positioned to capture his arrival, and then shifting to you. His expression remains neutral through both observations, offering no reaction that might distinguish one subject from the other.

“Park Sunghoon,” he says. His voice is lower than you expected. You offer your name in return, keeping your tone even to match his.

He nods once, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing the box he has been carrying. The packaging is matte black, sleek and unadorned. 

“Dark chocolate,” you say, giving voice to the obvious.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he replies. “Most people think they don’t like it until they’ve actually tried it and they realize what they’d been settling for. I’m not easy to know. I’m aware of that. But I don’t think easy and worthwhile are the same thing.”

“That sounds like something you’d put in a press release,” you say, not bothering to soften the observation with a smile.

Something shifts in his face, a barely noticeable movement at the corner of his mouth that might have become a smile if he had allowed it to fully form. “Maybe.”

“Was it?”

He takes a small step backward, creating distance without breaking eye contact. “You’ll have to find out.”

The box changes hands smoothly, passing from his palm to yours with the same clean finality that Jay had employed earlier. Sunghoon turns his head toward the far end of the porch where the others are standing and then looks back at you, waiting for instruction without asking for it. The assumption that you will direct him feels more audacious somehow than if he had simply walked to his spot without prompting.

You raise your hand and point. He goes, his stride as measured and deliberate as it had been on his approach.

The final car that pulls into the driveway is noticeably smaller than the ones that preceded it. The door opens. Yang Jungwon steps out onto the gravel, and the first thing you notice is that he looks genuinely happy to be here. After the cool reserve of Sunghoon’s arrival and the meticulous control of Jay’s entire presentation, the uncomplicated warmth radiating from Jungwon feels like permission to exhale. 

He catches sight of you from the bottom of the walkway and his hand goes up in a wave, casual and entirely genuine.

Your hand rises in response before your brain has a chance to consider whether the gesture is professional or whatever it is supposed to be. You just wave back.

Jungwon starts up the path with a quick, buoyant stride. He moves with the slightly heightened energy of someone who has been confined in a small space for longer than is comfortable. When he reaches you and comes to a stop, you notice immediately that he is shorter than the others, his features softer and more youthful, and when he looks at you he does so with the kind of complete, undivided attention that suggests he was taught early in life to listen before speaking.

“Yang Jungwon,” he says, and then adds quickly, as though suddenly aware that he might have caused an inconvenience, “I’m the last one, right? Sorry if the wait was-“

“You’re on time,” you tell him, cutting off the apology before it can fully form.

“Oh good.” The relief in his voice is immediate and transparent. He lets out a small breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I kept thinking the driver was going too slow but I didn’t want to say anything.”

Behind you, Jake makes a sound that could be an exhale of amusement. You keep your expression carefully neutral and do not turn around.

Chaerin’s familiar throat clearing signals the next required step, and Jungwon reaches into his jacket with both hands, withdrawing the box with a carefulness that borders on excessive. You get the impression that he has been holding it throughout the entire car ride, unwilling to set it down on the seat beside him in case it got crushed or otherwise damaged.

The packaging is a soft, pale orange that reminds you of early morning light filtering through thin curtains. 

“Peach,” you say, completing the pattern you have established with each arrival.

“Okay so-“ He straightens his posture slightly, gathering himself for the explanation he has clearly prepared. “My kids, my students, when they’re really little, they’re still figuring out what they like. I give them options sometimes, snacks and stuff, and they almost always pick peach flavored things.”

“It just makes people feel safe, I think. It’s gentle but it’s still there, you know? It doesn’t disappear.” His eyes search yours, checking to see if you understand what he is trying to convey. “I think I’m like that. I’m not going to be the most intense person here. But I don’t think you’ll ever wonder where I stand.”

“That’s-” you begin, but the words catch slightly and you have to pause.

His expression shifts immediately into concern. “Too much?”

“No,” you say firmly, recovering your voice. “It was good.”

The smile that breaks across his face is warm in the way that suggests it has been deployed countless times in difficult conversations with worried parents and anxious administrators. It is a smile designed to put people at ease, and it works. You lift your hand and gesture toward the end of the porch where the other four men are standing in a loose cluster. Jungwon moves toward them without hesitation, and you watch as he approaches Jake first, his hand already extending. Jake accepts it and pulls him into a brief one armed embrace, clapping him on the shoulder with easy familiarity. Jungwon turns next to Heeseung, who greets him with a nod and a few words you cannot hear from this distance. Then Jungwon’s attention shifts to Sunghoon, and there is a moment where the two of them simply look at each other, an assessment taking place in the silence. Sunghoon offers a single nod, minimal but deliberate, and Jungwon seems to accept this as an adequate gesture of welcome.

You turn away from the group, gaze droping to the porch railing where the five boxes have been arranged in the order they were received. Strawberry, vanilla, honey, dark chocolate, peach. A collection of small, absurd, earnest objects that five different men carried up this walkway because a television producer decided it would create compelling content. You feel the exhaustion beginning to pool at the base of your skull, the kind that comes not from physical effort but from the sustained performance of remaining present and engaged through interaction after interaction. You are going to need to call your therapist after this. That much is certain.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ───

March 16 | 7:34 PM | Villa Main Common Area

The fruit arrangement has been relocated, which means that at some point during the last hour a producer stood in this room and made a deliberate choice about camera angles and visual composition. You register this observation and store it as your first piece of concrete evidence that nothing in this environment will happen by accident. Every object and every angle has been considered and positioned with intent.

The common area feels warmer now that night has fully settled over the villa. The enormous windows that span the length of the room have transformed into sheets of reflective black glass, the light outside having disappeared completely. Music drifts through the space at a volume carefully calibrated to be unobtrusive but present enough to fill the silence that would otherwise gather in the gaps between words. The five men are already arranged throughout the seating area when you descend the stairs and enter the room.

Heeseung has established himself at the left end of the longer sofa, body angled into the corner with one arm stretched along the top of the cushions behind him and his legs crossed at the ankle in a pose of calculated ease. Jay has taken the armchair positioned to the right of the main sofa arrangement. The chair sits at a slight remove from the other furniture, angled toward the room in a way that frames its occupant as observer rather than participant. You suspect he selected it for precisely this reason. 

Jake occupies the center of the longer sofa, his body leaning forward with his elbows braced against his knees, angled toward Jungwon who sits beside him. They are already deep in conversation when you enter, the kind of exchange that forms quickly between people who share an instinct for openness and connection. Jungwon says something you cannot hear and then laughs, lifting the back of his hand to partially cover his mouth as his shoulders shake. 

Jake notices your arrival first. His hand rises in a small wave, the same gesture he offered you from the bottom of the walkway hours earlier, and then his attention returns to whatever he was saying to Jungwon without pausing to see if you will respond.

Jungwon has drawn his legs up onto the cushion, not fully crossing them but pulling them in enough that his posture reads as settled and comfortable. He manages to appear the most at ease, which strikes you as both endearing and strategically significant.

Sunghoon has claimed the far end of the second sofa, occupying it alone despite the fact that it could easily accommodate two or three people. One ankle rests on the opposite knee and his body is angled slightly away from the rest of the group. 

You lower yourself onto the second sofa, deliberately leaving an empty cushion between yourself and Sunghoon. The thought arrives fully formed in your mind, clear and unhelpful. They are all very attractive and very much your type and this is genuinely the worst possible outcome for your composure and you are going to be fine.

You are probably going to be fine.

A production assistant emerges from the hallway, and the room responds immediately to the arrival. Shoulders straighten, conversations taper off mid sentence, glasses are lifted and then set down on various surfaces. Chaerin follows close behind with her tablet tucked beneath one arm and an expression on her face that suggests she is about to derive significant enjoyment from whatever is about to unfold.

“Before dinner,” she announces, coming to a stop at the center of the room where all sight lines converge, “we have an icebreaker.”

“Oh no,” Jake says immediately, his voice rising slightly in pitch. He sits up straight, abandoning his forward lean.

“Before filming began, each of you completed a standardized behavioral assessment.” Chaerin raises the tablet without glancing at its screen. “We will be reading the top three results from each person’s test. The group will guess whose results are whose.” 

“Wonderful,” Jay says, and his tone makes it abundantly clear that he finds nothing about this situation wonderful.

Chaerin taps the surface of the tablet. “We’ll go in random order. No names until the group guesses.” She nods at the production assistant, who clicks a small remote. A motorized screen begins to descend from a recessed panel above the fireplace that you had not previously noticed. It hums softly as it unfurls, the sound filling the silence. Every person in the room watches its descent as though it might display something worse than they are currently imagining.

When the screen finishes lowering and the image stabilizes, the text reads: Switch. Collaring. Edging.

The mechanical hum of the screen locking into position is the only sound for several seconds.

“Thoughts?” Chaerin prompts, her tone light and expectant.

“Heeseung.” Jungwon delivers the name with immediate confidence, his arm already rising to point across the coffee table before the syllables have fully left his mouth.

Heeseung rotates his head to regard Jungwon with an expression that registers more curiosity than offense. “Me?”

“You just-” Jungwon’s hand moves in a vague circular motion that seems intended to encompass the entirety of Heeseung’s presence. “You have that energy.” 

“I’m going to say Y/N,” Sunghoon says from his position at the far end of the sofa. You turn to look at him, suddenly acutely aware that the cushion separating you feels wholly inadequate. He is already looking at you, has been looking at you for some indeterminate amount of time. 

“Interesting guess,” you say carefully.

“Is it wrong?”

The camera positioned to your left executes a small adjustment in angle. You become hyperaware of your own facial muscles and the effort required to control them.

“It’s Jake,” Jay announces from the armchair, his voice carrying flat certainty. The entire room pivots to look at Jay. 

“Jake?” Chaerin prompts, redirecting attention.

Jake straightens against the sofa cushions. He smooths both palms against his knees in a brief, nervous gesture. “Yeah,” he confirms. “That’s me.”

Jungwon rotates on the cushion to face Jake directly, the leather producing a small squeaking sound under the movement. “Collaring.”

“It’s a commitment thing,” Jake explains, his tone earnest as he leans slightly toward Jungwon. “It’s actually very meaningful if you look into the history of it-”

“I’m not looking into it,” Jungwon says firmly.

“It’s about-”

“Next set,” Chaerin interrupts.

The screen transitions to new text. Dom. Humiliation. Roleplay.

A different quality of silence descends over the room, heavier and more deliberate. The amber light from the pendant fixtures catches the rim of Heeseung’s glass as he tilts it slightly. Across the coffee table, Jungwon has gone completely motionless in the particular way people freeze when they are hoping to avoid being noticed.

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung says without hesitation.

Sunghoon shifts his gaze from the screen to Heeseung. The look he delivers is not hostile. “Why?” 

“You just-” Heeseung begins the vague hand gesture again.

“If you do that hand thing at me I’m going to need you to explain what it means,” Sunghoon says, his voice level and expressionless.

Heeseung lowers his hand.

“I think Jay,” Jake offers from his position in the middle of the sofa.

“You’re both wrong,” Jay states from the armchair without altering his posture.

“You can’t tell us if we’re wrong,” Chaerin points out.

“I just did,” Jay replies, and lifts his water glass to his lips.

“Sunghoon,” you say. “Final answer.”

“Sure,” he says.

Chaerin consults her tablet. “Correct. Sunghoon.”

“Roleplay makes sense though,” Heeseung observes, settling back against the arm of the sofa with genuine thoughtfulness in his expression. “You’re literally an actor. That’s practically research.”

“That’s not why,” Sunghoon says.

“Then what’s-“ 

“Next set,” Sunghoon interrupts. He turns his head to look at Chaerin. The screen changes again.

Switch. Humiliation. Spanking.

You feel the shift in attention before you see it, the sensation of five separate gazes arriving at the same conclusion simultaneously and redirecting toward you as their common destination. You locate a fixed point on the coffee table, and you direct all of your focus toward it while keeping your face as neutral as possible.

“Y/N,” Jake says from two cushions away. His voice is gentle. 

“You don’t know that,” you tell the coffee table.

“I mean the switch thing specifically,” He pauses, considering his words. 

Chaerin looks down at her tablet. “Correct. Y/N.”

Beside you, separated by a single cushion that suddenly feels wholly insufficient, you feel the sofa shift slightly as Sunghoon adjusts his position against the armrest. You do not turn to look at him. You keep your eyes fixed on the circular mark in the coffee table and breathe slowly through your nose.

“Humiliation,” Heeseung says after a moment has passed, his tone carrying the careful quality of someone who wants to ask a follow up question but has accurately assessed the room and decided against it.

“Moving on,” you say firmly.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

By the time the next set of results appear on the screen, the atmosphere in the room has undergone a subtle but unmistakable transformation. 

The icebreaker has accomplished what icebreakers accomplish when they function as intended, which is to distribute mild embarrassment so evenly across all participants that the shared experience of discomfort becomes a foundation for something resembling collective ease.

When Jay’s results appear on the screen, they register in the room not as a surprise but as a confirmation of something everyone had already suspected.

Power exchange. Dom. Bondage.

No one speaks immediately. The text glows against the white background. Jay remains seated in the armchair with his elbow resting on the padded arm, his expression unchanged, simply waiting for the room to process what has been displayed.

“Obviously,” Jake says finally, breaking the silence.

“Obviously,” Jay agrees. 

The production assistant triggers the remote and the screen transitions to display new text. Chaerin reads it aloud with the careful neutrality of someone exerting considerable effort not to smile.

Dom. Praise. High protocol.

The room stares at the words in collective silence. Then, as a single unified entity, everyone turns to look at Jungwon.

Jungwon is already looking at the screen, his expression having shifted into intense focus, trying to determine the least damaging response to what has just been made public.

“High protocol,” Heeseung says slowly, enunciating each syllable with the deliberate care of someone sounding out unfamiliar vocabulary in a foreign language.

“I contain multitudes,” Jungwon announces to the middle distance, his voice flat.

Jake has pressed his hand against his mouth in an attempt to contain himself, but his shoulders have begun to shake with suppressed laughter.

“That’s-“ you begin.

“Please,” Jungwon interrupts, placing one hand flat on his knee in a gesture that suggests he is physically anchoring himself. “Please stop. I understand what I put. I understand what it looks like. I’m asking everyone in this room as a professional to-”

“Last one,” Chaerin says, cutting through his plea. Jungwon exhales audibly, his shoulders dropping with relief.

The screen displays new text: Begging. Praise. Switch.

“Before anyone says anything,” Heeseung starts, raising one hand.

Jay interrupts from the armchair. “You spend the end of every video asking people to like and subscribe. It is, functionally, begging.”

The room breaks apart. The collapse happens all at once, as though some invisible supporting structure has suddenly given way. Jake tips backward into the sofa cushions, surrendering completely to his laughter. Jungwon’s hand falls away from his mouth as he joins in, his relief at no longer being the focus combining with genuine amusement. Your own laugh emerges before you can prevent it, real and unguarded. Even Sunghoon’s mouth curves into something that unmistakably qualifies as a smile, and it remains visible on his face for several seconds before he redirects his attention to his drink.

Heeseung covers his face with both hands. His shoulders rise once in a deep breath and then fall.

────୨ৎ────

March 16 | 8:19 PM | Villa Dining Area

The dining table is designed to accommodate eight people.

With only six occupants it feels almost extravagant, all pale blonde wood and minimalist design. A production assistant has prepared the table during the time you spent in the common area, laying out linen napkins folded into precise thirds, filling water glasses to identical levels, and arranging a low centerpiece of green foliage that runs the length of the table. The overhead lighting has been adjusted downward to cast everything in warmer tones. Beyond the window, the cliff face drops away into complete darkness, and somewhere far below the invisible water continues its perpetual movement.

The catered dinner materializes in a series of covered dishes that members of the production staff carry out and position in the center of the table. There is enough food for everyone, prepared to a standard of competent blandness that characterizes most catered meals.

Jay is not at the table.

He had vanished at some point between the conclusion of the icebreaker exercise and the general migration toward the dining room, departing quietly without announcement or explanation. You had registered his absence and then immediately lost track of it when Heeseung pulled out the chair beside him with a pointed look in your direction. 

You select the seat directly across from Heeseung instead. Jungwon claims the chair to your left. Jake settles into the seat across from Jungwon and immediately reaches for the water pitcher, proceeding to refill the glasses of everyone within arm’s reach before attending to his own. No one requests this service and everyone accepts it without verbal acknowledgment. Sunghoon takes the chair at the far end of the table, maintaining a buffer of one empty seat between himself and the main cluster of diners. You are beginning to understand that this spatial relationship is not accidental but rather represents his default positioning in group settings.

“Should we wait for-” Jungwon begins, glancing toward the kitchen entrance.

“He’ll be out,” Jake says with the confidence of someone who has already formed accurate conclusions about Jay’s character.

From the direction of the kitchen comes the distinct sound of something making contact with a pan. The gas range ignites with its characteristic click and whoosh. Then a smell begins to drift into the dining room, butter heated to the edge of browning combined with something sharper beneath it. The scent moves through the space and transforms the covered catered dishes on the table into something that suddenly feels incidental and inadequate.

Heeseung turns his head toward the kitchen. “He’s cooking.”

“Obviously,” Sunghoon says from his position at the end.

“For all of us?” Jungwon asks, his tone hovering between hope and uncertainty.

The sounds from the kitchen cease for a moment. Then the range clicks off with finality.

“Probably not,” Jake says, and reaches for the serving spoon to begin distributing the catered food.

The conversation establishes itself gradually and then gains momentum all at once. Jungwon asks you about Roots & Rights with the concentrated attention of someone who has already conducted independent research. You find yourself talking about the foundation’s early history. You describe the grant application you rewrote three separate times, the cramped shared office space located above a dry cleaning business in Mapo, the first family you successfully placed with a fertility clinic who contacted you eight months later with news. Your voice does something when you reach that part of the story, develops a slight catch that you cannot fully smooth away, and Jungwon notices the shift but does not comment on it or draw attention to it. Across the table, Heeseung is also listening, though he manages to do so while maintaining the appearance of focusing primarily on his food. 

Jake has angled his body toward Sunghoon and they have become engaged in a companionable argument about one of Jake’s patients. The patient is apparently a cat experiencing some form of behavioral issue that Sunghoon insists presents as anxiety while Jake maintains is simply an expression of personality. 

You are in the middle of a sentence, explaining something about the foundation’s expansion efforts into Busan, when the kitchen door swings open.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jay emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate in each hand with a clean dish towel draped over his forearm. He sets one plate down at his empty chair. The other he carries the full length of the table. He comes to a stop directly behind your chair.

The plate appears over your shoulder and descends to the table in front of you. What sits on the plate is not what everyone else is eating.

Pan seared halibut occupies the center, its skin crisped to a golden brown. The fish rests in a shallow pool of brown butter scattered with capers and an impossibly fine distribution of fresh herbs that look as though they may have been positioned individually with tweezers. A wedge of lemon sits beside it. The aroma reaches you a fraction of a second after the visual registration, and you stop speaking mid sentence.

“Jay,” you say, because his name is the only word that arrives in your mind.

“It looked like you hadn’t touched the other dish,” he says from his position behind you, his tone pleasant and conversational.

You look down at your untouched catered plate, which has been pushed slightly to the side to create space for this new arrival. He noticed that. You cannot determine when during the evening he would have had the opportunity to notice that.

You pick up your fork, cutting into the fish and taking the first bite.

The butter carries the deep nutty complexity that comes from being heated to precisely the right temperature. The fish separates cleanly under the pressure of your fork. The capers provide a sharp brightness that cuts through the richness of the butter, creating balance. You close your eyes for exactly one second before you can prevent yourself from doing so.

When you open them again, Jay’s hand is resting on your shoulder. His other hand is gathering your hair. He does this with careful deliberation, using two fingers to collect the loose pieces that have fallen forward around your face and escaped from behind your neck, drawing them back and to the side. His knuckles make contact with the nape of your neck, moving slowly across the sensitive skin in the half second before he releases all of the gathered hair to fall over your opposite shoulder.

The entire interaction lasts four seconds.

“So it doesn’t fall in the food,” he says from behind you. Then he straightens to his full height and walks back around the perimeter of the table, lowering himself into his chair. He places his napkin across his lap, picks up his fork, and begins eating.

The table maintains its silence for an extended moment.

Jake is staring at his plate with his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly working to control his expression. Jungwon has raised his water glass to a position halfway between the table and his mouth, where it has remained suspended without him taking a drink. Heeseung is looking at Jay with an expression that manages to be evaluating and slightly impressed all at once. At the far end of the table, Sunghoon continues cutting his food without looking up, but the movement of his knife has become noticeably slower than it was before.

Jay lifts a forkful of his own food to his mouth, chews thoughtfully, and then says to the table at large, “The halibut was fresh. The catered fish wasn’t.”

You take another bite of the fish he prepared.

You do not look in his direction.

Gradually, the conversation around the table begins to resume its previous rhythm.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ────

March 16 | 9:47 PM | Confessional Booth

The confessional booth is small in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental.

One chair faces one ring light and one camera mounted on a tripod, with walls positioned on either side. The velvet rope that normally blocks the entrance has been unclipped and pulled aside. The ring light casts everything positioned in front of it in tones that are flat and bright. 

