nikipom

you didn’t usually linger in spencer’s for too long. 

you’d already scoped out the racks of oversized graphic tees, mentally noted a few body jewelry sets, and were on your way to the gag gift aisle just to kill time.

you weren’t expecting to feel a sudden shoulder bump from behind, hard enough to make you stumble forward and hear a sharp crash at your feet.

you spun around, and there he was.

tall, broad-shouldered, black hoodie half unzipped to show a vintage metallica tee, ripped jeans hanging low on his hips. his dark hair was messy in that definitely didn’t try but still looks good way, tied back into a low, loose bun. and his face? 

lord. 

sharp jaw, eyes warm but intense, framed by the glint of snake bite piercings and a single silver ring through his eyebrow.

in his hands were the jagged pieces of a novelty mug that now read world’s okayest in one hand and human in the other.

“shit uh- sorry,” he mumbled, shifting his weight like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

“wasn’t looking where i was going.”

you raised a brow, lips tugging into a smirk. “guess not.”

he winced, holding up the broken merch like a confession. “this is… probably gonna be on me.” his voice was low, with a slight rasp, like he’d been laughing or yelling at a concert recently.

the awkwardness radiating off him should’ve been a turn-off, but instead it was… cute. endearing, even. and up close, you could see the faint shadow of freckles across his nose, and the tiny snake tattoo curling around one finger.

“i’m really sorry for bumping into you. look, at least let me make it up to you somehow,” he said, shifting the broken mug to his other hand so he could rub the back of his neck. “buy you a drink or something? there’s a good boba spot in the food court.”

you tilted your head. “you always offer to buy random girls boba when you bump into them?”

a faint blush crept up his cheeks. “just the ones who don’t cuss me out right away.”

you bit back a laugh. “fine. but i’m getting a large.”

fifteen minutes later, you were sitting across from him in the food court seating area, sipping a taro milk tea while he stirred his brown sugar latte with his straw.

his name was choso kamo. 

he skated, collected vinyl from metal bands, and somehow the conversation had drifted into nerd territory. anime, old cult horror movies, retro video games, and the fact that he owned three snakes.

“what’d you name them?” you asked, leaning forward on your elbows.

“uh medusa, leviathan, and, don’t laugh, karen.”

you snorted into your drink. “karen??”

“she’s… the problem child,” he said with a shrug. “bit me twice the first week i got her.”

the back-and-forth was easy, that natural pull you couldn’t fake. by the time he asked for your number, you were already eager to type it into his phone.

⋆｡𖦹 °✩

you both decided to go on a mini golf date a few days later. 

you’d dressed in a black pleated skirt, fishnets, and a cropped tee that made his eyes dip lower than he probably realized.

the course was blacklight lit, neon-painted obstacles glowing under the dim. 

you were laughing over a failed attempt at a trick shot when he stepped in close behind you.

“you’re holding it too high,” he murmured, his voice low enough to make your skin prickle. his hands slid down yours on the club, slow and deliberate, until his chest brushed your back.

you stiffened just slightly, mostly because his body heat was radiating into you, and you could feel the way his thighs pressed against you when he leaned in.

“like this?” you asked, hips shifting back just enough to make contact.

his breath ghosted your ear, and you swore you felt the faintest twitch against you before he cleared his throat. “yeah. better.”

you hit the ball perfectly, but neither of you looked at where it went. 

instead, you glanced back at him over your shoulder, catching the way his gaze lingered at your mouth before flicking back up.

through the rest of the game, it was all subtle touches; his hand at your lower back guiding you through a narrow section, your fingers brushing his as you passed the putter back, his knee brushing yours when you stopped to tally the score. there was a quiet understanding between you, and neither of you wanted it to end.

⋆｡𖦹 °✩

lunch was at a calm burger spot nearby. you sat across from each other in a booth, talking with that same easy rhythm, but there was something charged in the air now; the kind of energy where every shared smile feels like it’s hiding something heavier underneath.

when the plates were cleared and the check was paid, you both stepped out into the late evening air.

he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “can i…” he paused, eyes flicking down to your lips. “can i kiss you?”

you didn’t even answer. just grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him down.

the kiss was messy and heated, his snake bite piercings cool against your lips. he kissed like he’d been holding it in all night, tongue sliding against yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your waist.

you broke away just enough to breathe, and he was looking at you like he wanted more. “my car’s right over there,” he said, voice low and rough.

⋆｡𖦹 °✩

he took a second to sit back on his heels between your spread thighs, his big hands pushing your knees wider until the skirt was bunched uselessly around your waist.

his gaze dragged over you, slow and heavy, and his tongue swiped over his lip ring before he muttered, “fuck, you’re unreal.”

he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle. then another, further up your calf. his lips were warm and unhurried, tasting every inch like he had nowhere else to be.

by the time he’d kissed his way up to your knee, you were already squirming.

“stay still for me,” he murmured, his palm flattening against your thigh to hold you down. “wanna take my time with you.”

he mouthed at the soft skin just above your knee, teeth grazing before sucking lightly, leaving a faint mark. then he worked higher kissing, licking, dragging his piercings over you until he was at the curve of your hip.

his hands slid up under your shirt, palms hot against your waist as he bent forward to kiss your stomach, right over your belly button.

you shivered when his fingers hooked into your panties, peeling them down your legs slow enough to make you whine.

“look at you,” he said, his voice rough now. “fuck, i could stare at this all night.”

he didn’t dive in right away. no, he just sat there, thumb tracing the wet seam of your folds, watching the way you twitched under the touch.

“been thinking about this since the mall,” he admitted. “wondering how you taste, how you’d sound.”

you opened your mouth to say something smart, but it died on your tongue when he leaned in and licked a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit.

“shit,” you gasped, hand immediately going to his hair.

he smirked against you before sucking your clit into his mouth, his snake bites pressing deliciously against the sensitive bud.

the way he ate you out was obscene. 

there was no hesitation, no holding back. his tongue was everywhere, switching between messy licks and tight circles until your hips were lifting off the seat.

you could feel your orgasm building fast, your thighs trying to close around his head, but his hands held you open.

“don’t you fuckin’ run from it,” he growled against you, then latched on harder.

the first wave hit, sharp and overwhelming, and your eyes blurred with tears as you came with a choked sob.

he moaned into you, keeping the same rhythm like he wasn’t planning to stop, and when you tried to push him away, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to your thighs.

“nah, you’re not done,” he said, voice dark and ragged. “gimme another one.”

your breath hitched. “choso, i-”

“you can,” he cut you off, sucking your clit harder, his tongue flicking quick and relentless.

the overstimulation burned in the best way, your chest heaving, your vision going glassy again.

you came a second time, harder than the first, your thighs trembling so bad he had to hold you steady.

only when you went limp against the seat did he finally pull back, his chin glistening, his eyes hazy with lust.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, leaning down to kiss you slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

his hand found the back of your neck, thumb rubbing your jaw before sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat. “gonna fuck you now,” he murmured, the words a promise and a warning all at once.

he stayed there for a second, still kissing you with his hand snug around your throat, before pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.

“gonna have you shaking all over my cock,” he said, low and certain, like it was just a fact.

he reached down, undoing his belt slow, letting the clink of the buckle fill the small space between you. your eyes followed every movement, the way his knuckles brushed the hard bulge straining in his jeans.

once he freed himself, he tore open a condom, rolling it on with one hand, the other still resting at your throat like he didn’t want to lose that contact.

“pull your shirt up for me,” he ordered softly, and when you obeyed, his eyes went molten. “fuck, look at you.”

he leaned forward, mouth closing around one nipple, his tongue swirling before he sucked hard, his piercings adding that sharp little scrape. he gave the same treatment to the other, one of his hands kneading your breast while the other slid down between your thighs to tease your slit again.

“still so wet,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “you ready?”

“yes,” you breathed, already impatient.

he lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds first, coating himself in you.

“gonna sink in slow,” he promised, “wanna feel every inch.”

and he did; pushing forward inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.

both of you groaned, your nails digging into his hoodie as you adjusted to the stretch.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he said through gritted teeth, pulling back halfway before driving in deep again. “like you were made for me.”

he started moving with deep, steady thrusts that forced every breath from your lungs. his free hand roamed, cupping your face, brushing your jaw, sliding down to grip your throat again.