Heeseung sits with one leg crossed over the other, his elbow resting on the armrest, two fingers pressed lightly against his jaw. His posture belongs to someone who has spent sufficient time in front of cameras that their presence no longer alters his behavior. Something in his eyes appears more alert than it did during dinner. He looks directly into the lens for several seconds without speaking.

“I should have seen that coming,” he says finally. “The cooking thing. The hair. l was sitting right there and I watched it happen and I thought—yeah. Okay. I should have seen that coming.”

“Jay is good,” he says, and the statement carries the particular weight of respect from someone who does not distribute that respect casually. 

From somewhere just beyond the visible frame, a producer’s voice enters the space, kept low and barely rising above a murmur. “So what’s your plan?”

Heeseung redirects his attention toward the source of the voice. Then he looks back at the camera.

He smiles.

The expression is nothing like the smile he offered on the porch, nothing like the warm and easy thing he gave you at the top of the walkway during his arrival. This smile is quieter, more deliberate. 

He uncrosses his leg and leans forward slightly, bringing himself closer to the lens.

He says nothing.

────୨ৎ────

March 16 | 10:20 PM | Lead Bedroom

Inside your room, you lie on your back in the tangle of sheets, the lavender scent from the diffuser doing little to calm the static in your veins. You’d heard the floorboard creak outside her door. You held your breath, waiting for a knock that never came. Now, you stare at the ceiling, at the long shadow of a tree branch cast by the moonlight through the sheer curtains. 

Your phone lights up on the bedside table, a stark blue rectangle in the dark. 

It’s a tag from a fan account. Her thumb swipes it open. It’s Heeseung, on stage somewhere in Milan, six months ago. The audio is the roar of a crowd, a sea of light sticks washing over him in a cyan wave. He’s finishing a cover, the final, aching note of a song you know too well hanging in the air. He’s dripping with sweat, chest heaving, one hand clutching the microphone, the other raised to shield his eyes from the stadium lights as he scans the endless faces. The video zooms in, shaky and passionate, on his expression in that exact second after the music ends and before the screams fully register.

He isn’t smiling. He looks utterly, completely alone.

The clip loops. You watch it three times. Then you lock your phone and throw it beside you on the bed. Your hand slips under the waistband of your shorts, a reflex seeking a familiar, momentary peace.

The image of him, covered in sweat, is burned into the back of your eyelids. You close your eyes and there he is. The curve of his throat as he tilted his head back. The tense line of his shoulders. The utter isolation in a crowd of thousands.

Your fingertips find the heat between your legs. Your breath hitches, syncing with the memory of the music, your  own rhythm starting slow before deepening. The lavender in the air mixes with the sharp scent of your own arousal. Your other hand fists in the cotton, anchoring you as you lets the fantasy unspool: a green room with just the two of you. 

A low, muffled groan seeps through the wall.

Your eyes fly open. Your hand stills.

It’s not from your phone. It’s present, leaching through the plaster and drywall that separates your room from his. Then another, louder this time. 

He was there, just on the other side of the wall. He was listening. He had to be listening. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Shame, hot and immediate, flushed your skin. But beneath it, a darker satisfaction he’d heard the soft, wet sounds you couldn’t fully silence formed. 

Another groan, this one lower, gritted through teeth. 

Your resumed touch is urgent, fueled by a reckless curiosity. The video was forgotten. The real thing was just on the other side of the wall. You pictured him, not under stadium lights, but in the dimness of his borrowed room. Back against that same wall, perhaps, head tipped back and closed. One hand moving over himself, driven by the same illicit knowledge that drove her.

The sounds from next door grew less guarded. There was a sharp, ragged inhale, the creak of a bedframe, and a breathy curse swallowed halfway.

It coiled the tension in your gut tighter and tighter. Your heels dug into the mattress, back arching off the bed as you chased the invisible thread of mutual recognition that vibrated through the dividing wall. It was the most intimate and most anonymous thing you’d ever experienced.

When the peak broke over you, you bit down on your own wrist to keep the cry inside, body shuddering through the waves. A moment later, from the other side of the wall, a final, guttural sound was cut short. Then, absolute quiet.

You waited, straining to hear any movement. Just as you were about to turn over, and succumb to the dizzying shame, a new sound came.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three deliberate knocks on the wall, right where your headboard rested. After a pause long enough to make you doubt you’d heard it at all, his voice came through, low and rough-edged with sleep or satisfaction or both.

“Goodnight, neighbor.”

────୨ৎ────

March 17 | 7:52 AM | Second Floor Hallway

The villa exists in a state of relative quiet during the morning hours.

The ocean has become more audible somehow, and from somewhere on the lower level a coffee machine is working through its brewing cycle. A production assistant is moving around downstairs, their footsteps careful and measured in an attempt to avoid waking the sleeping occupants.

You emerge from your room, wearing an oversized sleep shirt that provides minimal coverage. You turn in the direction of the bathroom and nearly collide directly with Jake.

He registers the near collision first, one hand shooting out to brace against the doorframe while the other presses flat against his chest. 

“Sorry-” you begin.

“No, I wasn’t-” he says simultaneously.

You both stop speaking.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants that sit low on his hips, his hair soft and unstyled from sleep. He looks noticeably younger than he appeared last night. The warmth that seems to be his baseline quality radiates from him without any of the effort. He looks genuinely happy to encounter you.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply.

“Sleep okay?”

“Better than I expected.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “You?”

“Yeah, the mattress is-” He stops mid-sentence. His eyes drop.

He’s looking at your chest very intensely. His mouth has frozen in whatever shape it was forming around his unfinished sentence. The plastic water bottle in his hand produces a small crackling sound as his grip tightens and then loosens.

You wait. Three complete seconds elapse. 

“Jake,” you say.

His eyes snap upward. Color floods his face with remarkable speed. He opens his mouth and then closes it. 

“I wasn’t- ” he begins. “I’m going to go.” 

“You were mid-sentence.”

“I know.” He is already stepping backward, creating distance. “The mattress is really good. Great mattress. Very supportive.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of his room. “I’m going to-”

“Okay,” you say.

“Sorry,” he says, addressing this apology to the middle distance rather than to you directly. He turns and retreats down the hallway. You watch his departure and listen to the soft click of his door closing before going to the restroom. 

You examine your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The thin fabric of your sleep shirt does little to hide the two small barbells that sit plainly visible beneath the material. Yes. Okay. That explains the reaction.

You think the specific sequence of emotions that traveled across Jake’s features in the span of approximately four seconds. Interest, followed by realization, followed by horror at having experienced the interest, followed by a catastrophically unsuccessful attempt at recovery.

You press your lips together.

You turn on the tap and let the water run.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ────

March 17 | 8:34 AM | Villa Kitchen

The kitchen contains more activity than the hallway did.

Jake occupies the far end of the kitchen island with a bowl of something. His phone is held in front of his face and he looks like he’s trying very hard to suppress any reaction when you enter the room. You pour yourself a cup of coffee and offer no greeting. He offers none in return. 

Jungwon has already stationed himself at the dining table, both hands wrapped around a mug, engaged in conversation with a production assistant about something that prompts him to nod with serious attention before breaking into laughter. Heeseung leans against the counter near the range with a plate of toast, still wearing his sleep clothes. He raises his chin in acknowledgment when you enter. You lift your coffee mug in response.

Jay is not present in the kitchen. From the direction of the dining room comes the faint sound of a chair shifting position, which indicates that he has already positioned himself at the table, which suggests he has already eaten, which means he rose before anyone else. You find this simultaneously impressive and mildly exhausting.

You are not a breakfast person. 

You locate the shelf containing lighter options, a row of small items that the production team has stocked for precisely this purpose. You select a granola bar and a small container of yogurt and stand there reading the text printed on the back of the yogurt container without processing any of the information.

You hear him before you register his visual presence. There’s the small sound of someone reaching upward, the subtle shift of fabric moving against itself. Then he is there, positioned directly behind you, close enough that the warmth radiating from his body arrives before any other sensory information registers.

Sunghoon extends his arm past you and upward, reaching for the shelf positioned above the one you’re currently examining. His chest makes contact with your shoulder as he moves. He remains pressed against your back for the duration of time required to locate whatever he came to retrieve. Three seconds, perhaps four. Then he straightens to his full height and steps backward, creating distance. You become aware that you have been gripping the yogurt container with both hands.

“Oops,” he says from his position behind you. His voice carries the roughness of morning grogginess. “Sorry. I’m very hungry.”

You turn around to face him.

He’s staring very intensely at the nutritional information of the protein bar in one hand. His hair remains damp from the shower. The tips of his ears have taken on the faintest shade of pink, which could reasonably be attributed to the temperature of his recent shower.

“There’s a whole chef in the kitchen,” you point out. 

“This is faster,” he says, directing this response to the protein bar rather than to you.

“You couldn’t have reached around me?”

He lifts his gaze from the bar and looks at you directly.

“The angle was wrong,” he says with pleasant neutrality, and proceeds to peel the wrapper open and take a bite before moving past you toward the counter.

You remain standing at the shelf for several seconds, still holding your yogurt.

From his position at the island, Jake produces a small sound into his bowl that he rapidly converts into a cough. You look in his direction. He looks at his phone. The coffee machine releases another drip.

You peel the foil lid from your yogurt container and go in search of a place to sit.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ────

March 17 | 2:14 PM | Villa Main Common Area

Someone has rearranged the common area during the time since breakfast ended.

The coffee table has been relocated to a position against the wall, and two chairs have been positioned in the center of the room facing each other. The wide brimmed hat from earlier in the day rests on a small side table with a stack of folded paper slips nested inside it. A whiteboard mounted on an easel stands off to one side. Chaerin stands at the front of the room with her tablet held against her body.

"Each of you draws a scenario from the hat," she announces. "You have ten seconds to read it. Then you act it out with Y/N. The scenario will become obvious as you go. What Y/N needs to guess is the specific emotion or relationship dynamic you're portraying. If she guesses correctly within one minute, you both get a point. Whoever has the most points at the end wins a prize."

"What prize?" Jake asks immediately, his tone urgent.

"Revealed at the end," Chaerin replies.

Jake, Jungwon, and Heeseung occupy the sofa in a loose arrangement. Jay has claimed his usual armchair, one leg crossed over the other. Sunghoon stands near the window with his arms folded loosely across his chest.

"Sunghoon," Chaerin says. "You're first. To demonstrate."

He crosses the room with measured steps and reaches into the hat to extract a folded slip of paper. He reads whatever is written there. His expression undergoes no visible change. He folds the paper once and holds it at his side and looks at you.

"Ready?" he asks.

You occupy the chair that has been designated as yours, and you straighten your posture slightly. "Sure," you say.

Something fundamental shifts inside him. His weight transfers forward. His posture opens by several degrees. The permanent neutrality that characterizes his resting face gives way to something animated. When his gaze returns to you it carries the expression of someone arriving home to receive news they did not want to hear.

He pulls the second chair closer and lowers himself into it with his body angled toward you, bracing his elbows on his knees. He positions himself near enough that you can observe the specific details of his eyes, speaking quietly. "I just got off the phone with the school."

Your brain scrambles to catch up. School. Something happened at school. You have no other context. "Okay," you say carefully, watching his face.

"The principal called about twenty minutes ago." He pauses. "There was a fight during lunch."

"Is he okay?" you ask, taking a guess at the most logical question.

"His nose is bleeding and his lip is split." Sunghoon's hand moves across the space between you and finds yours where it rests on the armrest. "The other kid's parents are already there. The principal said we need to come get him."

You are starting to see the shape of the scenario now. A child. Their child got into a fight and was injured. But Chaerin said to guess the emotion, the dynamic. You watch the way Sunghoon is holding himself, voice steady even despite the concerning news. 

"Did they say what happened?" you ask.

"They think he started it." His thumb presses once against your knuckles, a small anchoring gesture. "He's been coming home upset for weeks, saying things weren't okay. I should have-" He stops himself, looking at the floor briefly before returning his gaze to you. "We should have pushed harder to find out what was going on."

There is guilt there, you realize. But it’s contained, channeled into action rather than spiraling. He’s not panicking or angry. He’s steady, and trying to keep you steady too. The hand on yours is reassuring.

"I'm going to go pick him up now." He stands, and for one extended moment he remains there with his hand still holding yours. "I'll bring him home and we'll sit down together tonight. All three of us. Okay?"

"Okay," you say.

He releases your hand and steps backward. His face returns to its usual resting state with the smooth inevitability of tide pulling away from shore.

Chaerin looks at you. "What was the emotion or dynamic?"

"Reassurance," you say, thinking about the way he held your hand, the steadiness in his voice, and the promise to handle it together. "He was keeping me grounded when something went wrong."

"Correct," Chaerin says, making a notation on her tablet. "The card said: providing calm reassurance during a crisis. One point each."

"Oh come on," Jake says immediately from the sofa. "He's literally an actor. This is his job."

"Exactly," Heeseung adds, gesturing toward Sunghoon. "The rest of us are going to look like children in a school play after that."

Chaerin marks the whiteboard with a tally and smiles. "Next."

Heeseung reaches into the hat and reads the slip of paper. His eyes track across it twice before he places it face down on the side table.

He looks at you, and then he surveys the room, and then he pulls the second chair closer and lowers himself into it and leans forward with his elbows braced on his knees and the expression of someone preparing to deliver news he has been carrying all day.

"I got the call this afternoon," he says.

"From who?" you ask.

"Kim Seojun." He allows a pause. "The agent."

 "And?" you prompt, trying to read where this is going.

Heeseung looks down at his hands. The pause he takes carries the correct duration, long enough to convey significance, short enough to avoid performative excess. "They took it," he says. "The other buyers. They went ten over asking and they took it this morning."

The room falls into silence.

You look at him. The disappointment manifests clearly in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands have loosened their grip between his knees.

"That was our house," you say, voice becoming small.

"I know."

"Heeseung, we looked for eight months-"

"I know." He lifts his gaze to meet yours. His expression attempts to provide reassurance but reads mostly as exhaustion. "We'll find another one."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." He extends his hand and it finds your knee, the contact warm and solid. "It's not that house or nothing. It's that house or the next one."

"I really wanted that house," you say.

"I know you did." His thumb moves against your knee in a single deliberate stroke. "Me too."

The minute expires.

Chaerin looks at you. "What was the emotion or dynamic?"

You think about the way he delivered the bad news and the hand on your knee. "Trying to stay optimistic.” 

"Close," Chaerin says. "The card said: shared disappointment but choosing hope together. Half point each."

Heeseung makes a sound. "Half point?"

"You got her disappointed," Chaerin says. "But the hope part didn't fully land."

"I said we'd find another one," Heeseung protests.

"You said it," Sunghoon interjects. "But you didn't sell it."

"I felt it," you offer.

"Half point stands," Chaerin says, marking the board.

Jake reaches into the hat and reads his slip and becomes completely motionless.

You watch his face. He reads the text again. He folds the paper and sets it down and stands before you with his hands pushed into his pockets. 

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you respond.

He withdraws his hands from his pockets. He crosses the small distance between you and crouches down in front of your chair, bringing himself to your eye level. His hands find your knees, settling there with warm, solid weight. He looks at you with the open, unguarded expression that is simply his default face, the one he cannot fully suppress even when doing so would probably serve him better. "I messed up.”

"I know what today is," he continues. "I've known all week. And then this morning I had the early call at the clinic and Mrs. Park's dog was in for the second time this month and I just-" He stops. One of his hands leaves your knee to reach for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "I'm not making an excuse. I'm just telling you what happened."

"How long have you known?" you ask.

"Since Monday."

"Jake."

"I know."

"You had five days."

"I know." He maintains steady eye contact, not flinching away from the reality of what he has done. His thumb moves across your knuckles in a slow, apologetic stroke. "I don't have anything planned. I don't have a reservation or flowers or anything and I'm not going to pretend I do." 

He pauses. His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face, gentle and deliberate. "But I'm here right now and I want to fix it if you'll let me."

"What did you have in mind?" you say, your tone careful and measured.

Something in his face relaxes by a small but noticeable degree. "Whatever you want," he says with simple directness. His hand is still on your face, his thumb brushing once across your cheekbone. "Tonight. All of it. Whatever you want to do."

The minute expires.

Chaerin looks at you. "What was the emotion or dynamic?"

You look at Jake, still crouched in front of you, still holding your hand, still touching your face with the kind of tenderness that makes the apology feel physical rather than just verbal. "Apologizing," you say. "Genuine remorse. Asking for forgiveness."

"Correct," Chaerin says. "The card said: delivering a sincere apology for something you forgot. One point each."

Jake releases a breath and his entire body seems to relax. He squeezes your hand once before standing and returning to the sofa. The smile that breaks across his face is bright and relieved, transforming his features completely. Jungwon reaches over and pats him twice on the knee with the approving gesture of a coach acknowledging good performance.

"Still think Sunghoon has an unfair advantage?" Jay asks from the armchair, his tone dry.

"Yes," Jake says immediately. "But I'll allow that I didn't embarrass myself."

Jungwon reaches into the hat and reads his slip and his face undergoes a transformation that moves through alarm, resignation, and determination in the span of approximately three seconds.

He places the slip down on the side table.

"Before you say anything," he begins.

"I haven't said anything," you point out.

"I know but before you do." He pulls the chair close and sits in it with his knees pressed together "It was already like that when I got home. The corner part, that was already-"

"Jungwon."

"The main body of it was me," he says rapidly, accelerating through the words. His hands come up now, gesturing to illustrate his points.  "I'll be honest about that. That was him and I wasn't watching closely enough and that was my fault. But the leg, the leg was already-it had a crack, you've said it yourself, you said last month that it had a crack."

"How bad is it?" you interrupt.

He stops speaking. He raises both hands and positions them in the air with approximately two feet of space between them. You make a sound. 

"He got the whole corner," Jungwon says, his voice carrying the quality of someone reporting a natural disaster. "And then I think he sat on it. To finish."

"Where is he now?" you ask.

"In his crate," Jungwon says.

"And the table?”

"In several pieces." He pauses. "I kept them. In case, I don't know. In case that helped."

You look at him for an extended moment. His face radiates such earnest guilt and such genuine remorse on behalf of a dog that you have to press your lips together very firmly to maintain control.

"It was my grandmother's table," you say.

Jungwon closes his eyes.

The minute expires.

Chaerin looks at you. "What was the emotion or dynamic?"

You look at Jungwon, still sitting with his eyes closed, bracing for judgment. "Preemptive defense," you say. "Trying to soften the blow before I can get angry. Guilty but also trying to explain why it's not entirely his fault."

"Correct," Chaerin says. "The card said: breaking bad news while deflecting blame. One point each."

Jungwon opens his eyes. "The grandmother detail was too much," he says, covering his face with both hands.

Jay is the final participant.

He reaches into the hat and reads the slip and sets it down on the side table with the same economical movement he applies to every action. 

"I need you to sit down," he says.

You are already sitting but you straighten your spine, which serves as an adequate substitute.

He does not sit. He remains standing in front of you with his hands hanging loose at his sides.

"They called this morning," he says. "From the clinic."

You become completely still.

"The results came back." He pauses. "It's two."

You look at him. "Two," you repeat.

"Twins," he confirms. 

"Jay," you say.

"I know." He crosses the distance to you then, and lowers himself into a crouch in front of your chair the way Sunghoon did at the very beginning of this exercise. His voice remains even. "It changes the timeline. The space, the finances, all of it. But I've run the numbers and it's manageable and-" He stops. Something in his face becomes briefly unguarded. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know yet," you answer with complete honesty.

His hand rises and covers yours where it rests on the armrest. "That's okay," he says quietly. "We don't have to know yet."

The minute reaches its conclusion.

Chaerin looks at you. "What was the emotion or dynamic?"

"Processing something overwhelming together," you say, thinking of the way he moved immediately into problem solving mode. 

"Close," Chaerin says. "The card said: delivering life-changing news with composure. Half point each."

Jay stands and tilts his head slightly. "Half point?"

"You got the composure," Chaerin says. "But the life-changing part didn't register as clearly as the planning part."

"The news was that it's twins," Jay says.

"And you spent most of the time talking about timelines and finances," Chaerin counters.

From the sofa, Heeseung says, "She's not wrong."

Jay looks at him. "I was providing reassurance through practical solutions."

"You were reassuring yourself," Jake says, not unkindly.

"There will be a bonus round.”  Chaerin raises her hand. “Everyone participates. Winner takes all."

The energy in the room shifts immediately.

"All of us?" Jungwon asks.

"Anyone who answers correctly," Chaerin confirms, tapping the surface of her tablet. "Before filming began, Y/N completed an intake form. One of the questions asked: what is the one thing you need most in a partner? You each have thirty seconds to write your answer on your board. No discussion."

Thirty seconds represents a brief amount of time in which to write something true about a person you have known for less than forty-eight hours. You are conscious of this fact. You are also conscious of the sound of markers moving across boards. Jake writing quickly, Jay taking his time, Jungwon chewing on the cap of his marker before committing to something, Heeseung writing and then erasing and writing again, Sunghoon who completes his response early and studies it with his head tilted at a slight angle.

"Boards up," Chaerin instructs.

Jake's board reads: Someone who shows up. Consistent, warm, doesn't make her feel like she has to explain herself to be understood.

Jay's board reads: Someone who takes her seriously. Doesn't reduce her or her work to a contradiction.