“look at me,” he rasped, his hips hitting yours harder now. “wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”

you could feel your eyes sting, not just from the pressure on your throat but from the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing he wanted in the world.

a tear slipped free, and he groaned at the sight. “fuck, that’s it. you’re so pretty, even when you cry.”

he kissed you again, rough and messy, before shifting his angle, grinding in deep enough to hit that perfect spot.

your moan was loud, your back arching, and he smirked. “there it is. knew i’d find it.”

he didn’t let up, his pace unrelenting now. one of his hands slid between you to circle your clit, his thumb working in time with his thrusts.

“cum for me again,” he urged, his voice rough. “make a mess on me, baby.”

the combination was devastating. 

his cock filling you over and over, his thumb pressing just right, his gaze locked on yours.

you came hard, sobbing out his name, your nails clawing at his shoulders.

“fuckkk,  good girl,” he groaned, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. with a few more deep thrusts, he was cumming too, head dropping to your shoulder.

he stayed inside you for a moment, breathing hard, his lips brushing lazy kisses over your neck and jaw.

“you’re… so fucking dangerous,” he said, grinning against your skin. “might have to keep you.”

ending notes: i miss my man (he's not my man and im delusional). i will be on vacay till next week starting wednesday so if you don't hear from me, see ya when i get back!

thank you for reading! likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

requests are open

"I'm afraid." Shoto says in that short way of his, mumbling into your ear as he slowly makes love to you. You almost miss the words, too distracted by the gentle, wet drag of his cock inside of you.

"Oh!" You can't help but moan as he picks up the pace a bit, the crown of his dick hitting the most delicious spot inside of you. He recognizes that he's found the ideal angle and rhythm, and he concentrates on replicating the motion as many times as he can. You feel like you've died and gone to heaven, dancing on the edge of orgasm as this beautiful man pleasures you in his bed.

But then your brain finally catches up, processing Shoto's mumbled words from minutes before.

"Wait - ah - Sho, stop."

Shoto's body comes to a hault, and he lifts himself up so he can peer down at your face. "Why do you want to stop?" His voice rumbles, low and uncertain as he searches your expression for clues.

"Why are you afraid?" You ask, raising a delicate hand to cup his cheek. Without thinking, he turns his face to press a chaste kiss to your palm.

"Oh. Well." Shoto gulps as he turns back to face you, his delicate hair falling into his lashes. He's so beautiful, sometimes looking at him like this takes your breath away. His sharp, aristocratic cheekbones are etherial. His cupids bow is the perfect curve - just right for kissing. His mismatched eyes are so unique and eye catching, it's hard to look away once you're locked in his sightline.

"You can tell me, Sho." You say softly. "Like...come on. Your bare dick is literally inside of me right now. I think we've lost all traces of decorum."

Shoto nods thoughtfully, doesn't laugh. That's another thing about this man - he's lacking in the social skills department. Sometimes you need to clearly state that you're joking, or else he'll take every word at face value.

"That was supposed to be funny." You add on, making sure he knows you're teasing.

"Oh. Okay." He didn't get it. But that's alright - at the very least he now knows you're trying to be light hearted with him.

"What's bothering you? What are you afraid of?" You smooth his hair back, and he ever so slightly leans into the touch.

"How long have we been having sex like this?" He asks, eyes fixed on your own. You bite your lip and think.

"Maybe...three months now? Ever since we met at that stupid hero gala honoring Mount Lady's charity for women with bad nose jobs." You wrinkle your own nose as you think about your colleague's ridiculous excuse for philanthropy. "Why?"

Shoto's beautiful face contorts into a frown.

"I'm afraid this is getting to be too much for me." He says flatly.

Your heart instantly sinks into your stomach. Ah, of course. Shoto's bored of you. You knew this friends with benefits situation was always too good to be true. It was only a matter of time before Shoto realized that he's too good for a B-grade underground hero. He's so young - at twenty six years old he's already in the Top 10. You're always under cover, working in the shadows. That means you're not even on the board.

And now Shoto's going to drop you - to leave you for some pretty Top 20 hero like Mount Lady.

You can just see the headlines now - Shoto Todoroki seen with beautiful new girlfriend at Hibachi restaurant. Shoto Todoroki proposes to Pro Hero girlfriend in Paris. Shoto Todoroki and Pro Hero wife are pregnant with first child. You know that each of these inevitable news stories will gut you, no matter how much time has past. This is not a wound that will heal easily. Shoto Todoroki is irreplaceable in your heart. You should have never offered to be friends with benefits in the first place - you knew your poor heart wouldn't be able to survive the inevitable sting of Shoto moving on.

Over the past few months of nonstop fucking, you've fallen for Shoto. You've fallen for him hard. How could you not? He's so fucking thoughtful - always ordering in your favorite takeout after a long day on the job, sneaking you into the back booths of his favorite restaurants to avoid the press when the two of you feel like going out. He's so sweet always inviting you to his friend's houses for parties or movie nights, showing you off as if you're something special to him. And the sex. Oh my God the sex! Shoto's an attentive and dedicated lover, always finding new ways to caress and draw pleasure out of you as if it's your first time together. Each moment your bodies intertwine, things are electric between the two of you.

But you knew this would happen - that you wouldn't be able to keep him. He's just so, so good. And you're just an underground hero with a wanting heart.

Shoto has never been one for babbling, but he doesn't wait for you to reply. He keeps talking. Obviously these thoughts have been bothering him. You just wished he would have waited until after sex to dump you.

He looks down at you sadly. "I don't think I can do this 'friends with benefits' any longer."

You sniffle, trying to keep the tears from leaking. "I understand."

His forehead creases in displeasure, his teeth worrying at his lip for a moment. "You do?"

"Of course. You don't want to sleep with me anymore. And I get it - you're busy and have a lot going on and we agreed from the start that this would be casual, didn't we? So it's fine, Shoto. We can stop seeing each other and just be friends." The words flood out of you in a wave. You know you can't 'just be friends' with him after this. Not after you've known how he feels inside of you, how he kisses...but you need to be nice about this. It's your fault for catching feelings, afterall.

Shoto's frown deepens. "That's not it at all." He says matter of factly. "Of course I want to keep sleeping with you. I'm afraid because I fear I'm developing too many feelings for you and you might not feel the same way. We said we would keep this casual, but I don't think I feel 'casual' about you."

Oh. Oh!

"I don't feel casual about you either." You say in a breathy voice, disbelieving.

Shoto's frown instantly dissolves, his beautiful face smoothing into that gentle smile of his. "Really?"

"Really."

"So...what does that mean?" He asks, cocking his head to the side slightly. He looks like an adorable dog when he does that.

You reach up so you can pull his face to yours in a kiss. He melts against you - lips sliding against yours sweetly. His cock twitches inside of you, instantly rock hard once again and you rock your hips, encouraging him to move. He gets the message and slowly drags his hips back so he can gently move inside of you once more.

You break the kiss and let out a groan of pleasure as he fills you with his cock. He pulls away from you, still smiling.

"I think that means we both want a relationship." You say quietly, smiling back at him. "I think we want to date each other."

"So instead of friends with benefits...I'd be your boyfriend?" He says thoughtfully, a hand moving to smooth over one of your breasts as he shifts inside of you.

"And I'd be your girlfriend." You say, letting out a soft moan as his fingers brush across your pebbled nipple.

"I really like the sound of that." Shoto says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple as he thrusts deeply inside of you. You're both quiet for a moment, enjoying the sweet sensation of each other's bodies being connected. After a beat, a mischievous smile crosses Shoto's lovely face. "Can your boyfriend make you cum?"

Your heart glows golden inside of your chest, and your pussy flutters around him at the question. "Your girlfriend would like that. Very much."

Shoto's grin makes you giggle as he pulls out of you, placing quick kisses across your chest, your stomach, your thighs, before he tosses your legs over his shoulders and starts eating you out. You let out a string of unladylike expletives as he swirls his tongue through your folds, taking the time to kiss and suck and circle around your clit with gusto.

"Fuck, Sho!" You cry out as you feel yourself getting close. Shoto is the best at oral. You've never had a man eat you out in such an enthusiastic, mind blowing way. "I'm gonna...oh!" Shoto sucks on your clit for a second longer before pulling his face away. You make a disappointed noise as he untangles himself from your legs.