Sunghoon's board reads: Understanding. Specifically—someone who doesn't use what she's been through against her.

Heeseung's board reads: Someone who sees her completely. Who doesn't make her choose between being soft and being strong.

Jungwon's board reads: Someone steady. Who doesn't treat her independence like a problem to solve.

Chaerin consults her tablet. She takes considerable time with this evaluation, which represents either genuine deliberation or television production strategy, and at this point you cannot determine whether a meaningful difference exists between those two things.

"The answer on Y/N's intake form," Chaerin says, "was support and understanding. Specifically someone who can see her point of view without turning it against her."

"Jake's answer speaks to consistency and not needing to explain herself," Chaerin continues. "Jay's speaks to being taken seriously and not being reduced to a contradiction. Heeseung's speaks to being seen completely without having to choose between softness and strength. Jungwon's speaks to steadiness that doesn't treat independence as a problem. Sunghoon's speaks to understanding, and specifically to someone who doesn't use what she's been through against her."

No one moves.

"Jay and Sunghoon are closest to the specific language," Chaerin says. "But Sunghoon's answer reflects the context behind it. Sunghoon wins."

"Oh come on," Jake gestures toward Sunghoon with one hand. "He's an actor. Of course he won."

"Literally his job," Heeseung adds from the sofa, his tone carrying more amusement than accusation. "He gets paid to say the right thing at the right time."

"I didn't write it in character," Sunghoon says, still looking at his board.

"That's exactly what someone in character would say," Jake counters. 

Jungwon cuts in from the sofa. "So it's rigged is what you're saying."

"I'm saying he has an unfair advantage," Heeseung clarifies, gesturing with his whiteboard. "The rest of us are working with normal human perception. He's been trained."

"Congratulations," Jay says from the armchair, his tone even and measured.

"Thanks," Sunghoon says to the room at large.

From the sofa, Heeseung says to Jungwon, his voice pitched low but still audible in the quiet space, "He wrote that in ten seconds."

Jungwon says nothing initially. He is looking at Sunghoon with an expression that resists interpretation, something hovering between assessment and resignation, and then he shifts his attention to you and the expression becomes significantly easier to read. You look away first, redirecting your gaze to the window and the water beyond it.

Chaerin makes a notation on her tablet, her fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency. She looks up with the expression of someone about to deliver information she has been waiting all afternoon to share, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"The prize," she says, and allows the word to sit in the air for a beat longer than necessary. "The winner will spend tonight in Y/N's room."

Everyone starts talking at once.

"Absolutely not," Heeseung says, sitting forward on the sofa so abruptly that the leather makes a sound beneath him. His hands come off the armrest and plant on his knees as though he is preparing to stand and lodge a formal protest.

"That's-" Jake stops mid sentence, his mouth still open, visibly recalibrating his thoughts in real time. He starts again. "That seems like a significant escalation."

"I'm sorry, what?" Jungwon says, his voice climbing slightly in pitch, his eyes wide and fixed on Chaerin as though she might suddenly announce this was a joke and produce the actual, reasonable prize.

Jay sets his water glass down on the armrest with a quiet click that cuts through the overlapping voices. He says nothing, which is somehow more pointed than anything the others are saying. Sunghoon has gone very still near the window. He is looking at Chaerin, then at you, then back at Chaerin.

"You can't be serious," Heeseung says, and there is genuine disbelief in his voice, as though the possibility that this was always going to be part of the show had simply not occurred to him until this exact moment.

"Completely serious," Chaerin replies, her tone pleasant and unbothered, as though she has just announced the dinner menu rather than sleeping arrangements.

"That's-" Jake gestures vaguely with both hands, trying to articulate something that his brain has not yet fully formed into words. "That's a lot."

"It's a reality show where the first one of you to get her pregnant wins," Chaerin says, her voice taking on the patient quality of someone explaining something obvious to someone who should already understand it. "I'm not sure what you thought the progression was going to be."

"Slower than this," Jake says immediately, with the conviction of someone who has just realized he made several incorrect assumptions about the timeline of events he agreed to participate in.

Heeseung is looking at you now, his gaze direct and searching. So is Jungwon, his expression softer but no less intent, carrying a question he is not asking aloud. Jay's gaze has also traveled in your direction, measuring and quiet. Sunghoon has not looked away from you since Chaerin made the announcement. 

Your heart is beating hard enough that you are certain everyone in the room can see it moving beneath your shirt. You focus on your breathing, on keeping it even and controlled, on not allowing any visible reaction to escape.

"Y/N," Chaerin says, drawing the attention of the room even more fully in your direction. "Any objections?"

Every person in the room is looking at you now. The weight of six separate gazes lands on you simultaneously and you feel it as a physical pressure, as though the air in the room has become denser.

You think about the contract you signed three weeks ago in a conference room in Seoul, the pages of legal language you read carefully before putting your name at the bottom. You think about the fact that you are here because you want a family and this is the mechanism you chose to pursue that goal, and escalation was always going to be part of the structure. You knew this. You agreed to this.

"No objections," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, clear and firm and leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Well," Heeseung says after a long moment, leaning back into the sofa cushions with a kind of resigned acceptance. "Congratulations Sunghoon."

"This is still rigged," Jake mutters.

"Completely rigged," Jungwon agrees, slumping back into the sofa cushions beside Jake. 

Chaerin caps her pen with a decisive click.

"Dinner is at seven. Please take time to regulate yourselves. Tomorrow’s activity will be even more intense," she says before exiting the room. The production assistant follows in her wake, the door closing behind them with a soft sound that seems to mark the end of something.

The six of you remain in the common area with the afternoon light streaming through the windows, lower now than it was an hour ago, casting longer shadows across the floor. Heeseung is the first to move. He stretches his arms above his head with an audible sound of joints settling and announces to no one in particular that he is going to take a nap. The declaration feels like permission for everyone else to leave. 

The room is empty except for you and Sunghoon. You rise from your chair, your legs slightly unsteady beneath you in a way you hope is not visible. You do not look at him.

You walk to the kitchen with measured steps, focusing on the simple mechanics of movement, one foot in front of the other. You pour yourself a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter and drink half of it. When you turn around, he’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

"You okay?" he asks. His voice is quieter than it was in the common area, pitched just for you in the empty kitchen.

"Fine," you say. The word comes out more automatic than honest.

You get the distinct impression that he does not believe you but has decided not to press the issue, that he is allowing you the fiction of being fine because challenging it right now would serve no purpose. "See you at dinner," he says.

"See you at dinner," you reply, your voice steadier now, matching his tone.

────୨ৎ────

March 16 | 3:24 PM | Confessional Booth

Sunghoon sits in the confessional chair the way he sits everywhere, one ankle crossed over his knee and back straight. The ring light flattens everything it touches and he allows this to happen. He looks at the camera for a moment without speaking.

This is normal for him. The production team has already learned this about his rhythm.

“I’ve done a lot of press,” he says eventually. “Since I was nineteen. Interviews, profiles, the late night stuff. There’s always a version of a question that sounds like it’s about your work but it’s actually about your personal life. And you learn fast how to answer it without answering it.”

His thumb moves against his knee in a single stroke. “You say something that sounds true. Something that has the shape of honesty without the substance of it. People accept it because it sounds right and because they want to move on to the next question. I’ve gotten very good at that.”

“The question today was easy,” he continues. “There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being perceived incorrectly for a long time. Where people look at you and see something that is technically made of true things but assembled wrong. You spend so much energy either correcting it or deciding not to bother correcting it that eventually you stop being able to tell which one you’re doing.”

“She built something that fights for people who can’t have children, and she’s here because she is one of those people. Somewhere along the way those two things became a punchline for someone. I know what it looks like when a person is tired of being the punchline of their own life.” 

“I’ve been that person, for different reasons of course, but I know what it looks like.”

From just beyond the visible frame, the producer’s voice enters the space, kept low. “Did you mean what you wrote, or were you playing to win?”

Sunghoon shifts his gaze toward the source of the voice. Then he returns his attention to the lens.

“Both,” he says. “And I don’t think that makes it less true.”

────୨ৎ────

March 16 | 11:47 PM | Your Bedroom

The room is quieter than the rest of the house. Sunghoon sets his things down on the chair by the window.

“Nice room,” he says.

“Same as yours probably,” you say.

You are suddenly aware of the singular bed, of the fact that you are alone with him in a room with a bed and no cameras and the entire premise of this show sitting between you like a third presence.

“You can use the bathroom first,” You suggest. He nods once, collects his things, and leaves. The moment the door closes you release a breath you were not aware you were holding.

You move to your suitcase and pull out your sleep set, soft shorts, and a loose top. You are halfway through the familiar routine of the end of the day when you stop.

You think about Jake’s face this morning. The barbells on your chest catch the lamplight the same way they did in the hallway mirror.

You consider the alternative, which is sleeping in a bra, which you have not voluntarily done since university when you fell asleep studying and woke up at three in the morning feeling like you got stabbed in the ribcage.

This is not a decision you should have to make. This is your room. You should be able to sleep however you sleep.

You put the bra on the chair. Sunghoon is simply going to have to manage whatever reaction he has like an adult.

You pull the top on and get into bed, arranging yourself under the blanket. He comes back a few minutes later with his hair slightly damp at the temples from washing his face.

“Which side do you prefer?” he asks.

“I’m already on a side,” you point out.

“So you are.”

He pulls back the other side without ceremony and gets in, and the mattress dips with his weight. The bed feels significantly smaller than it did thirty seconds ago. He reaches over and turns off the lamp on his side. You are acutely aware of the careful six inches of mattress neither of you is occupying. 

Then Sunghoon says, to the ceiling: “I can’t sleep without holding something.”

You turn your head to look at him. In the dark his profile is all clean lines, and he is looking at the ceiling with the expression of someone making a completely reasonable observation.

“Is that so,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

“It’s a thing,” he says. “I’ve always been like that.”

“There’s a spare pillow,” you say. “On the chair.”

“I saw it. It’s not really the same.”

You look back at the ceiling. Outside the water moves. Somewhere down the hall a door closes softly. Your heart is beating in your throat and you do not know if this is a terrible one or simply inevitable.

“Fine,” you say.

You turn onto your side facing the window. There is a brief pause , just long enough for you to wonder if he was actually flirting or actually just stating a preference, and then the mattress shifts and his arm comes around your waist as he settles behind you.

The warmth of him is immediate and overwhelming. His chest presses against your back, his knees find the space behind yours and his chin finds the top of your head. You can feel him breathing.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his voice low and close to your ear.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“You feel like you’re about to take a test.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His arm around your waist tightens slightly, drawing you back into him with gentle insistence, and the deliberateness of it does something to your breathing that you hope he doesn’t notice. “Relax,” he says quietly.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re warmer than a pillow,” he says into your hair.

“Glad to be of service,” you manage.

He makes a low sound that is almost a laugh and his arm relaxes further. You feel the exact moment he starts to fall asleep, the way his breathing evens and deepens. You are almost there yourself, your body finally beginning to loosen, when his hand shifts.

The slow unconscious drift of someone reaching for warmth in their sleep, fingers spreading and resettling, and his palm curves and lands directly over your breast and stays. He goes completely still. Your heart stops.

His hand doesn’t move. “You have piercings.”

“Mm,” you say to the pillow, because your throat has forgotten how to produce actual words.

His palm is still there, warm and solid, and you are acutely aware of the metal under the thin fabric.

“So that’s why Jake was so embarrassed this morning,” he hums. 

“Go to sleep Sunghoon,”

He is quiet for a moment. His hand still hasn’t moved. You don’t know if you want it to move or if you want it to stay exactly where it is.

“He really should have said something,” he says.

“Sunghoon.”

“As a matter of basic-”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says, hand sliding back to safer territory at your waist. 

Jay and Jake were in something of a social exile, their messy, years long deception finally curdling their reputations but who really cares about people being gay these days? But Sunghoon was a victim, he was the noble boyfriend who had been betrayed by his girlfriend and his best friend. The narrative was perfect and the rewards were even better. His gaze shifted to the door of the ensuite bathroom, you were in there probably fixing your makeup, moving with that quiet, tentative tread you'd adopted lately. For four weeks you’d become a shell of yourself, so consumed by the guilt of your mistake with Jay that you had become a servant to Sunghoon's every whim. You cooked for him, you anticipated his moods, always looking at him with such desperate eyes that it almost made him want to laugh. You were working so hard to earn back the trust of a man who had never actually lost it because he had never been faithful to begin with.

Then there was Leah.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand with a text that he didn't even need to open to know it was from her. Leah was a different kind of fun. Where you were desperate for forgiveness, Leah was oh so desperate for supremacy. She was obsessed with the secret they shared—the adrenaline of cheating right under your nose made her crazy in a way Sunghoon was oddly attracted to. She wanted to be his number one and she was willing to degrade herself in ways you wouldn't dream of just to prove she was more loyal than you.

He had you both exactly where he wanted you, you in his bed seeking redemption and Leah in the shadows seeking a title.

The door opened and you stepped out wearing one of his oversized shirts looking so small and fragile. "I made you coffee," you told him, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to touch his hand like you were afraid he'd recoil. "What are your plans today, Hoon?"

Sunghoon reached out, tangling his fingers in your hair to pull you closer. He didn't answer immediately, he liked to let the silence stretch until you looked like you were on the verge of tears.

"I’m not sure yet," he finally murmured, his voice smooth and devoid of the hurt he had been weaponizing for the past four weeks. He felt a surge of power, Sunghoon had cheated, he had lied and in the grand scheme of things he had won. He was the only one who knew the truth and as long as he kept you and Leah spiraling in your own competitions, he would never have to pay for a thing, he would never pay for the consequences of his actions.

"You're a good girl," he added, loving the way you visibly melted at the words. He caught his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed, feeling utterly untouchable.

He trailed his hands to your waist and adjusted you so you were now straddling him, his face buried for a moment in the crook of your neck. He breathed you in, savoring the way you stayed perfectly still, as if you were yielding to him completely. This was his favorite part of the game, he loved the absolute submission born from your misplaced shame.

The relentless vibration of his phone against the nightstand broke the silence. He reached for it and immediately let out a hiss of annoyance, tossing the device back onto the mattress as if it had burned him and rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful.

"What is it, babe?" you asked, your hand tentatively smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck. "Did something happen?"

"My father," he spat the name like a curse. "He wants another one of those miserable family dinners tomorrow. God, I hate that word. He always uses it like it's supposed to mean something."

He leaned back again, the mask of the composed victim was slipping to reveal the raw edges of his elitism and if you weren't so blinded by your own consuming guilt, you would've noticed it immediately. "Those people aren't my family. They're more like intruders. That woman is nothing but a gold digger and a whore who caught my father at a weak moment, and her son—" He cut himself off with a bitter laugh. "Jungwon is the most arrogant, insufferable brat I've ever had the misfortune of knowing. He walks around that house like he owns the fucking floorboards and father just eats it up."

You stayed quiet, just letting him vent and tracing soothing circles against his skin until the tension in his shoulders finally began to bleed away. You were the only one who could tame him like this, or at least he let you believe you were. He felt a smug sense of pride watching you work so hard to fix his mood.

His phone buzzed again and this time he snatched it up, you watched his lip curl in disgust as he read the second message. "How fantastic. It gets better, baby. Apparently, the little prince wants to introduce his new girlfriend to everyone. My father expects us to be there to welcome her into the fold."

Sunghoon tossed the phone aside again and pulled you flush against his chest this time, sliding his down to grip your hips possessively. "I can already see her," he scoffed with condescension. "Some airhead who's fallen for Jungwon's perfect gentleman act. Probably some flavor of the month socialite who doesn't have two fucking brain cells to rub together. Jungwon has zero taste, he just picks whoever is going to look best in a photo op."

"But I have to go. I'd rather endure a night of staring at whatever bimbo he's brought home than deal with my father's lectures about unity and him dangling my trust over my head. You're coming with me, of course. I need you there to remind them what a real woman looks like."

His lips nipped at your earlobe, a dark smile spreading on his lips. "And besides...I want them to see how much you adore me. It'll make Jungwon's little debut look pathetic in comparison."

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words

"Hoon...I can't tomorrow. It's my sister's bridal shower remember? I told you about it last week, I'm supposed to be there all day."

Sunghoon's hands on your hips went rigid the second the words left your mouth, he didn't say a word at first, he did stare at you with those piercing eyes that made you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"A bridal shower," he repeated. "So your sister's party is more important than my father's command? More important than supporting me through a night with those vultures?"

"Hoon, please, I've been planning it for months," your heart already beginning to race. "I'm the maid of honor, I can't just—"

"I bet if it were Jay asking, you'd find a way to be there," he snapped. It was his favorite weapon these days, the ultimate trump card he pulled whenever he wanted to remind you of your place.

"No! Hoon, that's not fair, you know I—I'll do anything to make it up to you, I promise. I'll come over right after, I'll stay the whole weekend, I'll—"

"Shut it," he muttered, his hurt victim act vanishing to reveal the cold tyrant beneath. "I don't want to hear your excuses. You're all the same. You claim you want to earn my trust but the second I actually need you, you have plans."

He stood up abruptly, roughly shifting his weight so suddenly that he tossed you off his lap. You landed on the mattress with a soft thud, scrambling to sit up as he looked down at you with utter disdain. He wasn't even looking at your face anymore; his gaze was fixed on your legs, his expression almost transactional.

"If you're going to be useless to me at dinner, you might as well be useful to me now," he said with no affection in his tone. "Take your panties off. Now."

You looked at him, searching for even a flicker of the boy who used to love you so much but all you saw was the man who held your reputation in his hands. Shaking, your fingers moved to the waistband of your lace underwear, slowly sliding them down your legs while he watched you with a bored look on his face.

He stood there enjoying the sight of your submission. "You're going to stay just like that until I'm satisfied," he murmured as he pushed his pajama pants down slowly. "And maybe, if you're good enough, I'll consider forgiving you for being so selfish."

──.୨ৎ

Sunghoon killed the engine of his car but he couldn't bring himself to move yet, he needed the time to gather himself so he sat in the silence of his leather trimmed sanctuary, gripping the steering wheel until his fingers started to tingle. Outside, the sprawling driveway of the Park estate was bathed in the warm, mocking glow of the mansion's exterior lights but then the his eyes caught the baby blue G-Wagon parked crookedly just a few yards away.

The vehicle seemed to be rocking on its suspension in a rhythmic, almost violent motion that made Sunghoon's lip curl in a snarl of pure disgust. Even though the windows were tinted, the silhouettes were unmistakable.

Of course, Sunghoon thought. The venom in his mind dripping over every word. Of course the little prince couldn't even make it through the front door without acting like a rutting animal.

He stepped out of his car, the click of his shoes against the gravel was sharp and as he drew closer to the car to head toward the front steps, the soundproofing of the luxury SUV failed to drown out the noise. The girl's moans were high pitched and entirely too loud for a residential driveway.

"Do you like that?" His step brother's voice drifted out, it was muffled but recognizable with ghat smug arrogance that made Sunghoon's stomach turn. "Tell me you love my cock. Tell me who you belong to."

"Yes! Yes, I love it! Please, Wonie!" the girl screamed, her voice hitting an airheaded crescendo that echoed off the stone walls.

It made Sunghoon stop in his tracks, his frame rigid and his expression a mask of frozen disdain. Disgusting. Utterly primitive. He looked up at the darkened windows of his father's study, wondering how the man could be so blind. This was the boy his father was constantly comparing him to—a boy who had zero respect for the family home, zero dignity and apparently, zero standards as well.

Jungwon's new girlfriend was exactly what he expected—a loud, brainless girl with no sense of decorum, willing to be bent over the console of a car like a common street whore. To think his father expected Sunghoon to sit at a table to break bread and play nice with a girl who was currently screaming her lungs out in the driveway was an insult to his very existence.

She isn't even worth the effort of an introduction, Sunghoon thought, smoothing his jacket with a sharp motion. She's a placeholder, a toy for a boy who doesn't know the first thing about power or restraint.

He had just spent his whole day yesterday making you beg for a scrap of his grace and here was his step brother, practically begging for the attention of a girl who sounded like she had the depth of a light rain puddle.

He reached the front doors and the heavy oak door swung back to reveal the sterile, golden grandeur of the foyer. He would literally give anything for his father to see the contrast between the son who arrived with composure and the boy who was currently staining the interior of a Mercedes.

He didn't even have his coat off before the sound of heels clicking against marble announced her arrival. "Sunghoon! You're finally here," she chirped, smelling of expensive perfume and desperation—a combination he'd learned to identify long ago.

She reached out, arms opening for a motherly embrace that smelled just as shallow as her wedding vows, but Sunghoon didn't break his stride, he side stepped her instead. Not even a flinch and she was left hugging the air where he had been a second before, her hands awkwardly clutching at nothing, she was quick to catch herself though.

"Where is my father?" Sunghoon asked not even looking at her, too busy adjusting his watch, as if her proximity alone had somehow knocked his perfection out of alignment.

"He's in his study with—"

"Perfect," he interrupted, finally sliding his eyes toward her with the kind of look he usually gave Leah when she cried too loudly. "Try not to hover. It's unbecoming."

"Now, now, Sunghoon," his father's voice boomed from the top of the stairs, bouncing off the walls with that easy confidence that only comes with a high net worth. He descended the steps with a soft smile, looking every bit the patriarch he was. "Don't be so cold to your mother. She's just happy to see you."

He didn't even look at the woman standing there but he felt her presence like a smudge on a clean window. "She's not my mother," the words barely leaving his lips. It was like reflex to him now, a small piece of truth he threw out every time they decided to do this dance. His father swept past him but not before clapping a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Let's sit. I'm starving and I have a feeling the kitchen has outdone itself tonight."

"Jungwon is just a little late," his step mother sang out. "He'll be here any second, I'm sure of it."

Little late, Sunghoon thought, his eyes focused on the dust motes dancing in the light of the chandelier. Jungwon is fucking some bimbo in the driveway and he's going to walk in here soon and pretend nothing happened. He pulled out his chair, imagining you sitting there beside him, then he remembered why you weren't there, he remembered you were at your sister's bridal shower and it made a bitter taste flood his mouth.

"Oh, Sunghoon! You really should have met the lovely girl Jungwon brought over last weekend," her voice rising in excitement as she began to pour the wine. "She is just the sweetest thing. So polite and wholesome. She's exactly the kind of girl Jungwon needs."

Sunghoon's gaze stayed fixed on the silver fork in front of him, polite and wholesome. He wanted to laugh at the thought of a girl who could debase herself in the front of her boyfriend's family home as polite and wholesome. He wondered if Jungwon's girl had any idea what kind of animal she was dating or if she was just another prop in his step brother's own twisted theater.

"I'm sure she's a delight," Sunghoon said sarcastically. "I look forward to seeing how long she lasts before she realizes what kind of man your son is." He smiled at her but that smile quickly dropped when he heard his father's raised voice. "Park Sunghoon!" "You will not speak about your brother like that! We respect each other in this house." Those words unfortunately led to a lecture that somehow pivoted to his college education, "Law school isn't just about the pedigree, Sunghoon," his father continued with his usual steady drone of expectations. "It's about the endurance. Your grades are stable, but I need to see more focus. Less time at those campus parties, more time in the archives. You need to understand that once you graduate, the grace period is—"

The heavy dining room doors groaned open cutting the words from his father short. Sunghoon didn't even look up at first, his mind had drifted back to the annoyance he felt toward you for choosing a bridal shower over him. He was ready to watch Jungwon stroll in with some mindless girl he'd picked up from a sorority house, he was simply prepared to be unimpressed.

"Sorry for the wait," Jungwon's voice rang out, making the hair on the back of Sunghoon's neck stand up for some reason. "We got a little...distracted."

Sunghoon's eyes finally snapped up and for a second the world tilted, the grandeur of the room seemed to bleed into a blur of sickening realization. There, standing on Jungwon's arm, was you. You weren't at a bridal shower, you weren't wearing some floral sundress or helping your sister with ribbons and party games. You were wearing something sharp, that made you look expensive and sinful and your lips were slightly swollen—the exact same way they looked when Sunghoon finished with you.

The girl he had been internally mocking for being wholesome, the girl Jungwon had just been fucking in the driveway while Sunghoon watched with clinical disgust from the window.

It was you.

"Oh, sweetheart! You're back!" Jungwon's mother gushed, already on her feet with a beaming, smile. She crossed the room to you and took your hands in hers as if you were already her daughter. "It's so good to see you again. Jungwon hasn't stopped talking about how much he adores you since last weekend."

Sunghoon felt the air leave his lungs, his vision tunneled until all he could see was the way Jungwon's hand stayed firmly planted on the small of your back in a possessive touch that screamed of intimacy.

His mind quickly became a violent loop of contradictions. You told me you were with your family. You told me you were guilty. You're my toy. You're the one I broke. Across the table, Jungwon caught Sunghoon's eyes and he didn't look away when a smirk made its way to his face. Jungwon had been playing a much deeper game than Sunghoon ever realized.

"Sunghoon hyung," Jungwon said, his voice dripping with politeness that really just felt like a slap. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Don't tell me you forgot to say hello to my girlfriend?"

"It's nice to see you again, Sunghoon," you say with no usual tremor in your voice, you even offer him a small smile, the type someone gives a person they’re not close to, or a loser. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to lung forward, to grab your wrist and drag you out into the hallway and demand what the hell you're doing. The bridal shower? The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.

But his father is watching.

"You two know each other?" his father asks, clearly interested in the silence radiating from his eldest son

"We go to the same university," Jungwon quickly answers for you, pulling out your chair at the same time. "Small world, right?"

Sunghoon forced a breath through his nose and looked at you, trying to find a flicker of the girl who had been begging for his forgiveness for the past four weeks but all he could see was the sweetheart his stepmother had praised…Jungwon’s girlfriend.

"Small indeed," Sunghoon finally managed to say.

"Anyway," Jungwon's mother chirped, oblivious to the silent war happening across the centerpiece. "Tell us everything! How did you two meet? It must have been so romantic."

Sunghoon's eyes locked onto yours, like he was still trying to see if he could control you, to have you show some fear or even some shame but you just looked away and answered her question. "It was actually very sweet, Ma’am."

"He helped me when I was really in need and I couldn’t help myself—I fell for him. Jungwon really is a darling. You’ve raised him well."

Jungwon really was sweet to you, well maybe not in the beginning at least. The silence of the library was usually your sanctuary, it was the one place where the suffocating guilt of that night didn't feel like it was actively crushing your chest. For two weeks, you had been living in a state of self inflicted pain. You had replayed that night a thousand times, from the look on Sunghoon's face, to the sound of Heeseung and Calista’s laughs and without even realizing it, you had let Sunghoon turn that guilt and pain into a collar.

You were trying so hard, you’d even gone to Leah for advice, finding solace and comfort in her from time to time, genuinely believing she was your best friend.

Your phone buzzed on the table with a notification.

Unknown Number: [1 Video Attachment]

You thought it was a scam or perhaps another cruel joke from Heeseung but then you pressed play.

The video was in high definition, filmed from a distant balcony view. You immediately recognized the blue shimmer of the pool in Sunghoon’s family estate from when you’d spent weekends there. He told you he was traveling out of town for family business, he had ben insinuated it was a somber trip he needed to take alone to clear his head from the stress you had caused him.

In the frame, Sunghoon wasn't working or relaxing to clear his head. He was on a lounge chair by the pool, his head tilted back and his hands gripping the waist of a girl who was straddling him with practiced ease.

You dropped the phone like it had burned you when said girl threw her head back and you saw Leah’s face. You began to tremble right there in the library thinking of all the times you’d confided in her, yet here she was—fucking your boyfriend. You picked up your phone again with shaking hands and watched him pull her down for a kiss in that same way he kissed you and you felt your world fracture. The guilt that had been your shadow suddenly vanished, replaced by a cold clarity. Through your blurry eyes filling with tears you see two more notifications.

Unknown Number: He thinks he's alone. Hyung’s always been bad at checking corners.

Unknown Number: It’s Jungwon btw. I believe we have a mutual interest in making sure Sunghoon doesn't get everything he wants. Give me a call if you're tired of being the only one holding the debt.

You hesitated before managing to walk out of the library to dial the number. Jungwon answered on the first ring. "I wondered how long it would take you to watch it," he said sounding entirely too amused with himself.

"Why are you showing me this?" you whispered with a rage you didn't know you had.

"Because my brother has a habit of collecting things he doesn't appreciate," Jungwon said to you. "He likes the way he can make you cry and then make you thank him for it. And I find it so fucking boring. Don’t you think it's insulting to someone with your...potential?"

"What do you want?"

"I just want to see the look on his face when his perfect life finally collapses." You could’ve sworn you could just sense the evil radiating through the phone. "He hates me, you know? He thinks I'm some intruder in his house. Imagine how he'll feel when he finds out his broken little girlfriend is actually mine."

"I'm not yours," you snapped.

"Not yet," Jungwon countered, he really did have alluring energy about him. "But think about it. I’m pretty sure you want revenge and I want to replace him. We could be useful to each other."

You could’ve gotten nominated for an academy award with the way you acted in the weeks leading up to tonight. You played the part of the guilty girlfriend so perfectly, there was no doubt you had him fooled, you nodded when he ranted about his useless problems. You watched him get angry when you told him you couldn’t come to dinner with him, you watched him use your mistake to try and manipulate you into canceling. And for the first time it didn't hurt at all, it just made you want to see him burn even more.

When you first met Jungwon for dinner, you no doubt had your guard up. You fully expected a younger, maybe louder version of Sunghoon. Instead, you found a natural born predator who knew how to hide his teeth really. He was the perfect gentleman, pulling out your chair and listening with an intensity that Sunghoon only ever reserved for his own reflection. He didn't lecture you on your how you’d made a mistake by getting with his step brother in the first place, or that you trusted him too much but by the end of the night you felt like you were the only person in the room.

You had to keep repeating the mantra in your head—they aren't blood, they aren't related. It was the only way to keep the vertigo from taking over. Jungwon was supposedly the intruder in Sunghoon's life, their relationship was simply a byproduct of a second marriage and that distance was exactly what made the idea of him so dangerous.

You didn't intend to go home with him that first night, in fact you didn’t intend to ever go home with him at all and you certainly didn't intend to let him touch you. But then you were in the parking lot and the city lights were blurred by the tinted glass of his car, the air between you turned electric. You quickly found out he had a thing for fucking in cars, maybe it was the claustrophobia of the leather seats or the risk of being seen, you had no idea, all you knew was that it was primal and messy. You also quickly found out you had a thing for how easily he could unravel you.

Sex with Sunghoon always felt like an audition, you were constantly performing for him, having to say the right things so he would be satisfied. Jungwon didn’t care about any of that, he was too focused on the way your face looked when he was bouncing you on his cock, he always made sure you lost your voice and wouldn’t stop until you were shaking and begging.

And tonight in the driveway, he was exactly the same. Pinning you against the backseat and reminding you of exactly what you were about to do. He made you cum so hard you nearly forgot your own name, let alone the fact that you were a mere thirty feet from his family.

"Think of how much he thinks he owns you and then tell me how good this cock feels." It damn sure felt better than anything Sunghoon had ever given you.

Now, as you sit across from Sunghoon at his father's table, you can still feel the faint ache in your thighs, along with the ghost of Jungwon's touch under your dress. You look at Sunghoon, he looks pale as he vibrates with a repressed fury and you realize the debt has almost been paid in full.

As the main course is served and the clink of silverware is the only sound in the room, Sunghoon finally speaks in a voice so low it's almost a growl. "So, Jungwon...exactly how long has this romance been going on? You've been rather quiet about her."

Jungwon takes a slow sip of his wine, his eyes dancing in delight as he looks at you the back at his step brother. "Long enough for me to know she’s the one," he says, reaching under the table to slide his hand up your inner thigh, mere inches away from where Sunghoon's eyes are fixed. "She's so full of surprises, Hyung. I absolutely adore her." He finishes placing a kiss on your cheek at which his mother gushes in excitement.

From then on the night becomes full blown psychological torture for Sunghoon. Every time you laugh at one of his father's dry jokes or offer some soft words to Jungwon’s mother, it’s like you can feel Sunghoon's pulse drumming from across the table. He looks like a man watching his own house burn down while being forced to applaud the flames. The irony is thick enough to choke on. His father, who he has spent his entire life trying to impress is completely charmed by you.

"Sunghoon," his father says, leaning with a rare look of genuine approval on his face. "You should take notes. Jungwon has finally shown some discernment. You'd do well to find a girl just like this lovely lady right here. Not like those...distractions you usually surround yourself with."

Sunghoon's knuckles are white with how hard he’s trying not to scream. He wants to stand up and roar that you are his girl, that you belong in his apartment and under his thumb, drowning in the guilt he spent a month cultivating. But he can't because to speak up now would be to admit he lost control, it would be him admitting that Jungwon, the arrogant intruder, took something right from under his nose.

When dinner finally ends and you and Jungwon reach the doors of the foyer, ready to leave, Sunghoon doesn’t just follow you, he marches towards you and lunges forward, grabbing your wrist with so much force that you wince.

"What the fuck is this, Y/n?" he hissed, his eyes darting between you and his step-brother. "What are you doing here? The bridal shower? You think you can just lie to me and walk into my father's house on his arm?" He turns his anger toward Jungwon. "And you. You think this is some fucking game? You think you can just take whatever—"

"Woah, woah," Jungwon interjects, stepping forward with a lazy calm, not looking the least bit intimidated, he just looks like he's enjoying every second of Sunghoon's meltdown as he places a firm hand on Sunghoon's forearm, forcing him to loosen his grip on you. "Please don't talk to my girlfriend like that, Hyung. It's a bit ungentlemanly, don't you think?"

Sunghoon's eyes go wide as his chest heaves. "Your girlfriend? Jungwon, you have no idea what you're talking about. She’s not—"

"Are you lost, Hoonie?"

You step closer to him, tilting your head and pouting up at him with the same innocence he used to mock you. The look in your eyes is stone cold though, you’re looking at him like he's a stranger and a pathetic one at that. "You seem really confused. Maybe the stress of law school is finally getting to you."

Jungwon chuckles, pulling you back against his side, his arm draping possessively over your waist. "Seems like he is, princess. He's completely lost it."

Jungwon looks his brother up and down, "Tell you what, hyung," he starts. "Why don't you pull up to my penthouse tonight? I feel like I missed out on all the fun the other night. Let's play another game of paranoia. I have a few questions of my own...and I’m sure you want answers."

Sunghoon stands there frozen in the doorway of his own home, as Jungwon leads you toward the car. He even watches the taillights fade until the silence of the estate settles over him like a shroud.

The drive to Jungwon’s place was a blur of neon lights and tight knuckled grips for Sunghoon. His mind was a chaotic mess of logic and jagged anger, he had managed to convince himself he was going there to talk sense into you, to drag you away from the toxic influence of his step brother and remind you of the debt you owed him. But as he stepped out of the elevator and into the sleek entryway of Jungwon's apartment, the air felt different and he began to doubt if he could actually pull it off.

The heavy bass of the music didn't sound like a party to him, it sounded like a taunt.

He walked right to the living room and expected to find you and Jungwon alone in some twisted confrontation. Instead, he was met with a scene that felt like a curated nightmare.

The usual crowd was scattered across the plush sofas. Jake was leaning against the bar, looking entirely too comfortable in Jay’s arms. The litmus test from a month ago had clearly reached its conclusion and Sunghoon was the only one who hadn't been invited to the reveal.

Leah was also there tucked into the corner of a sectional, looking like she wanted to completely disappear. The second Sunghoon's eyes found her, she flinched and dropping her gaze to her hands in her lap. She couldn’t look him in the eye in a way that had Sunghoon wondering if they’d been caught.

Then, he saw you perched comfortably on Jungwon's lap, your fingers idly playing with his chain as if it was the most natural place in the world for you to be. Ume was leaning in close, letting you whisper something into her ear that made her throw her head back in a genuine laugh.

You wouldn't have been brazen enough to invite Calista or Heeseung but this group of people felt more intimate somehow.

"Well, well," a voice chirped, breaking through the ringing in Sunghoon's ears. Jake straightened up as he looked Sunghoon up and down. "Look who decided to show up. You've been a very bad boy, Hoonie. Keeping secrets, hiding away...I didn't think you had it in you to be this messy."

Sunghoon didn't even acknowledge him, his eyes were locked on you, burning with a question he couldn't ask out loud in front of them for fear of humiliation.

Jungwon tightened his hold on your waist and pulled you a fraction closer as he looked up at his brother. The lighting in the penthouse was dim, casting long, predatory shadows across his face. "You're late, Sunghoon," Jungwon said, his voice smooth and almost welcoming, if Sunghoon didn’t know what Jungwon was like, he wouldn’t have noticed the edge his voice carried.

"But don't worry. We haven't started the game yet. We were just waiting for the guest of honor to arrive."

You finally looked at him then, observing his disheveled hair and his erratic breathing with a detached sort of pity that hurt worse than a slap.

"Sit down, Sunghoon," you said mirroring the exact tone he had used on you for weeks. "You look tired. You should have a drink before we start. You're going to need it."

As everyone settled into the makeshift circle, you were clearly the center of gravity on Jungwon's lap, while Sunghoon was an island of his own misery on the far edge of the room.

"Everyone remembers the rules, right?" you asked, your voice cutting through the low hum of the music. You didn't wait for an answer, you immediately leaned into Jungwon, letting your lips brush against the shell of his ear to whisper the first strike. "Who here is a lying, cheating bastard?"

A dark, amused huff escaped him as he looked directly across the space. "Sunghoon."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sunghoon didn't argue, he simply reached for his glass, willing his hand to stop trembling and drained it in one jagged motion. Jungwon's smirk widened as he revealed the question to the room, watching the realization sink into the group like lead.

When the turn moved to Sunghoon, he stared at his empty glass, before muttering a, "Pass."

The room erupted in mock boos and biting whistles. "Afraid of the truth, Sunghoon?" Jake teased before leaning back into Jay's touch. "Golden boy can't even play a party game?"

Jungwon didn't let the momentum die. He leaned toward Ume, whispering a question that made her eyes go wide. She gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. "No way! I don't know—who is it?"

The curiosity in the room spiked while Ume looked around the circle. "The question was...Who here is pregnant?"

Jay and Jake exchanged a stunned look while Sunghoon's gaze darted around frantically, if you weren't reacting, if you were sitting there with that calm smile then it wasn't you. And Ume had already denied it, so that left only one person.

Leah.

Who was sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on a spot on the rug as her face continued to drain of color.

Sunghoon looked at her then at you, feeling the bile rising in his throat. From the pool lounge chair, to the laundry room and every other place he had had sex with her—it all crashed down on him at once, he looked like he was about to be physically sick.

"Leah is pregnant," your voice rang out with a terrifying lack of emotion. The words hit Sunghoon like a physical blow, he had spent a month trying to make you pay for cheating on him with Jay, all while he was planting the seeds of his own destruction in a girl he treated like a toy.

"Is it true?" Sunghoon asked her with his voice sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. He looked at Leah, eyes wide with a mix of horror and disgust. "Leah, she’s just fucking around, right?"

The silence was her confession.

"Sounds like hyung has some responsibilities he forgot to mention to the family," Jungwon mused, "I wonder what father would think about his future law student starting a family a little ahead of schedule?"

Jake, ever the catalyst of drama leaned into Leah’s space to whisper in her ear, who looked like she was vibrating, a single sob catching in her throat as she forced out a name. "Sunghoon."

Sunghoon didn't even wait for the reveal, he immediately reached for the bottle this time, not a glass to take a desperate swig.

"The question," Jake announced with terrifying cheerfulness, "was, Who here is your baby daddy?"

"You're a lying bitch!" Sunghoon roared, finally losing the mask of superiority he'd worn like a shield for years. He surged forward, his finger pointed at Leah like a weapon. "You're lying! You're trying to trap me because you're obsessed with what Y/n and I have—you'd say anything to stay in my life!"

Leah finally looked up and the fear was gone, now replaced by an intensity that made her eyes burn. "I'm not lying, Sunghoon! I have never been with anyone else! You were my first and only one. You know I'm not lying! Did you ever wear a condom with me? You took everything from me and now you want to call me a liar?" "Screw you."

The silence that followed was so heavy that Jay and Jake couldn’t even mock him anymore, all they could do was just watch the car crash with satisfied expressions. Sunghoon looked around the room with wild eyes, looking for anyone to defend him but he lost all hope when you snorted, "What Y/n and I have is crazy, Sunghoon."

You looked at him with a gaze so filled with fake tenderness that it felt like a twist of a knife.

"Oh, Hoonie," you cooed, echoing the way he used to comfort you after making you cry your eyes out. "Don't be like that. This is a blessing, isn't it?"

"Think about it this way," you continued, "A little girl who looks just like you or maybe even a boy with your grace. You, Leah and the baby. You're going to make such a beautiful family. I can already see the Christmas cards. I'm sure your father will be so proud to see his legacy continuing so...unexpectedly."

Sunghoon looked at you as the realization truly sank in, the realization that the girl he thought he'd broken was the one who had choreographed his funeral.

"I'll even help with the baby shower," you added, the pout returning to your lips. "Since I missed my sister's bridal shower, I have plenty of free time now."

Jungwon let out a low chuckle, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck to tangle his fingers in your hair. "Hear that, Hyung? My princess is even offering to help. You really should be more grateful." He said to him before leaning to Ume to whisper in her ear but she immediately threw her hands up in frustration, the constant whispering finally getting on her nerves. "Seriously? I don't know! Why am I the one getting the hard ones?" She pouted, turning to the circle with her voice loud and fed up. "How am I meant to know who here has lost their inheritance? What does that even mean?"

Sunghoons head snapped toward Jungwon, the defensive look in his eyes was replaced by a sudden dread. He didn't reach for the glass this time, he could barely move.

"What the fuck are you on about, Jungwon?" Sunghoon's voice was a ghost of its former self, all thin and terrified. Jungwon, on the other hand didn't even look up from where he was tracing patterns on your thigh.

"Don’t tell me you didn’t read the fine print, Hyung?" Jungwon asked, "I guess you were so busy being a manipulative cunt that you didn't read the updated trust clauses father had us sign last year."