"Don't worry." He chuckles as he rises onto his knees on the bed. "You'll get to cum. I promise."

He grabs you by the hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. He's so strong and built out from his training and hero work, he throws you around like you weigh nothing (which is insane, since you're fairly muscular form your own hero work). You fall easily onto the mattress, crying out in pleasure as Shoto pulls gets you in position so he can take you from behind.

He caresses your pussy with his hardness, swiping his cock through your folds and playing with your clit in a way that has you begging for him to take you. When he finally lines up his cock with your entrance, you hear him let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. He pushes into you slowly, and the sweet stretch of your pussy accommodating him almost makes you cum on the spot. Once he's fully pressed inside, he lets his hands wander to your hips. He starts moving slowly, letting you enjoy every inch of him the way he knows you like.

"Shoto...fuck...Shoto I like you so damn much." You can't help but ramble. At your words, you feel him get impossibly harder. You feel so overstimulated, so good. His hands differ in temperature slightly - the combined warm and cold touch prickling at your senses in the most delicious way. He picks up the pace, groaning as he finds a good rhythm.

"You...are...the best thing that's ever happened to me." Shoto says in a voice that's unusually coated in emotion. His words go straight to your cunt, and you cry out his name over and over as you cum around him, pussy tightening as shocks of pleasure wash over you again and again.

Shoto's not one to curse, but when he feels your pussy flare and pull around him, he can't help himself. "Fuck, Y/N." His orgasm hits him like a wall, and he doesn't remember to pull out. He cums hard, filling you up deliciously with his warm baby batter. It feels so good, so right. You feel tears of pleasure prickle at the corners of your eyes as you come down from your high, body still twitching in ecstasy around a spent Shoto.

You lay together for a few quiet minutes, both of you sweaty and breathing hard as you process what's just happened.

Finally, Shoto speaks.

"I've had feelings for you since the moment our hands touched at that stupid hero gala three months ago. I just didn't get up the courage to say something until today."

You let out a happy laugh. You wonder if he's grinning, too. He slowly pulls out of you, and you feel his thick cum dribbling down your thighs. Fuck, you're going to need to wash the sheets after this. But you don't really care. All you want to do right now is hold Shoto and kiss his sweet, gorgeous face. You turn in the bed so you can face him, body sore from your intense fucking.

Shoto is absolutely beaming, his face radiating joy. He pulls you into his chest, kissing the top of your head as he wraps his strong arms around you in a sweet embrace.

"I've felt exactly the same, Sho." You say, nuzzling into his sweat-slicked chest. "And now we can be together as more than just friends."

“but a couple months' worth of games, and plus the fiasco we had at the homecoming game, isn’t gonna make up for the entire season okkotsu.” his manager explained, genuine sympathy plastered on his face as he leaned forward and folded his fingers over the table. “i do applaud you for playing better recently, i do, believe me. but...”

yuta felt like he was gonna vomit.

“not unless you play so terrifically and the team manages to make it into the superbowl this year... i’m afraid we’re gonna have to trade you off for the next year. and moving forward.”

he was cold, and clammy, the blood completely drained from his face as he sat there staring at the stupid piece of paper.

yuta okkotsu had officially exhausted his luck and met the inevitable end of his career.

“i understand.” he quietly replied, his coach and his management exchanging worried looks.

“listen okkotsu—” his coach began. “it’s not permanent yet... right? you've been one of my most loyal players and i'd hate to see you go. just... just work hard and hope that we make it into the superbowl, alright?”

his manager cut in. “it’s never easy letting one of you boys go believe us, and i do applaud you again for that wicked touchdown you made during playoffs last season—”

yuta drowned out the rest of that meeting, all the way up until he blankly shook both their hands and took the contract from the table, thanking the both of them for their time and the opportunity before quietly closing the door behind him, silently making his way back to the locker room to pack up his stuff for the night.

had the meeting really run for that long that practice was over? it had genuinely felt like at least ten minutes to him... what more could they have possibly said?

it's not like it mattered anyway, because yuta was not only losing his team, his career, and his livelihood... but you.

he would no longer see you every morning and every night on weekdays. he'd no longer see you from across the stadium— taking pictures for your work and doing what you did best. he’d no longer have your water bottle in his cubby or your giggles in his ears when he managed to make you laugh in passing.

he'd no longer have nanami to guide him. he'd no longer have his cheerleader friend to lean on.

he wouldn’t have anything.

he wouldn’t have fucking you—

“yo okkotsu. the hell were you?”

yuta snapped out of his thoughts and looked up, his gaze met with itsuki just exiting from the locker room doors.

god not now man.

“you left the rest of practice we were down a receiver.” he lifted a brow at him. “and y/n has been waiting in there for you for like an hour already.”

yuta's face dropped. “has— has she?”

itsuki rolled his eyes.

“jesus as if you don’t already make it more obvious dude.” he hiked his duffel bag further up his shoulder. “you know she has a boyfriend right? so what are you doing?”

yuta's eyes drew into slits. “i’m not doing anything what are you on about.”

itsuki snorted and started trekking down the hall.

“right yeah. listen she’s hot as hell but do you really think she’d wanna be with you? of all people? if it was nanami i'd believe it.”

“itsuki i'm not in the mood tonight so just go the fuck home.”

“i’m just trying to help you!” he called from down the hall. “forget about her already! you're out of the running!—”

yuta kicked the locker room doors open, having to physically remove himself away from itsuki to refrain from literally murdering him, yuta completely missing the way you jumped at the loud noise from where you sat as he flung the letter somewhere in his cubby.

“hi yu.” you softly greeted.

“hi.” he mumbled.

why was he such a god damn failure?

you faltered a bit at his tone, but continued nonetheless.

“i um... i wanted to thank you again for the flowers!” you faintly smiled. “and for being there for me...”

“s’fine.”

he ripped his gloves off and threw them in his cubby, along with pulling whatever padding he had nestled underneath his jersey off.

“i— i talked to reno and we managed to work it out...” you timidly explained.

he froze, eyes stuck to the floor.

“so you don’t have to worry about me anymore heh! he told me that he was sorry and that he had dinner reservations for tomorrow night—”

“don’t count on it.”

you stopped, blinking dumbfounded for a couple of seconds.

“h— huh?”

“i said don’t count on it.” he snapped from over his shoulder, and you flinched at his tone.

yuta wasn’t one to talk to you like that.

“...what do you mean?”

he spun around and flailed his arms out in exasperation.

“what do i mean? y/n—” he dug a hand in his hair. “he’s a piece of shit! he doesn’t love you!”

your jaw dropped.

“are you—”

“how do you not see it?!” he shook his head side to side. “i’ve watched him be so fucking awful to you for almost two years, he forgets your anniversary, basically verbally abuses you over the phone, and you forgave him?! again?”

“yes because he’s my boyfriend yuta—”

“and what am i?!” he yelled in desperation. “did you forget what happened earlier? what i said?!”

you gnawed on the inside of your cheek.

“what— what did you—”

“i fucking love you y/n! that's what i said!”

yuta was so done.

he was done with his team, he was done with the nfl, and he was done watching you be with another man that couldn’t care less about you when he was right freaking there.

“i can’t— i can’t eat, i can’t sleep, i can’t play football i can’t do anything because i'm literally sick over you and you’re with him!”

the sight of his bloodshot glistening eyes killed you, and you sniffled, frantically trying to blink back your own tears.

“i can’t get you out of my head baby.” yuta frantically shook his head again, a palm to his forehead. “i’m so fucking sorry y/n i tried i swear to god i tried but i can’t do it i can’t shake you i can’t—”

baby.

“—i held on for as long as i could and i kept my— my space but i just can’t do it anymore. i would do anything for you i'd let you do whatever you wanted i'd let you get a cat!”

“yuta—”

“so what am i to you.” he cut you off, his breathing ragged and cheeks flushed red as he dropped his arm. “after what happened earlier in here. what am i to you.”

you hiccuped. “yu you’re— you’re my best friend—”

he let out a pained breath and closed his eyes. “don’t give me that shit y/n please—”

“you are!” you argued. “you’re everything to me you’re not—”

“they’re trading me off.”

you locked up. “what?”

“that’s what the meeting was about that nanami came in here for.” he sniffed. “i’m being traded. m'leaving in a few months.”

your heart dropped to the pits of your stomach, your blood running cold and feeling like this wasn’t real, like you weren’t currently fighting with yuta and that he wasn’t being kicked from the team, like he wasn’t officially being beat down by the industry like you’d feared so much for all along.

“you can’t be— you can’t be serious—”

yuta turned his body and reached behind for the notice in his cubby, holding it out for you and you quickly taking it, hurriedly wiping your eyes and cheeks so you could see it clearly.

player trade notice: yuta okkotsu.

a breath of disbelief escaped your throat, flipping the paper over to its back and then to the front, over and over as if that was going to make this situation any better.

“coach says my only saving is if i play well and the team gets into the superbowl, which isn’t possible and you know that.” he numbly explained. “so i'm asking you again.”

you snapped your head up from the notice.

“what am i to you.”

why couldn’t you figure it out? why couldn’t you fucking admit it? why was your skin and chest burning so badly when you looked at yuta’s teary eyes?

but reno...

your hands trembled as you set the notice down on the bench, a sob wracking through you as you crossed your arms and hugged yourself.

“you’re... my best friend.” you spoke through your tears, diverting your gaze.

yuta slumped then and squeezed his eyes shut, his heart actively breaking into a million fucking pieces in that moment as he put a hand over his chest— not knowing of why but just needing to do it or else he felt like he was going to die.

you had made your choice.

and stupid itsuki was right.

“i think— i think me leaving is for the best.” he shakily spoke, turning around and dragging his backpack out from his cubby. “i really can’t be here anymore—”

“no yuta don’t say that please don’t say that—”

you speed walked over and grabbed his wrist, tugging and willing for him to look at you.

he didn’t.

“why are you even friends with me to begin with.” he mumbled. “it's because you feel bad for me isn’t it?”

a pang of hurt and anger shot through your chest.

“are you kidding?” you asked incredulously.

his frustration was entirely misdirected at this point, and his heart was screaming and pulling at him to stop what he was doing and just make amends with you, to stop making you cry, to— to—

“m’not.” he laughed humorlessly then. “why else would you even talk to me y/n... you pity me because i'm the worst god damn player here—”

“how could you say that?!” you raised your voice, broken hearted in your own way as you stared at the side of his face with narrowed wet eyes. “do you even know who the fuck i am?!”

he turned to face you head on and your fingers slipped from his wrist, expressionless with silent tears streaming down his face.

“you of all people should know that i would never do some shit like that! much less to you!”

yuta did know that.

“i care about you yuta! so fucking much i care and i worry and i think about you but i've never pitied you! not even once!”

“that’s why i can’t be here.” he choked out. “because you do that and it makes me want you more and i— can’t.”

“don’t say that please...” you sobbed. “please yu just— i need you here with me.”

he lifted his hands and carefully cupped your face as you cried, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs again and again despite the fact that it was practically useless with how much you were crying, each hiccup and beg that you iterated further tearing him apart into smaller bits and pieces.

“i love you pretty girl.” he whispered. “i love you and i can’t be here.”

“yu!—”

yuta turned your face and smushed his lips to your cheek in a firm kiss— squeezing his eyes shut in utter agony as you stood there wide eyed.

he couldn’t control himself anymore, knowing that he’d fucked it all with you by doing what he did and saying what he said— stupidly crossing the lines of what it took to lose you forever when he swore up and down that he never would.

but he just couldn’t do it anymore.

yuta held you there for a couple of seconds before detaching his lips with a little chuu, dropping his hands and snatching his backpack from the ground.

“m’sorry—” he choked on a sob and wiped his eyes with his arm, slinging his bag over his shoulder without sparing you a glance and quickly walking to the exit, pushing his way through the doors— leaving you.

you didn’t speak to each other for four weeks after that.

it was a mutual avoidance, the both of you no longer attached to the hip as you stayed on your respective sides of whatever— the field, the locker room, the wrap up at the end of the day to go home— the walk through the parking lot that was awfully quiet now without either of you babbling about anything you wanted.

yuta would cautiously make sure that you weren’t in a room first before going in himself, or you would keep your distance from him on the field when capturing photographs, neither of you even looking at one another except for stolen glances— your eyes somewhere else while his somber ones were on yours, lingering there just up until you turned your head, his gaze switching off and replaced by you looking at him— a tangled up ball of guilt and heartache in your chest that hadn’t gone away since the day you argued.

it was obvious enough that your cheerleader friend noticed, along with nanami, the two of them gently questioning you every now and then about how either of you were doing... about why you weren't speaking to yuta, why he wasn’t speaking to you, the answer always the same every time they asked.

you both were just busy.

did they buy it? no. but they knew better than to question.

it was torture and fucked up for the two of you. you missed yuta... and you didn’t know if you could ever forgive yourself for hurting him in the way that you did.

and yuta should’ve known better than to assume he’d ever be a choice to you.

his lack of sleep grew worse, along with his self-loathing and misery, his body considerably aching all over despite him sustaining zero injuries during practices, him just— exhausted every day and mourning you even when you were standing just a few feet away from him across the field, beautiful and lovely and a girl that didn’t belong to him no matter how many times he wished and begged for it.

he was sick in the heart because of you.

“speak with her.” nanami spoke while rearranging his cubby, yuta sitting on the bench nearest to him with his head hung low.

“this has gone on for quite a while. enough of a while actually.”

yuta solemnly shook his head, eyes trained to the ground as he absentmindedly tugged at his fingers.

“i can’t.” he mumbled. “i really can’t.”

“because of your pride?”

“what? no.” he softly pushed. “it has nothing to do with that...”

“i’m failing to understand the issue okkotsu.” nanami sighed through his nose, pausing what he was doing to look at him from over his shoulder. “i thought you loved her enough to make amends.”

he faltered. “i— i do.”

“then speak with her—”

“the difference is she knows now nanami...” yuta picked his head up to match his gaze. “things can’t go back to the way they were i don’t— i just can’t do it.” he tiredly rubbed at his eyes. “i can’t be her friend anymore.”

yuta messed things up with you... you messed things up with him... there was nothing more to it. nothing more to do.

and the fact was quickly eating away at him.

nanami silently nodded then, moving around a bit to take a seat next to him on the bench.

“you’re correct.” he spoke. “she knows. she made her choice. there is nothing you can do.”

yuta's throat tightened.

“but if you love her enough to set your needs aside one final time, you’ll find that making amends with her will hurt far less than you leaving things the way they are.”

yuta looked away, his brows pinched together in gloom, a permanent frown stitched on his face.

“it’ll help you find peace okkotsu...” nanami continued. “allow yourself to have a bit of it by knowing you did everything you could to get her.”

a beat of silence followed.

“you’ll live to regret it if you don’t. i promise you.”

peace.

what even was that if you weren’t the one giving it to him?

with a heavy pat to his shoulder, nanami stood and grabbed his duffel bag, murmuring for him to consider it just before packing up the last of his things and leaving, yuta sitting there in his thoughts as the locker room vacated little by little, all the way up until it was just him and the slight buzzing hum of the air conditioning unit.

yuta sighed after a few moments and placed his hands on his knees to help himself up off the bench, silently walking over to his cubby to take his backpack and sling a strap over his shoulder, zipping up his jacket before making his way out of the locker room for the night.

he wondered when it was that you went home.

he wondered if reno was still being mean to you.

he wondered a lot of things as he walked through the empty stadium, entirely preoccupied in his whirling aching brain to pay attention to where he was going, his hands stuffed in his pockets with his head down— almost thinking it was comical how he’d lost practically everything in the span of one night.

yuta wished he was into tennis instead of football. he wished he wasn’t so bad at everything.

he wished he met you first rather than reno.

and he wondered who was the one crying as he stepped through the stadium doors to get to the parking lot, a chilly gust of wind brushing across his skin.

feet coming to a halt, his eyebrows furrowed and he picked his head up, looking around at the mass of cars and thinking he was going fucking crazy, failing to spot anyone at all— but the quiet sniffling very much there.

who was still here at this hour?

a particular hiccup then made him realize that he was in fact not going crazy.

and that it was you.

he moved faster than he even realized, legs hasty and his heart in his throat, all reason and rationale for not talking to you and avoiding you flying out the fucking window as he rounded the corner of the building, hands rushing to stabilize himself on the brick wall upon doing so, chest rising and falling and cheeks flushed—

to see you sitting on the ground against the wall, knees drawn to your chest as you hid your face in your arms and sobbed.