Jungwon finally looked at him. "It's a purity clause. Father is obsessed with the family image, you should know that better than anyone. It's written in black and white tha any son who produces an illegitimate child, especially one that creates a social scandal, automatically forfeits their entire inheritance. Every cent. The trust, the property, the firm...it all funnels into a single beneficiary."

Jungwon explained and pulled you closer against his chest, "And since I'm currently the only son without a pregnant side chick...it looks like I'm about to become very, very wealthy."

Sunghoon looked like he was seconds away from passing out. His eyes shifted between you and Leah, who was still trembling and clutching her stomach area. One, the girl who had been his broken possession and the other girl who was now the only thing standing between him and complete ruin—and you were sitting comfortably in the lap of the man who was taking his whole life away.

"You knew," he whispered, his gaze landing on you. "You both knew."

"Knew that what, Sunghoon?" "No one asked you to cheat and get a girl pregnant."

"I’d check your pocket if I were you, Hyung," Jungwon said. "I’m pretty sure you’re about to get a call. And you know Father—he hates being kept waiting."

Right on cue, the sharp ringtone of Sunghoon’s phone cut through the sound of Leah’s crying. The name on the screen was enough to make Sunghoon’s knees buckle. He answered with a trembling hand. "Father—"

"You fucking embarrassment!"

The shout was so loud it echoed through the silent room making Sunghoon flinch as if he’d been struck.

"Tell me Jungwon is mistaken!" his father roared over the line. "Tell me you didn't get some girl pregnant! Tell me you haven't been dragging our name through the mud while I was planning your future!"

Sunghoon looked at you as you slowly pressed a lingering kiss to Jungwon’s lips that made him smile.

"Father, please, she’s...she’s a liar," Sunghoon choked out as he looked at Leah. "She’s trying to trap me, I swear—"

Leah’s sob broke into a scream at the word liar but no one moved to comfort her. In the background, Ume was busy gushing over Jay and Jake, her voice a cheerful anddistorted contrast to the carnage. "Oh my god, you guys are actually the cutest! Why did you wait so long?" She pouted at them, watching Jay nuzzle his face deeper to Jake’s neck

"I don't want to hear it!" his father’s voice got louder and louder. "If you’re man enough to play these games then I suppose you’re man enough to fund them. You’re cut off, Sunghoon. Don't bother coming back to the estate to beg for anything! As of right now, you do not exist to me."

The line went dead before he could even think of any sort of explanation to give the man.

The phone slipped from Sunghoon’s fingers and clattered on the floor. He looked at you, then at the happy couple Ume was currently asking a million questions about how they first got together, and finally he looked at the pregnant girl in the corner.

He had spent his life trying to be a masterpiece of calculated moves and manipulative counters but in the end, he was just a footnote in your story.

"Time to go, Hyung," Jungwon said to him with a voice filled with satisfied pity. "You’ve got a family to take care of now."

Before the words could even reach Sunghoon’s ears properly, Jungwon moved with a sudden burst of energy, he hooked his arm around your waist and hoisted you up.

A startled squeal escaped you as you were flipped over his shoulder, your legs kicking out instinctively. "Jungwon! Put me down!" you laughed a mocking laugh that echoed off the walls.

Jungwon didn't listen to you, tightening his grip on your thighs instead as he began to stride toward the hallway. You looked back over his shoulder one last time to see Sunghoon standing frozen like a ghost in a room full of people who had already forgotten him.

"Bye bye, Hoonie!" you called out sweetly with a final dose of irony.

When the heavy door to Jungwon’s bedroom clicked shut, it instantly muffled the sounds of Leah’s crying and the silence of the foyer. Jungwon set you down gently against the door, his hands immediately finding your waist. "So, how did that feel?" he whispered as his eyes searched yours and his thumb traced the line of your lower lip. "Seeing him lose everything?"

"Exhilarating," you breathed, sliding your hands up to cup his face. It wasn't just about the revenge or the power shift anymore.

Jungwon’s expression softened as he looked at you. He didn't just see a partner in a scheme, he saw the only person who truly understood the darkness he had grown up in.

"Good," he murmured with a genuine warmth he saved only for you. "Because from now on, you don't ever have to play for second place again."

He leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss that wasn't for show or for an audience. It was slow, deep, and filled with a real affection—a promise that while the rest of your world was built on paranoia and lies, what was happening in this room was the only thing that was real.

nene’s note ── posting this from the hospital cause my mama didn’t raise no bitch! i loveeee feedback and i hope this met the expectations of everyone who was anticipating it! enjoy💋💋💋

Jiung and Intak, sitting at your sides and across from each other at your small breakfast table, freeze in the middle of their petulant glaring and angry chopstick pointing. 

It hasn’t even been an hour since they stepped into your apartment—you’d invited them to smooth things over since that night only seemed to unravel the tension into something messier. 

The peace had lasted all of ten minutes before the subtle bickering started up again. And now, here you are, in the middle of yet another battle you were unwittingly drafted into. 

They turn to you, their endless ire towards the other slipping away to shock, one flustered and one appalled. 

“I didn’t even get to fuck you,” Intak huffs, dropping his chopsticks with a clatter into his bowl. His round eyes sharpen and snap back to Jiung. “He practically hogged you the whole damn time.”

Jiung’s hand tenses around his chopsticks before he neatly places them down. “You’re just bitter that you lost,” he responds coolly, though the tic in his jaw as he returns Intak’s glare is anything but. 

You sigh to yourself as, like clockwork, they spur on. You were foolish to think you could ease things over with a peaceful dinner and drinks, but the further they get into their bottle of soju, the further they seem to settle in their pettiness. 

“Guys,” you warn. 

“I won, fair and square,” Jiung states, completely ignoring you. 

Intak sputters, hands flying wildly as he attempts to defend himself. “You cheated! What happened—that was—you weren’t supposed to—“

“Nothing happened,” Jiung cuts in, his demeanour of calm a fickle thing in the face of being reminded of the… unforeseen events of that night. 

Jiung refuses to acknowledge what happened between them. He chooses to live in complete denial. You, however…

Flashes come back to you—of an angry kiss, pushing hands, low grunts. None of anything that had any involvement from you.

Your thighs clamp together as a sharp sting of arousal shoots through you at the reminder. The amount of times you’ve had to physically restrain yourself from touching yourself to that memory is a number you’re not willing to admit. 

But now, with them in front of you looking as frustrated and flushed as that night, you can’t help that your body reacts to it. 

If only they would stop fucking fighting. 

“Guys,” you repeat, louder but all the same ignored. 

Intak has a sly grin on his lips now, one that can only mean trouble. “Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”

You could be wrong, but Intak seems to be in the same boat as you. Unless it’s just another one of his tactics—to hold it over Jiung’s head that he might have actually been into what had happened. 

“I just had to do what I had to do,” Jiung snaps, unable to hide the red that starts climbing up his neck to settle at the tips of his ears. “That’s it.”

Intak just preens, feeding off of Jiung’s fluster. “Is that it, hyung? Hm?” The wider his smirk grows, the sharper Jiung’s glare turns and the redder his cheeks go. “I felt you, you know. I could tell how close you were—“

“Intak,” Jiung cuts in, low and warning. 

But in pure Intak fashion, he barrels through. “You don’t want to admit it.” He crosses his arms on the table, his smirk going lazy as his eyes crawl down the slopes of Jiung’s pretty face and rest on his lips. 

Suddenly, you’re not in the room anymore. You might as well be a fly on the wall, just watching the scene unfold right in front of you. 

“But I think you liked it.”

Jiung doesn’t respond, whether to prevent what regrets he might let slip out or simply because he can’t find the words, you don’t know. 

And Intak takes the opportunity to press on. “And I bet,” he murmurs, his eyes traveling further down, “you’re hard under the table right now just thinking about it.”

The pause that follows is thick and nearly tangible with tension in the small space between you three. 

But there is also the chance that Jiung might throw something. To save the peace of your home, you cut in. 

“If you two are going to fuck, can you not do it where I eat?”

All at once the tension breaks—Jiung clicks his tongue as he picks up the empty bowls and rises for the kitchen (he’s not hard), and Intak beams with the satisfaction that he’s won the argument for once. 

Intak turns to throw you a cocky grin. “Dont worry, we wouldn’t leave you out of it.”

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging on your lips as you rise with your bottle of soju and escape to your couch. 

“Keep dreaming, lover boy,” you tease without commitment as you drop yourself on the cushions. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t want anything more. But you can’t let yourself admit that. Rather, you can’t let them know that—you don’t know just how much more insufferable they can get. You don’t want to know.

As expected, Intak follows you with his complaints. 

“But that’s not fair,” he whines as he drops down beside you with a pout. “I didn’t get a turn.”

“Because Jiung won, fair and square.”

“Oh come on,” he huffs, his warm hand landing on your knee and clamping down pleadingly as he fixes you with those big eyes and that cute smile that he knows you’re weak to. His voice drops to a low purr as he crowds into your space. “I can do so much better than him.”

Your body seems to not want to heed your inhibitions; instead it welcomes his heat in your orbit, subtly seeking it out.

Intak notices the way you falter, and he braves to slide his hand up to settle on your thigh. The heat of his skin is a searing presence through your jeans. 

“Don’t you wanna find out?” He asks, a low whisper as his eyes settle on your lips. The tip of his tongue flicks out in a subconscious tic, one you’ve become familiar with, and leaves his lips looking even more enticing. 

You do want to find out. Your body pulses with a need to. 

So you swallow down the tension in your throat, shifting just a little closer.  

“Don’t fall for it,” comes Jiung’s deep voice as he settles on your other side, another wall of heat encasing you. It sobers you immediately. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

You mentally shake yourself out of your stupor and sigh to yourself, leaning back on your cushions to escape the line of fire. 

“How would you know?” Intak immediately bites, his attention easily pulled from you and fixed on Jiung. Though his hand remains clamped down on your thigh. “See for yourself, and then you can talk shit.”

“I’m not fucking you.”

Intak sputters. “I didn’t mean that!”

“Yeah? Then what did you mean?”

“I just—you—just, go back to the kitchen!”

“Not until you get your dirty paws off of her.”

“Dirty? I’ll show you dirty—“

“Oh my god, are you guys going to just fight or fuck me?” You snap. Two sets of eyes turn to you, bewildered. “Or are you going to actually fuck each other finally? At least let me watch.”

They gape at you like fish, jaws slacked and eyes wide. 

“You—was that a serious offer?” Intak asks, gaze practically glittering at the prospect. 

“Fucking each other?” You raise a brow. “If that’s what you want, go for it, I’ll happily sit back and w—“

“Cut the crap,” Jiung snaps, and you quickly close your mouth. 

Your body grows hot at the tone of his voice, so demanding and so similar to then. He narrows his sharp eyes at you and somehow makes you feel like you should be the one apologizing. 

“Why did you really invite us here tonight?” He asks.

Well. You certainly weren’t fooling yourself.

You let out a sigh, leaning forward to drop your bottle on the coffee table. “Guess there’s no point in pretending.” 

You become hyper aware of their presence, their prying eyes. The air becomes more heated with each passing second that they wait for your answer. 

“I can’t stop thinking about that night,” you admit. 

Your gaze flits between the two of them. Intak just looks hungry, like he’d been waiting to hear that all night. Jiung looks… a little shy. 

He avoids your gaze, looking instead at Intak’s hand fidgeting with the inner seam of your jeans, but he isn’t really looking. 

The thought of making him squirm makes you preen internally. Is this what Intak feels?

“What is it, Jiung?” You coo teasingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about it too.”

“How could I not?” He defends weakly, eyes flicking up to you for half a second but they run away, land on Intak, then flit quickly away again like he can’t figure out where he can look without exposing himself. 

It’s cute. Really cute. 

You chance a look at Intak and see that he feels the same, watching Jiung with that same dazed smile you’ve caught him looking at you with. 

And it makes you ponder. 

“Hm…” You lean back, smiling when both pairs of eyes follow you. “Glad I’m not the only one.”

Neither of them respond. They simply wait and watch, like they’re waiting for a cue. Or a demand. 

You bite down on your lip, reaching for Intak’s hand still on you. You lace your fingers through his, his hand twitching in response like he wasn’t expecting the touch. You give it a light tug. 

“C’mere, Intak,” you call quietly, and like a sailor falling for his damnation, he gives to your beckon. 

His lips press to yours slowly at first. Like he’s testing the waters to see what’s safe despite already having been here before. 

You lift your hand to his jaw in quiet encouragement and he takes it well, pressing more insistently against you with a settling sigh. 

You tease your tongue against his lip and he groans like it’s his ruin, his fingers clamping down tighter into your flesh, almost painfully so. 

Magnetized, he parts his lips for you and you lick your way into wet heat, meeting his tongue halfway. There’s something about him that isn’t as eager as that night. He isn’t trying to prove anything to you. It’s like he’s just… giving himself over. 

It makes you dig your hand into his hair and pull, drinking up that pained whimper he lets out into your mouth. 

“You’re so good for me today, Takki,” you whisper with a swipe of your tongue over his parted lips as he heaves. 

He pouts, blinking his hazy eyes into the present like he’d already been floating away with a simple kiss. “‘M always good for you,” he weakly argues, giving with a soft moan when you kiss him again, short but demanding. 

When you pull back, he latches onto your jaw, not quite keen on being separated from you. Your eyes flutter closed for a quick moment when he mouths at the sensitive spot under your ear.

They open again for your vision to clear on Jiung, who watches the scene completely enamoured. His breathing is a little laboured too, like he’s affected just from watching. 

You reach for his thigh, squeezing down onto the thick muscle and he jolts. “Don’t just sit there.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes flicker down to where Intak has attached himself to your neck, leaving biting, wet kisses down the smooth expanse. 

“Come here,” you whisper. 

It doesn’t take more for him to give into your orbit too, crashing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s more fervent than you’re prepared for. 

But you meet his fire with your own. He tries to claim you from the get go, but you don’t allow it. Not this time. 

You push against his seeking tongue with yours, reaching up to grab his collar and pull him further into you. He gives almost immediately, melting under your hands and moaning into the kiss. 

His hand finds your shirt and clutches it in a fist in an attempt to keep it from wandering. But it explores anyway, climbing up before resting just under the swell of your breast, heavy and warm as he lets you drink him in. 

He whimpers when you bite down on his lip, parting his lips like an instinct to welcome your tongue into his mouth. 

You don’t get much time to map him out. Intak, still present and still insistent, starts nipping impatiently at your jaw. 

You pull from Jiung to meet him, but Jiung doesn’t allow it. He grabs your jaw and turns you right back to him, stealing you with a searing kiss. 

Your gasp gets swallowed up as you momentarily lose yourself to his magnetic pull, the one that demands control at all times. 

But Intak doesn’t let it slide, not like last time. 

He bullies his way into the kiss, carving out his own space as he tongues in through the corner of your lips. 

You’re overwhelmed, your body thrums alive and simmers with nerves as they kiss your senses out of you, both in tandem and selfishly. 

It’s a clash of tongues, it’s carnal and dirty and wet and loud and messy. You’re pressed back into the cushions as their bodies mould over you. There’s a hand in your hair, tilting your head back to make more space. There’s a hand on your chest, grabbing and kneading, one at your thigh and dangerously close to your needy heat. 

You don’t know your left from right, your up from down—just that Jiung and Intak have a hunger for you so raw, the need to kiss you so pure, that they don’t even realize they’re kissing each other. 

You pull from them slowly, careful not to startle them away, and watch it unfold. 

Intak parts his lips for Jiung’s searching tongue, accepting it with a choked gasp that Jiung swallows right up. Intak tries to fight back with his own tongue but is immediately tamed when Jiung bites down on his lip. It’s a push and pull; they even kiss angry. 

You’re still not sure if they even realize. But whether or not they do, you can’t look away. 

You don’t know how long it goes for, how long you have to clamp your thighs shut to keep yourself from losing anymore dignity. How long Jiung and Intak try to devour each other whole. 

But the hunger ebbs away as they sober for breath. Your own breaths get caught as their eyes slowly blink open, seeing through their lust driven haze. When the clarity brings them reality of what they’d been doing, they don’t clash like you expect them to. 

Intak’s lips turn up into a lazy half-smile, smug and self assured as he pants his words. “I knew you were into it.”

No, they clash in an entirely different way. 

Jiung is on Intak in a flash, leaping over your lap to claim the space on Intak’s as he smothers his surprised yelp with a kiss that looks more painful than anything. 

“You’re the freak who couldn’t shut up about it,” Jiung spits into Intak’s mouth, digging his teeth into his lip and soaking in the pitiful whine he gets with a low laugh. He’s out of breath and heaving and a little deranged, but he argues anyway. “Don’t act like you haven't been practically begging me with your eyes for it to happen again.”

Intak doesn’t take it lying down. He grabs Jiung’s waist, takes his claiming kiss for another moment, before rolling his hips up in a pointed grind that has Jiung stuttering and throwing his head back. 

“Is that why you’re so hard?” Intak gasps, grinning at the pinched expression that grows on Jiung’s face. “Because you’re not enjoying this?”

When Jiung grinds down, hard, it’s devastating enough that Intak’s expression breaks down to nothing but pure bliss, a loud moan ripping through his throat. 

“I am, actually,” Jiung says, voice gruff as he shoves at Intak’s body to bully him onto his back. 

Thrown into motion, you quickly scamper back to make space, with no power to do anything else. 

“Where’s all that talk now, huh?” Jiung grits as he hastily tugs open Intak’s belt and the buttons of his jeans, scowling a snarky grin down at Intak’s wide, glazed over eyes that can do nothing but watch. 

Jiung is a man of patience. But not in this moment, you surmise, because he just slips his hand in through the layers he couldn’t be bothered to rid Intak of and grabs ahold of his cock. 

Intak wails, body jolting at the sudden pressure as he flails to grab onto Jiung’s thighs. 

“J-Ji—ah!” Intak breaks off with a cry, head thrown back as moans fall freely from his parted, slick mouth. 

You can’t see much from this angle, but you can see enough of Jiung’s arm moving in a rapid, merciless rhythm to know just how undone Intak is getting. 

The lewd, slick sounds of skin on skin fill the air, of Intak’s pleasured little whines and grunts. It takes away all your restraint. 

You clumsily loosen your jeans, pushing your hand in to press against your throbbing heat. It quells some of the ache but it fires up tenfold when Jiung pulls back his hand, spits into it, then uses it to drive Intak into tears and a babbling mess. 

“Ji—mm, m’gonna—“ Intak breaks off with a loud cry when Jiung seemingly twists his fist, his head tilting back as those tears slip through the corners of his eyes. 

“Yeah?” Jiung taunts, slowing his hand down enough for Intak to settle just a bit. He grabs Intak’s jaw to hold his fraying focus, looking down at him with a grin twisted with a sadistic sort of pleasure. Like he gets off on driving Intak insane. “Am I gonna make you cum? Again?”

Intak, the poor thing, can only latch onto Jiung’s forearm with both his hands and nod eagerly, rolling his hips up in mindless little bucks to chase the heat of Jiung’s fist. 

“P-Please,” he sobs, parting his lips when Jiung’s thumb digs into his lower lip. “Need’ta… need you…”

Jiung falters entirely, his expression falling blank for a second that feels like it stretches longer than it is. You hear him curse under his breath before he shoves two fingers into Intak’s mouth to shut him up then starts fisting him again, rapid and unrelenting, a pace that has Intak thrashing and sobbing under him. 

You dig your teeth into your lower lip to hold back your noises as you rub your clit harder in tandem, your thighs clamping down on your hand. 

You can’t remember being this turned on or this wet—what does that say about you? Getting off to being ignored as the two people you want the most have at each other?

Intak’s body grows taut as it starts to bow up off the couch, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. You drive yourself there too, to the same precipice that Jiung pushes Intak to—before it all gets ripped away when Jiung suddenly pulls back. 

Intak comes crashing back down with a cry of Jiung’s name, the call tangled with a pained sob. 

You refrain from shuddering too, trying to hold yourself still as you climb back into your body, your hand going still where it stays pressed against your core. 

“No!” Intak sniffles. “N-No why did—I was so close,” he pants through his tears, blindly reaching for Jiung through the blur, his body quivering with the loss.

Jiung gathers Intak’s wrists and holds them to his stomach, his own breaths laboured as he watches the boy untethered under him, because of him. 

“Because,” he starts, then lifts his gaze to you. You nearly jolt under the intensity of it, forgetting entirely that you yourself were even there. “You wanted to prove you were better, right?” He’s not talking to you, but the words sink into you and pool low in your gut anyway. “Prove it then.”

Intak tilts his head back slightly, blinking like he’s seeing you for the first time. His eyes turn starry at the prospect, watching you intently for your signal. 

If it were anatomically possible, you’d pull Intak to you and fuck him into oblivion.

“You’re so bossy, Ji,” you say instead, slipping your hand out of your jeans and shuffling closer. 

Intak bristles when you get close, squirming to get out from under Jiung but Jiung doesn’t let him go. 

You press your hand to Intak’s cheek, and he immediately turns to nuzzle into your palm. 

“You want to?” You ask him softly, endeared with how he blinks up at you again and nods eagerly. 

“Want it—want you… Please?”

You smile at his big, begging eyes, glancing up to see Jiung watching with his hands idle on Intak’s lap, mindlessly brushing his thumb over the clothed ridge of Intak’s hard on. You meet his eyes and give him a conspiring smile that he meets with one of his own. 