“y— y/n?”

you squeaked from where you sat and snapped your head up, your gaze locking with his and instantly wiping your cheeks upon realizing who it was, your heart internally breaking at you noticing how much darker the bags under his eyes were...

“oh fuck i'm sorry—”

shaking his bag off him to land god knows where, he unzipped his jacket and he swiftly made his way over to you.

“are you okay?! how long have you been out here y/n it's freezing—”

he kneeled and draped his jacket over your shoulders despite your weak protests.

“put it on.” he ushered, placing the back of his hand against your cheek while helping in slipping your arms through his jacket. “put it on please you’re really cold—”

a sob broke through you then, one that made him stop entirely, his eyes softening and shoulders slumping as he looked at you, properly for the first time in four weeks— your expression completely broken hearted and torn to bits.

“what happened?” he breathed out, pupils frantically scouring over your face as he cupped your cheeks, you taking him by surprise when you immediately placed your hands over his own and cemented them to you, gripping onto him.

oh god.

“shit don’t tell me it’s because of me y/n i— i'm sorry for hurting you i'm so fucking sorry—”

“it’s not you!” you cried, drowning in your tears. “it’s n— never you—”

“then what is it?” he gently pushed, and his face fell when you shook your head no.

“why not?” yuta tightened his hold on your cheeks just a bit. “please y/n i— fuck what happened with us that doesn’t matter at all right now—”

“i’m just stupid!” you wept, your eyes glimmering with chunky tears. “everyone was telling me to— leave and i didn’t li— listen—”

“y/n—”

“reno cheated on me!” you finally admitted, weeping in his hands.

...

yuta's pupils constricted.

“he what.”

but you could only nod, sobbing and hiccuping and choking back as much of it as you could.

“i found out today—” yuta hurriedly wiped your teary droplets as you bawled. “in— in the morning—”

“the morning?!” he exclaimed.

meaning you’d been holding this in all freaking day?

“some— girl messaged me on my socials a bunch of fucking screenshots and— and pictures and videos—”

“no y/n no...” he painfully breathed out. “you looked at all that?”

you nodded, and yuta authentically felt like beating the shit out of him.

“for how long.” he demanded. “how many times? just once?”

you sobbed harder.

“the entire time we were together!” you wailed. “i don’t get what i did— wrong i— hic!— i tried so fucking hard for us and put so much effort—”

“why are you blaming yourself? it has nothing to do with you it's him!—”

“because m’not enough!” you sobbed. “everything i did and i still wasn’t enough i don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

“what?! nothing is wrong with you—” your head hopelessly drooped and yuta lifted it to grab your gaze again. “please you’re way more than enough i promise you y/n you were an absolute angel to that piece of shit moron and all he did was shit all over how sweet you are i— fuck man—”

he'd heard enough.

grabbing your arms, he placed them around his shoulders before wrapping his around your waist and hoisting the both of you up to your feet, snatching your wrist and walking.

“we’re leaving.”

“h— huh?” you wiped your eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, trying your best to keep up with his fast legs. “yu where are we going?—”

“we’re going to reno’s place, you’re gonna break up with him and then you’re gonna go wait in the car while—”

“what?! no!" you dug your heels into the pavement and pulled at your wrist to stop him. “we’re not doing that we don’t need to do that!”

“y/n listen to me—” yuta reached and gripped your shoulders as you cried, his eyes wild and desperate. “you can’t stay with him after this please baby please!—”

“we’ve been broken up already!—”

he halted.

been?

“been?” he blinked in confusion. “wha— since— since when?”

you hiccupped and rubbed a fist into your eye.

“since the day we fought...” you sniffled. “i broke up with him that night...”

that was— four fucking weeks ago.

yuta let out a stunned pant, his hands unsteady as he used one to cup underneath your chin and bring your crying face up, gaze fixed on you.

“i don’t get it i—” he shook his head. “you chose him that night you— you stayed with him i thought that’s what you wanted—”

“no!” you bawled. “that’s not what i wanted—”

“but you said—”

“i want you!” you cried.

yuta's heart stuttered.

there was no way in hell this was real— yuta concurring that somehow he managed to fall asleep somewhere and now he was dreaming about something so fucking cruel—

“please say something...” you whimpered with a hiccup, and yuta slowly lifted a thumb to caress over your chin.

“you want me?” he softly asked.

you immediately nodded.

there's no way there was just no way—

“i’m so sorry for hurting you.” you sniffled. “it was— killing me so bad knowing that i hurt you and i can’t tell you how s— sorry i am that’s why i stayed away—”

“why’re you apologizing to me pretty girl...” he murmured, using his unoccupied hand to gently brush the strands of your hair away from your face. “you have nothing to be sorry for...”

“no i do!” you negated, voice cracking. “since we met you’ve been the sweetest boy ever and— and all i did was go on and on about reno without thinking about how you must’ve felt—”

“how could you have known y/n there was no way.” he laughed softly, using the hand under your chin to gently squish your cheeks together repeatedly. “now you’re just being silly.”

it had taken you long enough to realize that you were entirely and idiotically wrong. two years total to be exact. maybe even before that.

reno showed you that he supposedly loved you in flashy gestures and expensive gifts that had zero correlation to who you were as a person, he had buttered you up and sweet talked you, made you feel like you were it for him...

and all of these things conveniently happened in moments where he messed up and upset you, him so unbelievably good at manipulating and guilt tripping you that you remained blinded to it up until the moment you met yuta.

you genuinely didn’t know how in the ever living hell you were so fucking stupid.

reno never saw you for who you were, nor took the time to get to understand you, instead choosing to blame you for every misfortune that came your way or throw fits whenever you refused to allow him to get his way, him twisting the narrative every time into you being the issue— blatantly taking advantage of your loyalty and forgiveness and morphing it into something that would let him get what he wanted.

it was exactly that that prohibited you from seeing yuta.

because you had, but your frenzied devotion to making your relationship work with reno completely blocked it off, putting you into an endless pit of denial that only further sucked you into the toxic cycle that you let a man enable for so long.

yuta okkotsu was the embodiment of what a good person was supposed to be like.

he was pure, incredibly considerate of those around him and respectful, always full of everything good and everything he did was just overwhelmingly sweet, unlike anything you had experienced before from a man— one who was genuinely kindhearted in every aspect despite being pushed around by the industry he was involved in.

yuta saw right through you the minute he introduced himself to you on his first day on the team.

yuta knew you. he knew your likes and dislikes, the things that made you laugh or gag, the people you adored and the ones you couldn’t stand.

he knew you preferred silly photographs over the serious ones you had to take for work, he knew that you leaving behind your water bottle in his cubby at the end of the day was almost always a given.

he knew you loved cats. he knew you loved charms.

he knew you loved lilies.

and there wasn’t ever a moment where you had to explicitly tell him any of it. he just noticed and remembered. he made you feel seen without expecting anything in return.

he made you feel like you were worth someone to think about.

you really didn’t know when it was that you fell in love with yuta, and it was a very real possibility that it happened merely months into getting to know him, because it was yuta that unlocked a feeling within you that was entirely foreign and endearing and one you were afraid of letting in to make sense of, leaving you confused all of the time, too timid to abandon the false sense of conformity to address that it was yuta all along.

he was always the one and only choice for you.

maybe the reason why you pulled your weight so hard over everything with reno, wasn’t because you were trying to salvage the relationship... but because he just wasn’t yuta, you grasping at anything to force the puzzle pieces together— reno being all that you knew and terrified of abandoning it even if it was hurting you, stuck on the familiar instead of accepting that it wasn’t good for you.

your loyalty was in the wrong hands and you fucking knew that. you knew all along and tried to fill your own needs with the wrong person, because the right one was a little too late to the race— leaving you to give your all to someone else.

 and yuta loved you through it all anyway. without conditions.

“i don’t deserve you yu...” you fought back a new wave of tears. “you didn’t deserve me literally leading you on and— upsetting you with everything that was going on with me—”

his brows furrowed as you spoke, quickly shaking his head.

“baby what are you talking about?” he continued to wipe your newfound tears. “you never lead me on... i chose to stay. i did that not you.”

“and you shouldn’t have!” you sobbed. “you didn’t— deserve to be in pain like that—”

“stop telling me what i deserve y/n...” he breathed out a little squeaky laugh that made your stomach flutter. “i’m a grown man i can decide that for myself... okay?”

you sniffled and hiccupped, and he gave you a tender smile in response.

“i hated being away from you.” he whispered.

you'd never experienced your heart pounding as hard as it was until this moment.

“i hated being away from you...” you replied, hands coming up to wrap your fingers around his wrists, caressing them.

“and i love you.”

yuta felt his heart stop.

“m’sorry i didn’t tell you that night.”

it was then that yuta okkotsu realized he hadn’t exhausted all of his luck just yet, for the privilege of having someone like you love him was a solid testament that he still had a teeny weeny bit of it left— along with hope.

and he was glad to officially use up all of his fortune on you.

“where do we go from here?” he quietly asked. “whatever you need is okay with me.”

a gorgeous smile spread across your lips then, the first one he’d seen up close since the day you argued, and he flushed at the sight.

“i... i wanna try.” you nervously bit your bottom lip, yuta’s gaze locked there. “i wanna try with us. but is— is it okay if we go slow..?”

he lit up then, having to internally swallow down the giddy scream that threatened to escape.

“of course pretty girl!” yuta smiled wide, his thumb absentmindedly tracing over your bottom lip to gently untuck from your teeth. “whatever you want.”

your cheeks buzzed at a sudden thought.

“there’s something else i want...” you hummed. “if... that’s fine?”

curiosity spiked him and he instantly nodded.

“what baby?”

your grip slightly tightened on his wrists, ever so slowly standing on your tippy toes to lean in closer.

“for you to kiss me a little.” you whispered, and yuta’s pupils dilated, dazed and loopy in all that was you as he brought his own lips closer.

the moment was awfully familiar to the one you’d had in the locker room, except lovelier and a bit frosty— your cheeks cold and both your fingertips nearly going numb, your cloudy puffed breaths visible in the air as they fanned across your faces, slight heat tickling your mouths.

“tell me you love me and i will.”

you giggled.

“i love you, yu. very much.”

your noses brushed against each other’s as well as your mouths, yuta briefly biting on his bottom lip before releasing it, intoxicated by the fact that your soft plushy lips were right there for him.

he hummed.

“that so..?”

you knees nearly buckled.

“uh huh.”

“how lucky am i...”

and he engulfed your mouth then, lips softly smacking as they wrapped around each other, slotting perfectly and yuta just about whimpering by how soft your lips were— craddling your face in his hands as he moved and deepened the kiss, savoring it all and engraving it in his mind to remember for as long as he lived.

the flutters in your stomach went on overdrive with every shift of your mouths, the two of you literally having to pull apart for a millisecond to catch your breaths before you swallowed one another back in, your hands sliding up around his neck and his down to envelop around your torso and pull you in, kissing again and again— completely lost in what it was to finally be together.

the right way.

whether yuta stayed with his team or got traded really didn’t matter to him in retrospect, because he felt he had everything he needed already... experienced everything that he needed to experience, feeling that he played the best that he could and worked just as hard through it all to keep himself afloat. he was satisfied with it.

because through his football blood, sweat, and tears... it earned him you.

it earned him peace.

and that was all he needed.

“can you do a peace sign— yes! awww how handsomeee!—”

yuta boyishly laughed as he stood in the middle of the tunnel with you and posed, surrounded by buttloads of staff and media personnel and anything else of the like, him and his teammates gathered up— awaiting for their usual signal that it was time to run out on the field and commence the game with the starting kickoff.

your camera clicked as you snapped a couple of photographs, a series of bright flashes going off, the sight of yuta so compliant and grinning widely for you, the absolute glee on his face and the crinkles by his eyes... all worked in turning you into literal doughy putty.

“you look so cute yu!” you cheesed, lowering your camera and flicking through the photos you just took, a pink hue to your cheeks. “you look so happy in theseee!”

his own cheeks warmed and he diverted his gaze, wringing his hands behind his back and leaning up against the wall, fighting with himself to not reach out and grab you for the sake of keeping what the two of you had going on in private, to respect you.

but it was as if you read his mind anyway... because you giggled and stepped closer to him, putting down your camera and adjusting the strap so the device would lay by your hip, lifting your arms to loop around his torso and propping your chin up on his toned chest, his eyes snapping to yours then before breaking out into the biggest smile.

it was still so surreal to him more often than not that you actually loved him... that he got you in the end and that you were hugging him... or holding his hand... giving him sweet cheek kisses any time you’d pass by him in the halls or when he just got off the field from training, all that made him freeze and laugh like an idiot in front of you as he tried to get his head straight from it.

yuta was oddly more bashful and nervous around you than before, because now he knew that the feeling was mutual, that it had been, that he could do all of the things he’d craved doing with you— without the hundred pounds of guilt he carried on his shoulders because your heart was trapped elsewhere.

he was happy because you were happy. and healthy. and free from the torment that you mistook for love.

“what yu?” you gently spoke up, and he untucked his arms to wrap them around your head and pull you in closer. “you okay? you nervous?”

“i am.” he shyly cheesed, craning his neck to plant a kiss to your forehead. “but it's okay! i don’t care about what happens from here.”

you pouted and whined. “but i do! don't say that silly boy...”

it had been a couple of months since you and yuta reunited, agreeing to take things slow, no titles just yet, and go at a pace that was comfortable for the both of you, loving every moment of it as you went to ample farmer’s markets to look at pretty flowers or munch on some more sweet fruit, yuta taking you out on coffee dates or planning movie nights at his apartment with bratty rika, or even beach picnics— those being particularly your favorite as you sat along the warm sand and soaked in the heat of the sun, grubbing on the food you brought before deciding to dip your feet in the chilly water for a little while.

though yuta often had to mentally and physically prepare himself every time you went on beach dates, for the sight of you in a fucking bikini was one he had to tear his eyes away from and literally avoid looking at you just to keep the dent in his pants not dented.

it never worked.

but throughout these said months... yuta also played better.

he was still teetering along the lines of being the worst player and a god awful player, but he no longer fumbled the ball whenever he accepted passes from a quarterback, or misinterpreted signals and ran the wrong direction, or accidentally gave a defender from the opposing team the perfect opportunity to score a touchdown.

perhaps the football gods didn’t want to let go of him yet, for reasons he could not understand whatsoever.

because he was sharper. quicker on his feet. more purposeful in his play that was noticeable to the rest of his teammates— his coach and manager— yuta’s player stats slowly rising little by little, contributing to his team moving along the path to the superbowl game after game, time and time again...

until his team’s jagged road through playoffs landed them in the divisional round, which they miraculously won, him and his teammates now placed in the conference championships that dictated who was qualifying for the literal superbowl.

how it happened yuta genuinely didn’t know. he hadn’t been focused on that at all, and instead on what kind of pastry he should pick up for you to give you in the morning at the stadium, or if you were hungry after work and wanted to come eat dinner with him at the small diner down the street.

but if his team managed to pull through and win... yuta would get to stay.

“why baby?” he giggled squeakily, finding the genuine anxiety and frustration on your pretty face amusing.

“because you deserve more than anyone on this team to stay yuta...” you softly emphasized, and his lips flipped into a loving smile. “you’ve been working so hard... i don’t want you to settle for a different irrelevant team when you’re supposed to be on this one. with me.”

with you.

he tilted his head then, dipping his neck down once more to ever so gently graze his nose against yours, the echoey rowdy chatter and hollering of the hasty crowd around you both subduing to indistinctness, until all that was left was you and him and the pinks on your cheeks.

“you think so?” he murmured, and you sent him a warm closed lipped smile.

“i know so.” you replied, giving him a slight nudge to his nose yourself. “i promise you.”

he grinned.

“make them feel stupid?”

and you vigorously nodded, lips coming up to capture his in a cutey kiss that nearly made him black out, tightening his hold around your head and smothering you in even closer, your bodies completely flushed against each other.

you were so soft...

“i’m assuming you did more than make amends?”

your eyes snapped open and you separated your mouths with a little smack!, yuta’s arms sliding down to settle around your waist as you turned in his hold.

you beamed.