“You can,” you say, having to grab Intak’s shoulders and push him back down when he immediately tries to push Jiung off of him. “If you can make me come before you do.”

He makes a confused noise, one that goes unanswered as you pull back to start shucking off your jeans and your panties. 

“Otherwise, Jiung gets to fuck me while you watch. Again.”

His complaints die on his tongue when you shuffle to kneel over him. As soon as your dripping cunt moves in line of his vision, his brain reroutes. He grabs onto your hips and sits you right on his mouth without another complaint. 

You gasp at the first swipe of his eager tongue, tremors rushing through your body as he immediately starts to tongue at your clit. 

You’ve fantasized this so many times since that night; you don’t think you’ve met anyone as talented with his mouth as Intak. And he proves it now as he starts a mind numbing rhythm of circling your clit and tonguing at your hole like it’s what he was born to do. 

Seeing how quickly affected you are, Jiung gets right to work. It’s a better angle now as you watch him tug Intak’s jeans and boxers down, freeing him fully. 

You bite down on your lip at the sight. Intak is thick and long, curved enticingly and so, so hard that he’s almost purpling at the tip. 

“Poor thing,” you mumble under your breath, gasping when his tongue drags through your folds while he whines against you. 

Jiung seems just as dazed by Intak’s cock as he wraps his hand around it once again. He has big hands, but even they look small in comparison. 

Intak jerks under the pressure as Jiung squeezes down, mouth faltering against your pussy as Jiung slides his fist up in a slow drag. 

You watch, mesmerized as a pearly drop of arousal beads at the tip then trickles down over Jiung’s knuckles. 

You nearly forget where you are as you're barraged with the sudden urge to lean down and lick his fingers clean, then maybe seek out more straight from the source. 

But you’re pulled right back when Intak’s lips wrap around your clit and sucks down hard enough to seize your body tight for a hot, blinding second. 

“Fuck!” You gasp, bracing down on Intak’s stomach before grinding your hips down, dragging your clit right over his tongue. 

It seems to set everything in motion—Intak grinding you down on his face as he mouths helplessly at you, Jiung holding Intak down with a hand on his hip, the other vigorously working Intak’s aching cock, and you clinging desperately onto your last morsel of sanity. 

Maybe you were in way over your head. There’s no way you can last longer than Intak with the image in front of you, Jiung fisting his best friend like his life depends on it and watching as Intak devours you like he wants to devour him whole. 

So you opt to look away, shut your eyes, but that plan gets immediately derailed when Jiung leans down and wraps his lips around Intak. 

Intak falters with a choked moan, his hips driving up to instinctively chase the wet warmth but Jiung immediately pulls off and brings his hand down on his hip with a harsh smack. 

“Stay down,” Jiung grits before he dives back down, taking him in his mouth again. 

Your clit pulses dangerously at the sight. Of Jiung’s lips stretched around the girth of Intak’s cock, of the furrow of concentration between his brows as he tries to sink deeper. He stops before he can even take half of it, but seems satisfied enough with the way Intak is tensed up and just panting under you, his fingers digging harshly into your hips as a way to brace himself. 

You feel Intak’s moan as a hot breath fanning over your cunt as Jiung slides up his cock, gives an experimental suck on the tip, then sinks back down with a breathy grunt.

You nearly cum on the spot when Jiung bobs his head and starts to fuck his mouth on Intak, his hand wrapped around whatever he can’t take, his eyes rolling back as they flutter shut at heady the taste of Intak on his tongue. 

His cheeks are flushed, the sounds are vulgar and obscene, and you can just tell it’s not about the dumb little bet anymore. 

He’s not blowing Intak because he wants to win—he’s doing it because he likes it. Because he fucking wants to. Jiung never does anything he doesn’t want to.

“Fucker,” you hiss. You reach back to clamp your fist into Intak’s hair and hold him still before you rock your cunt back down over his panting tongue. 

You don’t even care anymore, especially not when the tip of Intak’s nose starts to nudge at your hole. You ride his face and chase that burning pleasure right to the end with the sight before you, of Jiung looking drunk on Intak’s thick cock and struggling to take it as Intak starts to clumsily fuck up into the wet heat. 

You snap with a startled cry, the orgasm hitting you so suddenly that you nearly topple over. 

You catch yourself on Intak’s stomach, shuddering as Intak dutifully licks you through the high despite being in near shambles himself. 

When Jiung pulls off of Intak, it’s slow and hesitant, like he doesn’t quite want to stop. There’s a thread of saliva and precum that strings momentarily between his lips and the tip of Intak’s cock, one that you want to reach over and bat away. Jiung’s eyes are nearly glazed over, lips parted as he pants, like he was the one that just got his shit rocked. 

“Pathetic,” you mutter without thought and his wide eyes snap up to you.

He looks clueless as he stares at you. “Huh?”

“You’re fucking pathetic,” you double down, pushing off of Intak, who lays there limp and unresponsive. You grab hold of Jiung’s chin, forcing his eyes to stay on you. “You’ve been wanting to do that for a while, haven’t you?” You prod, and his eyes widen with each word, red climbing up his skin. 

He starts to shake his head but you tighten your grip on him and hold him still. 

“What, did you really need me to mediate? Are you really that much of a coward?”

He grits his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tries to argue but you push him back against the arm of the couch. He falls against it without fight. “Hands behind your head. You’re going to watch Intak fuck me.”

At the sound of his name, Intak bristles alive and starts to climb out from under you, settling behind you. 

Jiung’s jaw goes slack as he rears up to argue. But one sharp look from you has him snapping his mouth shut, hands rising hesitantly to lock between his head and the couch. 

He parts his legs to give you a little more space to settle in the compact area, but all that does is expose just how hard he is, his cock straining against his dark pants, a damp spot seeping through at the tip. 

But you don’t get much time to grill him for it. 

Because Intak latches himself to your back, completely bare from what you can feel of him. He mouths at your neck as his hands climb up under your shirt, clumsily grinding his still hardened cock against your ass. 

“It hurts,” he whimpers into your ear with a press of his hips against you, before he hastily tugs at your top. 

When you pull it off, one of his hands immediately latches onto your chest, kneading at your tit through your bra. The other presses low on your naval to push you back into him and you hiss softly as his cock brushes right against your sensitive mound, his movements eager and hurried like he can’t quite figure out what to do with himself. 

“Please,” he begs, dropping his face into your shoulder to sniffle into it. “Please lemme fuck you, can’t take it anymore—‘t fucking hurts.”

Your heart tugs at the genuine distress in his voice. You’ve been stringing him long enough, and really, he’s been so good to you that he deserves much better than this. 

You card your hand through his soft hair, urging his head up so you can turn to press your lips to the corner of his. He immediately turns to push his lips into yours in a weak but heartened kiss. 

“C’mon baby,” you urge gently into his lips, arching your back to push your cunt against his throbbing length. “Put it in.”

Intak nearly sobs in relief, wrapping his arm tightly around your waist to hold you still as the other reaches down to guide himself into you. 

His tip drags over the length of your pussy, slow, heavy, hot. You think for a second he might turn it around and tease you, get back at you for putting him through everything. But Intak was never one for patience, not like Jiung. 

So he catches against your hole and pushes, not bothering to ease you around him as he drives himself all the way in despite your body’s resistance at the sudden, nearly unbearable stretch. 

Your mouth falls open in a loud, pained whine at the feeling of being practically split open by his cock. You nearly fall over, your body’s weight giving out, but his strong arm around you keeps you up against him. 

Your walls clamp down on him, resisting against the impossible stretch. He’s big, so much worse than Jiung, especially with barely enough prep. But there’s something mindnumbing about the pain that sears through you. 

Intak is a mess too, gasping into your hair as he gathers his bearings from how tight and warm you are around him. 

You barely get the chance to recover before he’s pushing into you with shallow, uncontrolled thrusts that send a flare of stinging pain through you with each one. 

“Fuck, Intak, s-slow d—ah!” You cut off with a yell at a particularly harsh thrust, one that has him nearly kissing your cervix. 

“Can’t,” he pants, his hands sliding down to claw onto your hips. He holds you tightly before he pulls back and punches into you with a hard thrust that has you falling forward and grabbing onto Jiung’s thighs to brace yourself. 

You choke down the pained yelp that rises in your throat. Intak plasters himself to your back, wrapping his thick arms around you again and holding you down as he starts to fuck you with fervour. 

“I can’t I can’t I can’t,” he pants into your neck, his hand lifting to grab onto your chest once again. His hips slam into you, rocking your body with his, his cock piercing in and carving out space inside you, brushing against your walls in spots you didn’t even know were possible. “Can’t—fuck—can’t hold back, need to cum—“ He turns to dig his face into your hair as his hand tugs your bra down so he can paw at your bare tits. “Needed this—needed you for so long…”

All you can do is take it, take it as Intak pounds into you like a man possessed by his carnal desires, ones that he’s been caging inside and letting fester for who knows how long. Of course he can’t hold back anymore. 

“Yeah?” You ask, gasping when he brushes against that gummy spot inside of you. The pain isn’t so much pain anymore as it is fire and bliss. You turn to press your lips to his ear, letting your breathy moans spill right into it as you speak. “Take whatever you need baby… m’all yours.”

Intak falters, his weight dropping on you as his cock pulses inside you. 

Then he rises up, the heat of him against your back ripping away and leaving you cold. He grabs your hips and lifts them, arching your back before he pulls out until his tip catches against your hole, the swollen head stretching the tight ring of muscle. 

Then he slams into you, once, twice, then again and again, with unrestrained, unyielding thrusts. 

You cry out as he starts to insistently piston against your g-spot with the tip of his cock, the precision almost terrifying in his state of carnal chase. 

“Intak!” You yell, your cries muffled when Intak’s hand lands on the back of your head and pushes you down. 

You’re helpless to him and his brutal cock, forced to just lay there with your ass up and take the barrage of pleasure laced with remnant pain. It clouds your head with a fog so thick that you don’t even realize you’re pressed into Jiung’s lap, not until he bucks his hips up in an attempt to press his boner to your lips. 

You blink up through the fog, your vision clearing on Jiung’s pinched expression, his brows furrowed and jaw tight over clenched teeth. His hands are still caught behind his head, though his restraint seems to be hanging on by a thread. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he watches Intak pummel into you and babble mindlessly about how you feel so good, how he’s gonna fill you up, and never gonna pull out.

Jiung’s hips buck up again, more insistently this time that his clothed cock bumps against your nose. You dig your fingers into his thighs in retaliation and he hisses, eyes snapping down to you in a weak glare. 

You manage a weak smile, smug and teasing, before it wipes away with a brutal snap of Intak’s cock against your cervix. 

“Fuck!” You scream, your pussy clamping down on his pulsing girth. He’s close. You’re not sure how he’s lasted so long. 

He drops onto your back again, arms tightening around you as he grinds his cock into you with deep, uncoordinated thrusts. 

“Gonna cum,” he warns with a gritted whimper, his dick kicking inside you as he pushes in and seats himself deep. 

But he doesn’t finish just yet; he reaches down for your clit and presses his thick fingers into it, flicking against the aching nub with quick movements. 

Your body thrashes under the sensation, your walls fluttering around him as you get drawn up to another orgasm. 

“I-Intak…” You gasp, squirming under him. 

He only speeds up, holding you tighter, rapidly rubbing at your clit. “Come on,” he pleads, rocking inside you once. “Come for me first.”

And then he pinches your clit, pushing you right over. You come with a cry of his name, pulsing violently around him as you cream over his cock. 

It drives him over too. He groans and shoves his cock into you once, twice, three times before he spills inside you with a choked grunt, his entire body trembling as he shoots into you and fills you with his hot seed. 

He whines like he’s pained as he releases into you, before dropping his entire weight on you after the wave passes and trapping your body between his and the couch. 

…his and Jiung’s lap, you realize after a moment of coming back into your body. 

You blink your eyes fully open to see Intak’s head settled on Jiung’s other hip, his eyes already open and fixed on the raging hard on right in the small space between your faces. 

You nearly laugh. Until you see the fucked look on Intak’s face. 

Jiung squirms under you, as if trying to shift away. 

“If you two are done,” he starts with his voice low and gruff, like he’d been the one exerting himself. “Can you get off?”

Intak’s eyes meet yours and you know then that that won’t be an option. The idea pulls a tired grin on your lips. 

“I dunno,” you hum, shifting a little under Intak. You shudder as Intak, still buried inside you, twitches anew. You sigh as you turn your face, nuzzling into the side of Jiung’s boner, your eyes flicking up to see him desperately trying to hold in his reactions. “It’s pretty comfy here. Isn’t it, Takki?”

Intak hums in agreement, shifting in to bump the tip of his nose against the hard ridge. 

Jiung gasps a sharp breath then, his hips twitching up in reflex. “Don’t fucking play,” he seethes, though he doesn’t move, nor does he move either of you. His hands remain right where you told him to keep them.

You just giggle, letting the vibration of your voice tease him through the dampening fabric. You’re sure it’s painful with just how much he’s seeped through his jeans. 

“When do I ever?” You taunt, leaning forward to end a bit of his suffering. 

But Intak beats you to it. He presses over your shoulder and runs the flat of his tongue against the rough fabric, leaving a damp trail up until he reaches the tip of Jiung’s cock and latches down. 

Jiung’s hand flies into Intak’s hair, letting out a choked grunt as he pushes his head down and grinds his crotch up into Intak’s face. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, grinding up again when Intak lets out a startled whimper. 

It only spurs Intak on as he starts tonguing over the bulge, trailing his lips tightly down the length before settling at his base. 

“Shit,” you mutter, watching with your jaw slack and another nagging pull at your gut. “I should’ve just made you guys fuck. Would’ve fixed—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Jiung snaps, grabbing your hair with his free hand and pushing your face into his lap. 

You go down easily, lips landing on and wrapping around his base, but not without digging your nails into his thighs in retaliation. 

But he doesn’t respond to that, too occupied with both your mouth and Intak’s on him. The denim of his pants dampens under your tongue as you suckle on him, Intak still mouthing over his heated length. 

“Talk too fuckin’ much,” Jiung pants as he lets you both go, only to tug open his belt.

Intak immediately reaches over you to help him pull himself free with single minded focus, tugging his pants and boxers down to let his cock spring free, hard and leaking with need. 

It’s embarrassing how quickly your arguments die on your tongue, the space too occupied with your drool. 

You don’t bother with your hands, reaching instead with your mouth to swallow his tip in. 

You hum as the salt and musk bursts on your tongue, giving it a firm suck to milk more out of him. It’s nice, the heavy, velvety taste of him. 

Jiung groans, his hand landing in your hair once again, not to push but just to have something to hold onto. 

You can hear the wet sounds of Intak’s mouth sucking and tonguing at Jiung’s base, and you drag down the generous, ridged length to meet him there. 

You don’t even care how obscene it is, the fact that you’re both mouthing at Jiung’s cock like filthy whores while Intak is still buried balls-deep inside you, where you can feel him hardening up again.

All you can focus on is the sounds Jiung is making, the ones Intak makes as he and you lap at Jiung’s cock in tandem, practically making out with it and each other. 

You don't think you’ve done something so dirty, ever felt so dirty yourself. You don’t think you can have it any other way now. 

“Look at you two,” Jiung breathes, his fingers carding through both your and Intak’s hair, fingers scratching down both affectionately and condescendingly somehow. 

You moan against him just as Intak does, dragging your mouth up to swallow him in again, tonguing at the gummy tip. 

Jiung lets go of your hair and takes your chin instead, digging his thumb into your hallowed cheek. “You sound better with my cock in your mouth.”

You let out an offended whine, sucking down hard to watch him hiss and jerk. 

“Brat,” he grits, grunting when Intak starts prodding at the corner of your lips with his tongue in a silent ask. 

You hum, popping off to let Intak in, but you don’t move away. You both tongue at the swollen tip, mouths tangling together as you practically make out with each other on Jiung’s cock. 

You swirl your tongue over the tip and give it a suck before dipping into Intak’s mouth, sharing the salty taste, letting him do the same before he dips into your mouth and sucks at your tongue. 

It’s brainless, completely devoid of any direction, any thought—just pure, animalistic instinct. 

Jiung curses under the barrage, pushed to his limits. He holds you both down with fists in your hair and starts to fuck up into the space between your mouths, poking into your tongue and Intak’s in a mindless alternation. 

Intak’s eyes roll back at the heady feeling, his body spurring to life to start halfheartedly fucking his cock into you, fully hard again.

You just lay there and take it, let the drags of his cock ease the burning that flares up between your hips again. 

You let Jiung chase his orgasm between the messy press of your mouth and tongue against Intak’s—it’s frantic, lewd, head spinning. 

And it’s completely over for you when Jiung starts whining. 

“Gonna cum,” he whimpers, hands tightening down on your and Intak’s heads. Intak grunts at the pressure but he opens his mouth like you do, just letting Jiung rut against your tongues and faces like a bitch in heat. “Fuck, y’r gonna make me… nngh, fuck fuck fuck—”

He breaks off with a choked yell, forcing you both off of him before he takes his cock and frantically fists himself to completion. 

He cums with another yell, head thrown back as he gasps through it, hot ropes of his cum landing on your faces. You try to catch them with your tongue but it’s far too messy and uncoordinated. 

So you turn to Intak’s blissed out, cum splattered face and start lapping it up from him instead, your brain reduced to nothing but a filthy caricature. Intak seems to share that same mind, licking off whatever he can from your chin and cheek before he forces his tongue into your mouth and tries to take from there. 

You moan against him, sharing the taste of Jiung between what you suppose is a kiss, but you can’t really tell anymore. 

It’s when he cums inside of you again that you realize Intak was still fucking into you with rocky, noncommittal thrusts. It’s much less intense than the one before, but the feeling of him spilling into you again does you in, coaxing out a similarly languid orgasm out of you. 

You settle with a shudder, dropping down on Jiung’s stomach, the cotton of his shirt a soft reprieve against your heated skin. 

It’s a quiet moment of hard breaths and slow realization, with Jiung dead against the couch’s arm above you and Intak laid on your back and panting into your shoulder. 

You don’t move. Don’t think you even can.

The first bit of motion after a handful of moments is Jiung’s voice over you, low and gruff and a little fucked up. 

“What the fuck was that?”

It pulls out a startled laugh out of you. You shift, nudging at Intak’s weight to let you free. 

He whines against you but obliges, though hesitant, slowly sliding out of your cunt with a hiss before he rolls down onto the floor, splaying onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. 

“Heaven,” he says, all too serious as he blinks his starry eyes slowly, a giddy grin climbing onto his swollen lips. 

He looks all cute and boyish with that dimpled smile, his bangs fanning over his eyes. Like he hadn’t just blown the guy he’d been fighting with over a girl, while fucking said girl. 

You snort, shuffling down the couch to settle at the other end while Jiung pulls up his pants and tucks himself away with syrupy movements. Of course he’s the only one clothed while you and Intak remain almost completely bare. 

You tug your bra back in place as you curl back into the cushions. “Needed is what it was. To get you dickheads to finally stop fighting.”

Intak giggles from the ground. “He’s too stubborn to stop.”

“Hm. You’re right.”

Jiung glares at you, still boneless where he lays. “I’m right here.”

Intak’s head pokes up from the ground, looking at Jiung with an impish grin. “So? Can you admit it now?”

“Admit what?” Jiung grumbles, refusing to look at him and opting for the ceiling instead.

But Intak, annoying as he is, shuffles closer to rest his head against the arm of the couch, his face right below Jiung’s. “That you wanted it,” he says, waiting with that smile still plastered on his lips. There’s an honest anticipation behind that gaze though, one that seems to be waiting for a particular answer. “Did you?”

Jiung is silent. You watch his throat bob, his eyes flicker down, his jaw work around his teeth.

“No.”

Intak’s smile pulls wider and only then do you see the corner of Jiung’s lips twitch up.

“In that case,” you start, finding yourself grinning too. The heat pooling low in your gut is starting to feel something like a permanent fixture. “Same time next week?”

Turns out, your games weren’t all for nothing. 

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1 reblog/comment = 1 virtual kiss <3

You tried to calm your hyperactive mind but unfortunately, Keeho had always been a point of fixation for you. Actually, you've always had a thing for pretty boys, and he was just about the prettiest of them all.

There was also something intoxicating about his effortless charisma, especially the way he could shift from completely goofy and playful to intensely serious and commanding in a matter of seconds. 

Not to mention he was tall, naturally broad, with that messy hair that was always falling into his eyes. He seemed like the full package. 

Full package... your mind turned traitorous once again, vividly trying to imagine what was hiding beneath the demanding words decorating his hips. 

The boys hit the final pose of the outro and break you out of your daydream. The sudden silence was filled with a chorus of groans and the thud of bodies as they all collapsed onto the floor, exhausted and sweaty.

From where you were sat, you could see Keeho splayed flat on his back as he took in deep breaths. His shirt had ridden up just enough to expose that damned waistband again, along with a tantalizing sliver of his toned, sweat-slicked stomach.

You looked away quickly with a subtle shake of your head. There was no way you were going to let yourself be this affected by something so simple. 

Clearing your throat, you forced a professional tone. "Great job, guys. We're done for the day, you can head out." 