“nanami! how are you?! oh! come find me after the game i need to get shots of you fresh off the field and sweaty i got multiple emails from—”

yuta burst out laughing and nanami flushed up beet red, physically unable to compute what he’d just heard, his mouth opening and closing as he stared at the both of you and tried to regain his composure.

“i— who is sending you these—”

“your fangirlies! i told you.” you smiled sweetly, leaning back against yuta’s pad cladded chest. “there’s never a day that goes by that i don’t get requests for a swimsuit calendar i'm telling you they need your beefed arms out—”

“i’m going back to the original subject.” he muttered, and you and yuta slipped into a fit of little snickers and giggles, hunching over and having to clutch onto each other to keep yourselves balanced.

he smiled.

“i’m glad to see you two are doing well.” nanami continued, and your eyes softened at the tiny content quirk of his lips, a gentle one of your own spreading across your face as you listened. “i was starting to believe i had to intervene.”

you laughed some more and shook your head, stepping out of yuta’s grasp to walk up to nanami, swinging an arm up over his neck to bring him in a friendly hug.

“no kento it's okay we’re okay.” you pulled away and patted his shoulder. “but thank you for worrying anyway... and for being so kind to yuta.”

he chuckled under his breath, giving you a singular nod as you walked back to yuta’s side.

“being a few steps behind everyone else is not a sin.” nanami spoke evenly, his gaze switching over to yuta. “the accumulation of everything you endured has built you to be the player you are now. rest assured that your path will match mine and only get easier from here.”

yuta was touched by his words, though he knew that deep down he could never amount to the level of skill that nanami harbored, the very same play that set him to be in the hall of fame upon retirement, the blonde haired man being the sole backbone of the team that left many worried as to how it would survive once he was gone.

how yuta would. his only teammate to look at him in the eyes and see no difference between him and a good player.

“thanks nanami!” yuta brightly grinned, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. “i appreciate it... really i do.”

“two minutes ‘til kickoff! cheerleaders are wrapping up their set!”

nanami slid on his helmet and pulled the chin strap under his chin.

“i’ll see you both out there on the field, yes?” he snapped his buckles in place, securing the helmet to his head. “be sure not to be the last one to line up okkotsu. you have generous time with miss y/l/n now no need to worry anymo—”

“ahaha!” he blurted, his neck abruptly growing hot and the hold on your hand tightening. “ahaha i— i won’t heh! i'll be there in a second!”

and with one last nod nanami left, the two of you watching his broad frame slip through the hectic crowd until he was no longer in your line of sight.

you turned to yuta and flashed him a pretty smile, bending down to pick his helmet up off the floor and holding it in your hands.

“you ready yu?” standing on your tippy toes, yuta bent his neck for you and you slipped it on over his head, readjusting the strap so it’d fit snug— clicking the buckle secure.

“mhm!” he smiled, his hands coming to rest on your waist as you slid your palms down over his jersey, dusting it off and tugging any visible wrinkles out. “as much as i can be.”

you huffed softly through your nose and reached to loop your fingers through the bars of his helmet, gently bringing him to look at you straight on.

“just play my love... okay?” you tilted your head, yuta’s eyes taking a moment to scour over your gorgeous features as you spoke. “just play that’s all you need to do. you've done more than enough already.”

and he grinned then, tenderly as he squeezed your hips and touched his helmet with your forehead, resting it there.

“i will pretty girl, don’t worry for me.” he murmured.

he'd play for you.

and whether yuta got to stay or not it still didn’t matter to him.

but it’d be nice to keep seeing you in the bright early hours of the morning at the stadium...

wouldn’t it?

“wow ladies and gentlemen! it's been one tough and close game for both team’s just up until the last quarter, the scoreboard reads twenty eight to thirty one with the hawks taking the lead— jesus i can hardly stay seated!”

“you’re damn right! the heartliners have been making uncanny progress through this entire season going through the playoffs, and now they're being carried by an unlikely source— yuta okkotsu himself! can you believe it?!”

you gnawed on your nails as your eyes stayed glued the field with a hand on your hip, fingers anxiously tapping on your radio as you listened to the idiot commentators that for once weren’t pissing you off too badly.

yuta was playing like a fucking machine.

and you hadn’t seen him play this way before, with his gaze sharp and sort of feral like as he listened to orders or made calls himself, his chest heaving and his legs moving so unbelievably fast any chance he had the ball and tried to get it to the end zone, an aura of— authority to him that was entirely new to you and absolutely lovely to see firsthand.

because yuta never received the support and guidance that he should have to flourish and be the player his management kept getting on his ass to be.

but he did all of that on his own. without needing the favor or connections of anyone to do so.

and you were so incredibly proud of him and— and in awe of him that words genuinely couldn’t describe how you were feeling in that moment as you watched him play, your nerves on fucking acid and your hands literally trembling due to the fact that there was actually a chance yuta might get to stay, that he’d get to prove himself to everyone that stupidly refused to see what you had seen the second you met him.

potential.

it was the last quarter... getting down to the last final minutes... all they needed was a touchdown and yuta would get to—

“y/n?”

you froze, and you felt the blood completely drain from your face.

absolutely fucking not—

“i um—”

against your will you turned around, reno standing there with a massive expensive looking bouquet of flowers in his grasp, staring at you with guilty saddened eyes that did everything but make you feel bad for him.

“i came to say that i'm really, really fucking sorry about everything—”

your gaze dropped down to the flowers.

they were roses.

“—you deserved way more than what i gave and did to you and... you were always so good to me babe i'm— i'm sorry.”

your eyes moved back up, raising a brow.

“how did you get on the field? you need a badge for that.”

reno fidgeted from where he stood.

“i have a buddy that works for the media.” he explained. “i asked him for a favor.”

you remained silent.

“babe you have no idea how sorry i am...” he heavily sighed and took a step closer to you. “i’m serious i... i miss you like crazy and i was just so stupid... i shouldn’t have treated you the way that i did.”

“reno i really don’t have time for this right now—”

“—no please y/n please just hear me out—”

yuta was drained.

he didn’t even know what quarter they were in, or what the actual score was, his lungs literally burning with every inhale he sucked in to regulate his breathing, limbs aching so badly from being tackled to the ground so many times and doing the tackling so many times, his brain moving nonstop from the minute he kissed your cheek goodbye and stepped onto the field.

he was just going. and killing himself in doing so all in the hopes of contributing a tiny bit to his team and get to the superbowl, to make up for all of his previous fuck ups, to stay with you.

“okkotsu!”

yuta whipped his head around to see itsuki jogging up to him.

“are you still a shitty player?” he breathed out, sweat dripping from the sides of his face as he got to him.

yuta gave him a look.

“dude we’re in the middle of a game—”

“are you a still shitty player okkotsu.” he panted. “because i'm about to call a huddle, and i'm gonna explain to the rest of the boys that i'm passing you the ball to score us a touchdown and end the game.”

yuta's eyes flew open, head snapping to the scoreboard and realizing then that it was the last fucking quarter, that the opposing team was winning and they were minutes from losing unless someone made a score in the end zone—

holy shit holy shit—

“give the ball to rei.” yuta hurriedly spoke over the cheering crowd, his tone firm. “he has way more experience than i do and i can’t promise you—”

itsuki shook his head. “you’re faster than him. i need you to run straight down the sideline and beat your defender guy.”

itsuki took a step closer, holding his gaze.

“beat your guy and i throw you the ball. and you get to stay. with y/n. deal?”

yuta felt a pang of shock ricochet through his chest at his words, the fact that itsuki was actually not being a nuisance for once and— fairly solid, was an odd thing for him to see.

but his brows furrowed.

“how do you know about y/n and i—”

“when there’s a hot girl i watch.” itsuki shrugged. “she’s a hard one to miss. that’s why the two of you make no fuckin’ sense at all i mean— yes your stats are better for whatever reason but i would assume she’d be interested in a guy like me—”

there he was.

yuta rolled his eyes and drifted his gaze away in annoyance, letting him continue yapping his ear off about utter nonsense that he drowned out for the sake of keeping himself level-headed, his line of sight tracking over the packed stadium— flashing lights and thunderous hollering, the cheerleaders dancing on the sidelines, and you.

standing face to face with reno.

his face and heart dropped, shoulders slumping as he watched reno extend an absurd bouquet of roses to you... and you reaching out to accept them.

please no.

there was... you wouldn’t. right?

you... you loved him you said you loved him you—

you said you were done with reno that there was absolutely nothing for him to worry about that you— that you wanted to take it slow no titles that— why were you accepting his fucking roses—

you then whirled the bouquet up and smacked reno’s body with it, over and over left and right you were beating the shit out of him— deep red petals flying in every direction as reno cowered and hunched, flailing his arms out in defense.

oh thank fuck—

and yuta felt a heavenly wave of relief, immediately perking up and the frown on his face breaking out into the widest grin, giggling and snickering as he watched you confront reno in the way that you were.