A loud, collective cheer erupted from the group. Keeho was still breathing heavily on the floor, and as you watched the rise and fall of his chest, the words slipped out, completely against your better judgment. 

"Keeho, can you hang back? There's just one part that I think you need a little work on."

His dark eyes widened in surprise, eyebrows shooting up as the rest of the members immediately started clowning him.

Intak and Jiung pointed, laughing as they grabbed their bags. A small, mildly offended smile bloomed on Keeho's face as he sat up, looking around in confusion. "Wait, really? Which part?"

You forced a light laugh, trying to keep your racing heart steady. "The pre-chorus. Just the transition." A part of you felt a little bad for bruising his ego as he nodded solemnly with a pout.

He heaved out a sigh, rolling his eyes and completely tuning out the boys' relentless teasing as they filed out of the room, rubbing it in his face that they got to go home while he was stuck there. 

When the room went silent again, Keeho dropped back down to lie on the floor with a dramatic huff, throwing his arms out. You watched on with a smirk.

"Sorry," you told him, walking a few steps closer. "I didn't mean to single you out like that."

He dropped the pout instantly, replacing it with a soft, genuine smile. "Nahh, it's okay." 

You held your hands out to help pull him up and he slipped them into yours, letting you tug him back to his feet. 

Smirking internally, you ran through the moves with him. He got into position, counting off the beats under his breath and right when he raised his arms, there it was again. The hem of his shirt lifted and he paused there, holding the pose, awaiting your next instruction—though it never came. 

Instead, his eyes flicked to the mirror, catching your completely unapologetic smile reflecting back at him. He returned it, a little confused, and lowered his arms. "What?"

You bit your lip. Now was as good of a time as any. 

"You want your dick sucked?"

His head turned to yours with lightning speed. His eyes wide open and completely shocked, lips rounded into a perfect 'Oh' shape as he took in what you had just said. The sheer disbelief on his face was so comical that you burst out laughing. 

Seeing you double over, he slowly followed suit, a breathless laugh escaping him as he remained utterly stunned by your words. "Did I... did I hear that correctly?" 

You rolled your eyes at him, a playful grin on your face. "Oh, don't act so innocent. It's literally written on your underwear."

As if he wanted to kill you further, just really dig the knife in deeper, he lifted his shirt, and there it was again, closer than ever. He stared at the bold white text, then looked back up at you with a ridiculous, silly smile. "I deadass forgot I had these on."

You laughed harder at how truly absurd the situation was. But as the laughter slowly died down, the air in the practice room seemed to shift.

Keeho's face was flushed red now, whether from the exertion of the dancing or the sudden turn in conversation, you weren't sure. You stepped closer to him, tilting your head as you asked, "Aren't you the one that always says you like to 'keep it classy'?"

He jokingly scoffed, though his voice was a little huskier than before. "I don't recall ever saying that."

You chuckled, stepping directly in front of him now. When all you did was raise a brow at him, challenging the proximity, his tongue darted out to moisten his lips before pulling the plush bottom one between his teeth. He bit back a smile, raising his head to look away from you for a second before returning back to you. 

"What?" he asked softly.

You shrugged your shoulders at his question, holding his gaze. "Do you want me to?"

He stared back at you, searching your face for any hint that you were joking, but there wasn't one. "Are you being serious?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice dropping to a quiet murmur. "I didn't actually keep you back to correct you on anything. You did the choreo perfectly. I just... wanted to get you alone." 

His lips parted slightly as he processed your confession. The dazed, hungry look in his eyes brought a confident smile to your face and to test the waters, you took a step back. "Unless you don't want to, of course. Then forget I ever s—"

Before you could even finish the sentence, his hand snapped out, gripping your waist tight and yanking you right back against his body. You smiled instantly against his chest knowing he clearly wanted you just as bad.

He was a little breathless now, all hints of his playful, silly side entirely gone and replaced by a seriousness that made your knees wobble. 

"Is this the first time you've thought about this?" 

You shook your head, eyes tracing his handsome features. "I've had my eye on you for a while... but… you know," you said, alluding to the very real fact that you were technically coworkers. If anyone in the company found out about this, you'd be screwed.

He leaned in closer. "And now?"

You thought for a moment before curling your index finger into the front of his jeans, tugging his hips flush against yours. "Now I just... don't really care."

The cocky smirk that grew on his lips was all the invitation you needed. You raised your head and pressed your lips against his.

His hands squeezed your waist as he held you, slipping them under the hem of your shirt, his large, warm palms exploring the bare skin of your back. You could still feel his cocky smirk against your lips as his tongue brushed against the seam to part them.

You ran your hands up his muscular arms, mapping the firmness under his shirt, before resting them flat against his broad chest—the same chest you had pointedly caught yourself staring at during all the chest pops they had to do today. 

You pulled back just enough to break the kiss, breathing heavily. "You didn't answer my question."

He shook his head at you, a bit of that teasing playfulness returning to his dark eyes. "Do you think I'm gonna say no to you sucking my dick?" He leaned down and kissed you again, hard and wet, mumbling right into your mouth, “Not after I’ve imagined it so many times."

The words relit the fire in you as you moaned into his mouth, giving him another intensely bruising peck before dropping your knees right onto the floor. 

His mouth instantly parted, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth at the sight of you kneeling between his legs. You looked up at him, feigning innocence, as your hands moved straight for his waistband, popping the metal button of his jeans open. You dragged the zipper down slowly, tugging the denim until it pooled at his feet and he eagerly stepped out of them, kicking them aside. 

Just as you were about to lean in he stopped you with a gentle hand cupping your head. You almost whined at the delay. 

"I should lock the door," he rasped, his eyes darting toward the practice room entrance. 

"No," you whispered, maintaining eye contact. "Leave it."

He looked down at you, confused, his heart racing. "Someone could walk in..."

"Let's just hope no one does." 

His cock twitched and throbbed visibly against the black cotton trapping him, the thrill at the possibility of being caught sending new bursts of energy through him.

He loosened his hold on your head and let out a deep exhale as you inched back forward. You ran your hands from his thighs up to his lower stomach, pushing his shirt up to fully show him off to you.

Your mouth watered at the prominent, heavy bulge straining directly in your face, the thick outline of his length proudly on display and tenting the fabric to its absolute limit. You breathed out a happy, disbelieving laugh at the sheer size of him, a sound that had Keeho groaning and tilting his head back. 

"Such a fucking tease," he cursed under his breath, hips involuntarily inching toward your face. 

You smiled, leaning forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to the infamous words in front of you, before trailing your lips down and right over the dark, damp patch where his pre-come was already leaking through the fabric. You darted your tongue out to prod at him.

"Oh my—F-fuck…," Keeho sighed, his head falling back at your touch.. 

His hand returned to rest atop your head—needing the contact—fingers lightly threading through your hair. 

You hooked your thumbs under the thick elastic to pull it down just enough to brush your lips along the newly exposed skin of his V-line. Inch by agonizing inch, you dragged the fabric lower, kissing and licking the taut skin. 

He looked up to the massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors directly behind you to take in the filthy sight.

You on your knees, looking so pretty between his parted legs, hands resting possessively on his thighs as you kissed your way down his stomach. 

He watched through the mirror as you finally tugged the last barrier down, freeing him completely. 

His cock sprang out, hitting his stomach with a heavy sound. It was massive, thick and throbbing, the tip weeping a thick drop of his slick. 

He looked back down to find you waiting with your tongue stuck out, his cock hanging directly in front of you and he swore he could have cum undone right then. 

“Fuck… look at you. Ready to take my cock. You want it bad huh?”

When you nodded rapidly he reached down to stroke himself, dragging his fist down to the base and back up, so agonizingly slow, your mouth watered at the visual. 

With a smirk, he guided his heavy shaft forward and placed his tip directly onto your waiting tongue. He softly slapped the heavy, blunt head against the muscle a few times, a wet smack filling the room as he indulged in the sight—the act purely for his own filthy pleasure. 

You hummed in appreciation, tasting his saltiness as your eyes stayed locked with his dark, dilated ones.

"Mmmh, you like that?" he groaned as you curled your tongue beneath the head before pulling away.

You raised your hand, placing it over where he was still tightly holding himself to guide his hand off. "I wanna take care of you," you murmured softly. 

Keeho bit his lip hard, the words coiling the pressure in him tighter. Seeing you like this gave him whiplash. You were usually so demanding, so blunt and strict with your words during practice—but right now, looking up at him with those eyes, practically begging to please him... it completely disarmed every inch of his body. 

His gaze softened, a breathless chuckle escaping him. "I'm sorry, pretty baby..." he spoke, voice dripping with pure adoration and lust. "It's all yours… My cock is all yours."

The smile you gave him in return was so genuinely happy that it sent his heart racing. Only you could make him nervous in a situation like this.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss directly to his tip, the sensitive flesh jumping at the contact, You couldn't help but let out a soft, delighted giggle before leaning in to do it again. 

Your tongue darted out, flicking lightly over the sensitive ridge of his head as he let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling tighter into your hair. You switched to rapid, wet licks directly over his slit, lapping up every last drop leaking from him. 

Gathering a pool of spit in your mouth, you opened your lips and closed them right around his tip, spreading your saliva generously as you rubbed your tongue in tight, swishing circles around the crown, alternating between swirling your tongue and sucking with a wet, popping sound. 

"Fuck your t-tongue…," Keeho whimpered, his knees almost giving out as he locked his legs to stay standing. The hot, wet, tight suction on the most sensitive part of his body was blinding. He looked down at you from above, watching in awe at how your mouth already looked so completely full with just his thick head past your lips. 

Slowly, you sank your mouth further down his shaft. You hollowed out your cheeks as you slid your tongue flat across the underside of him, tracing the prominent, pulsing vein that caught your eye earlier. 

The noises you were making were entirely obscene as he listened to you devouring him—loud, wet, sloppy slurping sounds that he was sure could be heard outside the room.  

"Fuck... yes, just like that…," Keeho moaned, his hips rolling forward involuntarily. He rubbed at your head, his hand smoothing almost frantically over your hair as he lost himself in the sensation. “Taking my cock so good. Such a good girl for me”

With every bob of your head, you took him deeper and deeper. You sank lower, determined to take all of him but as the thickest part of his head breached the back of your throat, you gagged loudly, a choked sound squeezing against his shaft. 

Instantly, Keeho's eyes snapped wide open, and he grabbed your shoulders, pulling you off. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, blinking up at him with a disappointed frown. A string of saliva still connecting your lips to his glossy tip before it broke. You wiped your mouth, catching your breath. 

"Are you okay?" he asked quickly, his voice laced with genuine concern. 

You nodded, looking up at him. "Yeah... why'd you pull me off?" 

Keeho sighed, his breathing heavy as he looked down at his own throbbing, spit-slicked cock, and then at your flushed face. "I didn't want to hurt you," he said softly, his thumb brushing a stray hair out of your face. "Your mouth already looked so full. If you can't take all of me, it's okay, baby. You don't have to push yourself."

You shook your head adamantly, your eyes locking onto his. "Don't worry, I can. I promise." 

The sheer determination in your eyes had his body physically shaking. He reached down and cupped your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your warm skin with a tenderness that made you lean into him.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

"Yes. Don't worry if I gag or cough. I'll tap your thigh if I need you to pull off."

Keeho stared at you for a long, heavy second, completely enamored before nodding slowly. He dropped his hand from your cheek down to your slick chin, holding it firmly between his fingers. He ran his thumb across your wet, swollen bottom lip, parting your mouth for him. 

With a breathy sigh, he guided your face right back to his cock. You immediately wrapped your lips around his thick head, taking him back in and pushing past the initial discomfort until he bumped right against the back of your throat once more. 

You didn't stop there. Forcing your muscles to relax, you sank down further, swallowing his impressive length until only the base was left. You held him there for a long second, letting the tight, hot walls of your throat squeeze the thickest part of his shaft, before slowly sliding his cock back out until only the slick tip remained between your lips. Then, you repeated the action.

As you continued to take him deeper with every bob of your head, Keeho grew bolder. The steady, comforting presence of his large hand resting on your hair shifted. The pressure grew more demanding as his fingers gripped the crown of your head firmer. He started pushing you down faster onto him, setting a steady pace that had a helpless whine of pleasure muffled around his cock. 

"Y-yes, of fuck—," he hissed, his hips rolling eagerly into the movement. "Taking every inch into your pretty mouth..."

You relaxed the muscles in your neck completely, letting him take the reins. You allowed him to guide your head up and down his heavy shaft, surrendering to his movements. He watched you through the mirror, entirely captivated as you sank deeper and deeper. 

The sight of you taking his full length was intoxicating, and when he was finally able to thrust forward and bury himself completely, his stomach pressing flat against your face, he held you there. 

His mouth dropped open into a silent shout of pleasure as he felt the desperate, involuntary tightening of your throat squeezing around his pulsing head. 

He pulled your head back just as you began to cough and splutter. But even as you were gasping for air, you reached out to wrap your hands tightly around his slick shaft to continue working him as you caught your breath. 

 "Fuck, you're doing so good for me," he praised, his ragged breath sending shivers straight down your spine. "Taking my whole dick like that... such a fucking good girl. I knew that pretty mouth was made for me."

You looked up at him with a content and hopeful smile on your lips as your hand stroked him firmly. "Love your cock, Kyo," you whispered, your voice airy. "Feels so good in my throat."

Keeho threw his head back at your words, pressing his hips forward into your hand. "God, you're obsessed with it, aren't you?" he breathed heavily, looking back down at you with a hungry smirk. "Show me how much you love it, baby. Show me."

You sucked in a deep breath to resume your work, leaning forward to take him all the way in again. He immediately took control this time, hand stronger as he bobbed you on his cock, much rougher and more desperate than before. 

Needing another breath, you pulled off with a loud pop and only a second layer was he chasing your mouth, rubbing his swollen, spit-slicked cockhead right over your parted lips. Pure instinct took over, and without a second thought, you opened wide to take him right back in.

Keeho let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, his hips twitching at your eagerness. "God, you're so greedy for it. So desperate for my cock, aren't you?"

You pulled off again, chest heaving as you looked up into his dark, hooded eyes. "You can be rougher," you panted, nails scratching at his thighs. "I can really take it, Kyo... Want you to fuck my throat. Can you please?"

A dark, dangerous fire ignited in Keeho's eyes, erasing whatever self control he had left. He nodded, jaw clenching as he stared down at you with a newfound devotion. "Of course, angel," he purred dangerously. "If you want my cock down your throat so bad, I'll give it to you. I'm going to ruin that pretty throat. Such a brave girl.”

You barely had time to brace yourself before both of his large hands fell to the sides of your head, holding your face firmly in place. He bucked his hips forward, sliding his heavy cock deep into your mouth. You closed your eyes, focusing entirely on breathing through your nose, actively loosening and relaxing your throat muscles to accommodate his size. 

Sensing your surrender, Keeho gradually picked up speed. "Atta girl," he praised, his voice thick with lust as he watched his thick shaft disappear between your lips. "Knew you could do it. Look at you, swallowing me down to the base."

His hips began snapping forward to meet your throat, the impact hard and relentless. "That's it, you’re doing so good baby. F— ahh. B-best fucking mouth."

You could actually feel his cock swelling and hardening further inside your mouth, stretching your throat to its absolute limit. You opened your eyes, looking up at him with furrowed brows in pure concentration as your jaw ached from the position. 

You were deepthroating him like your life depended on it, sensing his impending release. 

The intense friction was too much. Your throat squeezed tight and you pulled off coughing, your eyes watering from the overwhelming sensation. 

When you leaned back in to take him again, you angled your face to the side, allowing his thick tip to hit the inside of your cheek. You bobbed your head, your lips sealed tight around him, creating a deep suction. 

Suddenly, his movements began to flutter. The steady, powerful thrusts turned frantic and jerky, his thighs trembling rapidly under your hands. You knew he was right on the edge. 

"Baby, fuck—I'm cumming," he warned, his voice cracking as his fingers dug into your hair. "I'm close! ‘M gonna fill your throat—that's it, take my cum—!"

You kept your lips firmly puckered around his tip, sucking hard to milk him through his climax. Keeho let out a choked groan, his hips locking forward as he finally came. 

Hot, thick ropes of his cum shot directly onto your tongue, hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed greedily, managing to take the first half of his heavy load down, before it became too much too fast.

You quickly removed his leaking cock from your mouth, wrapping your hand tightly around his base to jerk him off the rest of the way. With every rapid pump of your fist, his cock pulsed, the remaining climax splaying thick, pearly white strings of his cum across your chin, cheeks, and down onto the exposed skin of your chest, decorating you in his mess. 

Keeho let out a breathless, cocky laugh, his chest rumbling as he rode out the intense, euphoric high of his climax. His large hand stayed tangled in your hair, gently rubbing your head as he looked down at the stunning, filthy sight of you panting on your knees, covered in his release. 

"Fuck," he breathed out, "You look so pretty like this."

You sat fully back onto the hard floor, your chest heaving as you desperately caught your breath. Keeho’s dark eyes softened as they caught a glimpse of the stray tears that had trailed down your flushed cheeks—a beautiful, messy testament to how fiercely you had taken him.

As his heavy cock finally began to soften, Keeho reached down to pull his underwear back on, crossing the room to grab a pack of baby wipes before walking back over, sinking down beside you.

You watched him, still panting softly, as he pulled out a wipe and leaned forward. The contrast between his dominant, rough use of your mouth just moments ago and the gentle way he handled you now was staggering. His touch was incredibly tender as he began to carefully wipe away the sticky, pearly strings of his cum from your skin.

A sudden, wicked smirk pulled at your wet lips as you watched him diligently clean you. 

Keeho paused, his brow raising as he noticed your expression. He scoffed playfully, a fond smile breaking through. "What?" 

You hummed, tilting your head slightly into his warm hand. "You're so sweet, Kyo. Cleaning your cum off me right after fucking my throat."

A fierce blush instantly crept up Keeho's neck, heating his handsome face at your blunt, vulgar comment. The visual of him—this gorgeous man, completely flustered by your dirty mouth—made you throw your head back and laugh out loud. 

"God, you're something else," he chuckled, shaking his head. Dropping the used wipe to the side, his large hands immediately shot out to grip your hips. 

He pulled you flush against him, dragging you forward to rest right on his lap. He leaned his face close to yours until his messy hair was brushing against your forehead. 

"You were incredible," he whispered, thumbs rubbing gently into your sides. "Seriously... that was the best blowjob I've ever gotten."

You smiled, resting your hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with a supremely smug expression. "Well, you're the biggest I've ever taken... but I knew I could do it."

Keeho threw his head back and laughed again, a rich, genuine sound . "Yes you did, baby," he murmured, looking back down at you with a gaze so dark and heavy it made your stomach swoop. "I'm so fucking proud of you."

Your smug smirk melted into a bright, wide smile as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet kiss. You tasted faintly of his own climax and the raw, lingering heat of his arousal. His large hands wrapped firmly around your waist, holding you flush against his solid body. 

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, he began to lean you backward. He followed your descent,  smoothly guiding you down until your back hit the cool, hard floor, his heavy, broad frame hovering over yours. 

You broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, looking up at his handsome, flushed face as he caged you in between his arms. "What are you doing?" 

Keeho stared down at you, a dark, hungry smirk playing on his lips as his eyes raked over your body. 

"My turn."

—

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just something to keep you company the next time work demands his attention for days on end. finding a new fuck buddy has been out of the question since the first time you met seungcheol at the clubs and promptly took him home — or rather, the first time you hooked up with someone who wasn’t him and realised sex isn’t all that when he’s not the one you’re doing it with. 

once it shows up as Delivered to your end, you shut off his phone and discard it somewhere in the sheets. you roll over and nuzzle into his back, nodding off to the soft snores of the man who just spent the last few hours fucking the living daylights out of you. 

until a ding from his phone cuts through your shallow doze. then another. you blink, confused and increasingly panicked at the timing of the notification. 

…didn’t you send the video to yourself??

you didn’t exactly check the name before sending it, but you didn’t have to. it should be you at the top of seungcheol’s contacts. you’re the last person he messaged after all, since he invited you to a trip to pound town and was pretty occupied with that until knocking out in your bed. 

another ding has you fumbling around the blanket for seungcheol’s phone. you hold it to your face, squinting through the light to read the name on his notification screen. 

‘hannie’? 

you don’t waste another moment in punching in his passcode and opening the chat up with a sinking stomach. whoever this illustrious hannie is, she was on the receiving end of your sex tape, not yourself. 

hannie: ?????? hannie: Cheollie?? 

your stomach flips at the nickname. he told you to call him that too. said it was special, just between you two; only lets girls call him that when he… 

you: this is cheol’s girlfriend. who the fuck is this? 

okay, so you may have just blatantly lied. but you’re not above being possessive, let alone petty.

seungcheol’s quite literally the best dick you’ve ever had — even if you’re too emotionally unavailable to slap a label on it that would make him yours alone — so you’re just a little curious about the competition, especially when up until now you weren’t aware there was any.

you quit seeking out anyone else since the dawn of your little agreement with seungcheol, and you just assumed he was doing the same… considering you let him fuck you raw. 

hannie: ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ hannie: No offence babes, but if you really think you’ve got Cheollie locked down, you’re delusional~

you’re shaking with adrenaline all over at this point. you actually can’t believe the audacity on this woman. you scroll back up to the sex tape and hold on it until the little options bubble pops up. if she thinks she’s funny, you’re about to start acting fucking hilarious.

you: [forwarded an attachment] you: if that’s your man then why was he eating this pussy? 🤣

hannie: well fuck hannie: I’m hard

in the split second your mind blanks from disbelief, your thumb flies to the call button in the corner of the screen as you slip out of bed. it barely rings once before hannie picks up. 

“god, you’re forward.” she — or rather, he — says in a low, raspy chuckle. 

your jaw actually drops a little. if you weren’t so pissed off you’d probably find…his… voice attractive. 

“you’re a dude?!?” you whisper-yell, padding into the bathroom and locking the door behind you. 

“yes.”

“your name’s hannie.” 

“it’s short for jeonghan.”

“okay jeonghan,” you seethe with as much malice in your tone as you can manage. “who the fuck are you?”

“i think you owe me the answer to that first, sweetheart. considering you came on to me.” 

“fuck off.” you snap, and he whistles lowly in response. you frown. “are you fucking him?” 

“i have been.” you can just hear the smirk in his tone. 

just like in the movies, your back slides down the bathroom wall until you’re sat on the cold tile. this shitshow is just the gift that keeps on giving. not only is your all-time favourite fuck buddy seeing other bitches, but said bitch is a whole ass man, who’s sassier than you are. 

“i didn’t know cheollie swung that way.” you mutter. 

“i didn’t know he swung your way either. guess our boyfriend was playing us both, hm?”

you scoff, offended that he’d even lump you in with him like you’re some sort of team. “he is not my boyfriend. how long have you been seeing him??” 

“since april.” the same as you. fuck. “he’s not mine either. but does it even matter who was taking him up the ass first? we’ve both been led on, sweetheart.” 

“shut up.” you grit. you could’ve gone your entire life without having to hear you were unknowingly sharing a dick with this cocky ass twink. “and for your information, i never took him.” 

“oh wow.” jeonghan sighs, though it sounds too much like a whine. “is this why cheollie’s always so rough with me? because he…hah…cops it from you?” 

you blink, turning your volume to the max and listening to the unmistakable noises coming from the other end: the shuffling of fabric, barely concealing the slick sounds beneath it. 

“are you seriously fucking jerking off?” 

jeonghan huffs, and you can just hear the way he smirks through the phone. “can you blame me? you sent me a video of my man eating a pretty fucking pussy.” 

“oh my god.” you can only say in disbelief. 

the noises come to a halt, as you can imagine jeonghan’s hand did. against your will, your mind conjures up an image of the way he must be gripping himself right now: cock twitching in his fist, begging for any friction, but refusing to move until your voice is at his ear again. 

until you tell him it’s okay. 

he audibly gulps. “…is that too much?” 

you stare at the tiles of the bathroom floor. the room around you goes blurry as you focus on nothing but his shaky puffs of air on the other end.

you don’t know how it’s come to this. but fuck if you’re not gonna channel all this adrenaline somewhere. 

for a moment, the only response from your end is something shuffling. jeonghan only realises what’s happening when you spit, and he smirks since he knows it must be on your own fingers. 

“i didn’t say stop, did i?” you tell him in a whisper, breath hitching when your fingers swirl over your clit. 

jeonghan moans through a laugh, and you throb under your fingers at the noise. 

“oh, i’ll do whatever you want.” he drawls. 

most people would be devastated if they were in your position: realising that the only dick you’ve been letting cum inside of you, was also getting sticked into holes that didn’t belong to you. and you were devastated over the revelation for all of like a few minutes before just… having phone sex with owner of said holes?

after you came on your fingers to the sound of jeonghan doing much the same on his end, then sat in a puddle of your arousal and regret as you caught your breath, jeonghan’s mellow tone was enough to still your scattered thoughts. 

“don’t feel bad, pretty.” he cooed to you, reading the silence exactly for what it was. “he hid us from each other. looks like this was why, huh?” 

in fact, it was. 

you stayed up all night texting jeonghan from your own phone once you slid back into bed like nothing happened. after one hell of a first impression, it surprised you how well you and jeonghan got on as you properly got to know each other. how often you giggled at his jokes, how attracted you were to him in the selfie he sent where you nearly mistook him for a girl again. 

how you pressed your thighs together when his words turned filthier in response to the selfie you sent back.

you were almost disappointed when seungcheol woke you up the following morning by pressing his morning wood against your ass. it was the fact that you couldn’t invite jeonghan over to see if he’s just as good as through the phone, and all you had was this lying, fat cock throbbing bitchass... 

“where’s this coming from?” seungcheol chuckles as you straddle him, pissed off at him and pent up by jeonghan; grinding your clothed heat right down onto his in chase of friction. 

“just you, cheollie.” you smile lopsided at him, mind elsewhere. 

you think back to memory of jeonghan fucking his fist to the sound of your voice, how wrecked and pretty his moans were. thinking back to the nudes he sent you when the conversation steered to just sexting, how his cock was weeping around his fingers and onto his toned stomach. 

as you rode seungcheol, you did so selfishly. you kept your eyes screwed shut as you rocked on him, uncaring for the movement he needs to get off, your thoughts consumed entirely with the guy he’s been seeing behind your back. the guy you fully intend to start seeing behind his back.

you imagine it’s jeonghan’s slender cock fucking right into your g-spot right now instead of cheol’s girthier length. you imagine it’s jeonghan’s soft moans beneath you instead of cheol’s rough grunts. you imagine it’s jeonghan’s lithe fingers coming to rub at your clit instead of cheol’s thick ones. 

you almost called out the wrong name as your orgasm seized you. 

luckily you didn’t, or else seungcheol would’ve refused to leave your place; especially since you were basically pushing him out the door while he was still in post-nut clarity.

after your place was free of one man, you took your pretty ass to the shower, freshened up, and texted the other man your address.

jeonghan fucked you so good and so thoroughly you damn nearly texted seungcheol and thanked him. 

most people in your position would probably be giving you nasty side eye for it. now, you’re only devastated over seungcheol hiding him purely because you’ve been missing out. 

and well, jeonghan fully intends to make up for lost time. 

you were both on the same page about this being your shared little secret from seungcheol, his own personal karma. but you didn’t intend to stop seeing him, no — that’s where half the fun came from.

jeonghan fit into your days so easily as if the spot was there waiting for him. you texted and called him just as much as seungcheol. whenever your man couldn’t come around, you’d be calling your other man right over. 

you started filming sex tapes with seungcheol for the sole purpose of watching them back with jeonghan. you’d reenact them with him as they played in the background: sometimes he’d be seungcheol and press you into the mattress as he fucked you, sometimes you’d be seungcheol and you’d ride him until he was a shaking mess. 

whenever seungcheol preferred one of you over the other for the week — one being told that he was busy and would make it up next week, the other being fucked into oblivion by him — you always made sure no one else was left out. you traded photos of the messy state he’d leave you in, retold the sex in detail over call as the other got off to your voice: jeonghan jerking off to you telling how seungcheol bent you over a desk, you fingering yourself to jeonghan telling how he deepthroated seungcheol. 

you always have jeonghan over after him. never before. seungcheol’d smell his other lover on you in an instant, and god forbid choi seungcheol feel left out. 

some days it feels like you’re just fucking seungcheol so that you can get a round two with jeonghan once he’s gone. and you’d feel bad, if only seungcheol didn’t try to gatekeep jeonghan first — in an effort to protect his own fears of being the one left out, of course. 

how ironic.

“where he goes low,” jeonghan had cooed to you once, rubbing the aches out from your back in the post-sex haze. “we go lower.”

and you’ve been living by that.

as per usual, jeonghan gets to your place so quickly after seungcheol’s left that you’re worried their cars may have passed by each other. 

he can’t help it. jeonghan’s favourite thing ever is tasting his man while he’s fucking his girl. once you texted him that you let seungcheol fuck you raw, he didn’t even reply. rather, you got the life360 notification that he’d left his house to know that he was instantly on his way over after reading that, forgetting to let you know in text. 

and, lucky for you both, seungcheol left behind his hoodie. 

after jeonghan lets himself in, he finds you laying on your bed in nothing but just that — the smell of sweat and sex and seungcheol still heady in the air. 

you smile at your man, spreading your legs and showing where you’re cupping your hand over your pussy to keep your other man’s cum from leaking out. 

“oh, baby, you’re too good to me.” jeonghan praises in a broken voice, mindlessly throwing his keys somewhere across the room as he dives onto the mattress, sights honed in on what you’ve got for him between your legs. 

you cry out when his mouth latches onto your pussy as if by a magnetic pull. your hands tangle in his hair, trying your best to not just rip the strands out — still sensitive from how seungcheol left you. 

you hadn’t even gotten off, in fact. you’d insisted to him that you wanted to be edged, with the promise that next time he could make you cum til you fainted. and well, you still intend to make good on that promise — but it’s also because jeonghan’s greedy ass isn’t satisfied unless he’s pulled at least two orgasms out of you and some days you nearly can’t take it. call it suffering from success. 

now with the treat you’ve left for him between your thighs, you’re sure you’ll be in for him rewarding you with a handful of orgasms. 

he’s so lost in the sauce that he doesn’t even realise he had his eyes shut until he’s missing the sight of your face. you watch his lashes flutter open, his pretty brown eyes flicking up to your face: lips curling in a satisfied smile as he licks a hard stripe from your hole to clit. 

his chin and cheeks glisten with the messy mixture of fluids. he keeps bobbing his head like that, applying pressure with his tongue just to see you tremble above him. he’s so in tune with your body at this point that he cocks a brow as a thought clicks in his head. 

he pouts. “aw, baby. did cheollie not make you cum?” 

he blows air out on your clit experimentally, and his eyes shade over with how you shudder at the barest contact. 

you shake your head. “told him not to. wanted it to be you, hannie.” 

for such a sharp tongue, you render jeonghan speechless for a beat. his grin stretches wider across his soaked face, and he’s looking at you like he could grant you the whole world if you only asked. 

“you can’t be saying shit like that, sweetheart.” he sighs, plunging two lithe fingers into your core and delighting in the way you sob a moan. “if you ever want me to get rid of me..”

“not happening.” you grit out, throwing your head back when he starts to pump his fingers slowly. 

he sucks in a sharp inhale, one of necessity because you’ve got him that breathless. 

“ah. you must really like me.” he curls his fingers until he hits that spongey spot, tutting at how your thighs clamp around his head in kind. “lucky me, ‘cause i am crazy about you.” 

jeonghan reattaches his mouth to your pussy, lips closing around your clit to suck on the bundle of nerves. you’re sure he must feel how you’re throbbing under his tongue and around his fingers. cheol left you teetering off the edge, so you knew you’d be a goner when jeonghan got here so soon afterwards. 

his fingers relentlessly curl inside of you, his mouth switching between kitten licks and suctioning on your clit until you’re shouting out something that might be his name — orgasm completely taking over your body. 

you think you die a little with how hard and fast it slammed into you. jeonghan’s diligent to lick and fuck you through it, so you’re not sure how long it is before you come down, chest fighting to catch breath and throat sore from the exertion. 

you weakly tilt your chin down at jeonghan, who’s leaving gentle pecks on your inner thigh as he waits for you. his eyes catch on yours and he smirks, no doubt plotting something behind that beautiful face. 

jeonghan inches his fingers out, and you wince as his knuckles drag deliberately against your walls. his fingers are completely drenched: his saliva, your cum, and some of seungcheol’s too. 

he licks his lips at the sight but restrains himself, instead bringing his hand to your mouth. 

you don’t waste a second in closing your lips around his fingers, ravenous as the sharp tang lights up your palate. you can recognise each of your separate tastes and you mewl, taking jeonghan’s fingers until they tap the back of your throat. he cusses lowly before he retracts his hand. 

when your gazes meet again, you see your reflection with how wide jeonghan’s pupils were dilated. 

you grab jeonghan by the scruff of his hair and pull him up your body until his face is just short of yours. you tilt it back with a tug, his neck exposed and bobbing with a gulp. 

your face hovers over his and he opens his mouth expectantly, lips stretched in a helpless smile as he presents his tongue. 

you spit straight onto it, watching how his pupils eclipse even more of his irises in pure delight. 

he moans as he swallows the mess of fluids down — the taste of you, cheol and himself sliding down his throat.

you don’t wait another moment before mashing your lips together, kissing him with more tongue and teeth than anything. 

your free hand fumbles for his lap, palming over the prominent bulge in his shorts. you can tell he’s not wearing boxers (they’d be useless) when his length twitches at your touch, the fabric already soaked with precum. 

“fuck,” jeonghan gasps, chuckling into the kiss. “i might cum.” 

he plunges his fingers right back into your pussy, scissoring you open as he feels for cheol’s cum still pooled deep in your core. he doesn’t want to waste a single drop — he fully intends to fuck it right back into you, feeling both his man and his girl’s cum around his cock. just the thought has his moaning again. 

“can you imagine— hah— how fucking mad he’d be?” he rasps out, hips bucking into the delicious friction your palm offers. 

“oh, god—“ you giggle. “how d’you think he’d react?”

“probably break it off with us both, the big jealous baby.” he huffs out a laugh, wincing when your pussy clamps around his fingers. “but it’s alright, sweetheart, i’d be lucky to just have you.” 

the concept is almost inconceivable at this point: only having jeonghan. you’ve gotten so used to having two men to choose from depending on your mood. to being fucked twice in a day by two different cocks. 

you know that sooner or later it’ll come out. you’ve gotten reckless lately: blatantly texting jeonghan in front of cheol, not even pretending to be bummed when he says he can’t come see you. hell, there was one time where you and jeonghan were mysteriously busy — fucking each other to the tune of your phones ringing as cheol took turns calling you both. 

in fact, it’s made it even more exhilarating. knowing you’ve both got this over him, knowing how much he’d hate it and how it’s his own fault. it’s too bad he didn’t lock either of you down while he had the chance — they’d call him king arthur if he was able to seperate you and jeonghan now. 

about to die from the impatience, you tug jeonghan’s sweatpants down enough for his cock to spring free. he hisses when you wrap a tight fist around him, adding a third finger into your pussy in response. 

“ah, ah— gonna need to fuck you like now.” jeonghan says shakily, pulsing violently in the circle of your hand. “i’m close to making a fool of myself.” 

you nod, laying back into your pillows for him.

“you gotta be fucking…” 

the sound of seungcheol’s low voice through the wall has you leaping out of your skin, but jeonghan simply keeps you laid on your back with a hand pressed onto your tummy. 

your door swings open to reveal your other lover, standing in the frame with smoke pouring from his ears. 

jeonghan isn’t the least bit startled. doesn’t halt his fingers either; just draws out the pumps, leaving you trembling as you stare at seungcheol with guilty, teary eyes. 

“ah, cheollie, it’s about time.” jeonghan drawls. 

you stifle a moan when jeonghan curls a single finger to hit your g-spot, just to be mean. “what are you..?” 

“i came to get my hoodie.” seungcheol’s frown deepens as he takes in your naked form under said hoodie, eyes honing in on where your body connects with jeonghan’s fingers. “what the fuck are you doing?!”

“yah, you can’t ask a girl that when you’re the one who broke into her house.” jeonghan says, speeding up his fingers at the other man watching. 

“the door was unlocked.” seungcheol deadpans. 

you shoot a glance at jeonghan, who just shrugs, guilty. (in his rush to get to you, he forgot to lock your front door behind him.)

jeonghan curls his fingers again, and this time you can’t help the moan that leaves you. seungcheol steps into the room, successfully provoked. 

“fucking— just—” he rambles, looking like he’s two seconds from prying jeonghan’s hand out of you. “what the fuck is this?”

jeonghan shrugs with that same shit-eating grin. knowing he won’t get a serious answer out of him, seungcheol addresses you by name. “why—how do you know him?” 

“you tell me.” you snap back, wriggling your hips lower to give jeonghan even better access in spite. “why don’t you introduce us?” 

“wouldn’t that be nice.” jeonghan coos to you. “i think he’s too scared we’ll fuck each other though.” 

“god, you two really are alike, aren’t you..” seungcheol sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“oh, so he has a type.” jeonghan says. “your greed sickens me. but i get it, i’m no better. not since i got a taste of her too.” 

at that, jeonghan pulls his fingers out, only to wrap them around his cock and line himself up with your pussy — eyes never leaving seungcheol. 

your other lover walks further into the room until he stops just short of the foot of the bed. he runs a hand through his hair like you’re both stressing him the fuck out (you are), completely helpless to just witnessing this. 

“wait. jeonghan, don’t.” seungcheol’s usual commanding tone is lost on him, the words instead delivered as a weak plea. 

jeonghan hums, unconvinced as he swirls his tip at your hole. 

“please don’t,” seungcheol's close to begging. it's almost like he’s in a trance as he drops to the floor on his knees, unable to rip his eyes away from jeonghan’s tip nearly breaching into your wet warmth. “jeonghan.”

through half-lidded eyes you glance at seungcheol kneeling before you, his hand creeping towards the very evident tent in his grey sweats. 

“please what?” jeonghan teases, pre leaking all over your pussy. 

seungcheol gulps down the size of a boulder.

“please don’t stop.” 

per his request, he doesn’t. with one snap of his hips jeonghan pushes into you, and all three of you moan as he fills you up. 

you pulse around him once he bottoms out, and jeonghan shudders as the mixture of cum all up in your pussy gushes around his cock. 

“shit, baby. let’s hope i can last in front of cheollie,” jeonghan snickers in a low voice meant just for your ears. he throws a look over his shoulder at your other lover. “if you can hold back on cumming, i’ll let you join.” 

the older man mumbles something under his breath (can’t be anything nice), but he listens anyways — gripping both of his thighs while trying to ignore the painful pulsing between them. if he touches himself at all while watching you both, he’s going to fail. 

he resolves to biting his tongue as jeonghan starts to fuck you properly, in hopes he might draw blood to distract from how his boner’s screaming at him for some god damn relief. 

the room sounds like a literal porn set: wet slapping and squelching, neither you and jeonghan holding back on your moans with full intents of pissing seungcheol off. 

you could almost forget he’s even there when jeonghan starts slamming into you, your body shuffling up the bed from the force. he cants your hips up so he can angle his thrusts just right into your g-spot, and you all but sob when a thumb comes to circle your clit. 

“just one more f’me,” jeonghan pants out, and almost like on command your pussy starts spasming around him. “yeah, that’s it, that’s my good baby.” 

seungcheol’s cock is so stiff he think he might just die. where your orgasm ends, jeonghan’s starts — but he doesn’t stop rubbing at your clit, pushing you into overstimulation just because he wants to feel you completely wring him dry. 

both of your moans as jeonghan shoots his load inside of you is the sexiest and most torturous sound seungcheol’s ever heard. he’s almost bitten his tongue in half by the time jeonghan’s pulling out, quick to cup his hand over your pussy to make sure nothing seeps out. 

jeonghan gives seungheol a once over to ensure there’s no cum stain on his sweats before cocking his head in your direction, beckoning the other man over. “want a taste?” 

seungcheol’s on his feet and at the bed within seconds. he doesn’t waste another moment in latching his mouth to your pussy, the mess of mixed cum gushing onto his tongue. your back’s arching from the sensitivity, but it’s futile trying to writhe away from seungcheol when he’s eating you out like a man on the brink of starvation.

jeonghan keeps your legs open with one hand pressing your thigh to the bed, the other hand planted in seungcheol’s hair — praising and directing him as he holds his head down. your head is spinning from the overstimulation. the promise you made to cheol be damned, you think you’re going to faint now if he pulls another orgasm out of you. 

jeonghan must see it: the glazed, faraway look in your eyes, how you’ve gone almost dumb with the pleasure. 

high off the surge in pride, he takes his hand from your thigh and kneads seungcheol’s ass. it’s all the warning he gets before a thumb prods at his hole. 

seungcheol’s response is muffled when jeonghan shoves his face even further into your pussy. he doesn’t push in, just circles the rim with enough pressure to make cheol shiver. 

jeonghan’s other hand then reaches down into seungcheol’s sweats and grips his weeping cook. as out of it as you are, your hand replaces his to tug at seungcheol’s hair — keeping him in place as you hump at his mouth, basically riding his face to reach one last orgasm. 

jeonghan has no mercy as he jerks seungcheol off: fist closed so tight to the point it must be painful, moving so fast he can’t feel his arm. 

your nth orgasm hits first: ripping through your body and soaking seungcheol’s face, the taste of all of your cum coating his tongue. a mere few strokes later and seungcheol’s orgasms follows with a pitiful sob into your pussy. 

he shoots ropes across your sheets before collapsing into them, head lolled across your bare thigh. 

jeonghan pats his ass with a satisfied hum. “well damn. if you wanted to cuck, cheollie, you could’ve just asked.” 

he rolls his eyes. “fuck doing that again. you know i hate being left out.” 

“doesn’t feel good, does it?” you remind him, fingers threading through his sweaty hair. 

seungcheol grumbles. “so you found out about each other and now you fuck, is that right?” you both nod at him, and he sulks. “this is exactly why i didn’t say anything!” 

jeonghan tuts. “you better get used to sharing, cheollie.”

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