“y— y/n!—”

“you think roses are gonna make me drop to my knees and suck you off?! you complete dumbass?!”

you wacked him once more.

“okay! i'm sorry i'm sorry!” he exclaimed. “i— i know babe i know i'm the biggest douchebag—”

“you cheated on me reno! our whole freaking relationship you were getting your dick wet behind my back do you really think i would ever want to get back with you?!” you yelled, your blood boiling hot and chest pumping from the adrenaline and hatred you had. “what kind of fucking woman do you think i am?!”

“the greatest one i ever had—”

you reeled your arm back and smacked him again, the bouquet merely made of stems now as he whined and cowered again, your eyes briefly catching your sweet cheerleader friend from behind reno— laughing her ass off, doubling over in choking gasps, pointing and nearly falling to her knees.

you would’ve burst out laughing yourself if reno hadn’t opened his fat mouth again.

“y/n please. i am begging you.” he reached for your hand and you snatched it away. “please babe you’re right i'm— i'm awful i'm god awful but—”

“you're more than god awful.” you spat. “and stop calling me babe it’s gross.”

“y/n—”

“get off the field before i hit you again.” you muttered, spinning around and walking over to the nearest trash bin, chucking the stems inside. “we’re done reno. don't ever try to talk to me again i'm being serious.”

“y/n—”

“get off the field reno!”

“babe—”

“SECURITY!”

“NO!—”

upon breaking the huddle, there were thirty seconds left on the clock as yuta’s team jogged to their positions for a line of scrimmage, the lot of them face to face with the opponent as itsuki stood behind them by the center, crouched over and awaiting to make the call.

the crowd grew louder.

“set!...”

yuta readjusted his footing, his heart fucking pounding and the blood rushing to his ears as he waited, breathing rapidly through his nostrils as he begged and prayed that he’d just do what itsuki asked him to do.

because he had no choice but to do it. there was no other way around it if he wanted to prove his worth and make his suffering worthwhile.

if he wanted to keep spending his days watching you take photographs from the sidelines...

“hut!”

fuck it.

the crowd screeched and yuta made a run for it down the line as the huddle dispersed, his legs moving astronomically quick, feet trudging along the grass with no intention of stopping, him briefly checking over his shoulder to confirm that the ball had successfully been passed to itsuki before returning ahead.

it had!

and yuta’s eyes widened upon realizing that the path was actively clearing up for itsuki to pass him the ball.

he picked up speed and barreled down to the endzone, hyperactively keeping track of his defender opponent running parallel to him to try and take him out and run a touchdown himself, watching him out of the corner of his eye, getting closer—

“okkotsu the ball!—”

when yuta shoved his shoulder to the left and knocked the defender clean off balance, refusing to give himself time to think about anything as he swiveled around and jumped for the spinning ball, catching it in his hands before landing on his two feet.

booking it to the end zone.

“what a play from heartliners very own itsuki and yuta! christ! what kind of game is this?!”

“the kind that proves even the worst players have something to give my friend! because the heartliners may have just earned a spot in the superbowl all thanks to okkotsu and his timing—”

“go yu go!” you yelled from the sidelines, jumping up and down while simultaneously taking an insane number of photographs, your heart in your throat and tears tickling your eyes at the incredible play you just witnessed by him, your emotions so overwhelming that you could hardly even properly do your job and take the damn pictures.

you were so so so proud!

the crowd grew even louder, beer droplets flying everywhere and fans from yuta’s team begging him to keep running, to ignore whatever the fuck the other team was trying to throw at him to get him to trip up—  everyone at the edge of their seats and your hands in your hair—

when yuta threw himself to the endzone and landed, scoring an official touchdown and marking the end of the game.

marking his place back on the team.

you screamed and hollered and cried as confetti cannons burst and celebratory horns blared through the atmosphere, the cheerleaders screaming and hollering themselves because they get a chance to dance at the superbowl, and you finally getting to see yuta be appreciated by the football industry and community like you’d wished for all along.

they'd finally listen. and see that yuta okkotsu was a force to be reckoned with.

you got back into photographer mode and clicked away— taking pictures of practically everything and anything, the fans, the team, the scoreboard, though taking extra time and effort to photograph yuta in particular being rightfully celebrated by his teammates, them surrounding him in tackling hugs and pats on the back that made you giggle.

but after a few moments, you saw yuta break through the crowd through your camera lens.

and was jogging his way straight to you.

your eyes blew out and you popped your head up, putting your camera down and readjusting the strap.

why was he..?

you watched as he jogged faster then across the field, unclipping his helmet before yanking it off and throwing it somewhere on the grass, you standing there totally confused with your tummy fluttering the closer he got to you.

“yu!” you called once he was of earshot, though he didn’t stop and continued, him on the brink of standing in front of you when you spoke again.

“yu— hey what’s going on why aren't you out— EEEEEKK!—”

yuta grabbed you by the back of your thighs and hoisted you up around his waist, smashing his lips to yours and muffling the rest of your words as he proceeded to speed walk through the sidelines, down the long tunnel and down another hallway until he got to the utility closet, all while smothering you with his mouth.

“yu baby!— mmpf!—”

he kicked the utility door open and shut it with his foot, shuffling through some more to get to the table in the back used for storing padding equipment, dropping you down on it and you letting out a squeak in reply— his lips not once breaking from yours.

your heart bounced around as you gently pushed on his chest and tried to get your words out.

“yu—”

“i don’t wanna wait anymore.” he breathed in between kisses, his hands clutching and kneading at the meat on your thighs. “i’ve waited two years i don’t want to.”

your tummy flipped at his words, losing yourself in his desperate kisses as he continued.

“m’so sorry but— i can’t take it slow anymore—” his swollen wet lips slid down to the space under your jaw and you gasped. “i love you and i want you— shit— so fucking much please pretty girl be mine please—”

you frantically nodded, your eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his wet tongue lapping up your neck, your arms around his head that pulled him in even closer, his own hands doing the same thing and rolling his hips up to meet the ache in between your legs.

“yes yes i will yu—”

“you mean it..?” he hotly spoke against your neck, moving his sloppy sucking over to the other side of your jaw and grinding. “you’ll be mine baby..?”

“uh— uhuh! i do i swear to you—”

yuta felt like he was on a cloud that was bigger and better than cloud nine, him literally swallowing you up as you shot a hand on his shoulder to keep you balanced, the other clutching his jersey as you rutted your little cute hips in rhythm with his, a feral delighted smile slowly curving his lips that you felt against your skin.

he finally had you.

"you gonna let me do what i want with you now..?"

jesus his words were making you lose it.

"mhm— pant!— a— anything you want—"

yuta's hands slid down to your torso, squeezing and rubbing at your sides while he sucked your neck before they trailed even further down, a palm settling on your waist and the other slithering its way in the space between your legs.

"make some room for me pretty girl..." he murmured, and you listened— parting your legs and him immediately sliding his hand to your clothed pussy, working you there and applying pressure that made you choke on a gasp and shudder, bucking your hips up.

he brought his head back up to level with you, his lips grazing yours as he spoke.

"this okay?" he whispered. "you like it?"

you gave him a ditzy nod that he loved, moving to hook a finger under the waistband of your jeans and slightly tugging.

"you wanna loosen these up so i can play with your pretty pussy for a little?" yuta hummed, and you just about collapsed, a loopy little smirk curling his lips. "just enough so i can feel you baby? you'd let me?"

you didn't even give him a response, you were incapable with how desperate you were for him to touch you and do whatever the fuck he wanted with you, you basically hypnotized as your hands went down to unbutton your jeans, popping it open and yuta licking his lips at the little peek he was getting of the waistband of your lacy panties while you tugged your jeans down a tad.

"goood baby—"

he helped you the rest of the way and stopped just at the top of your pillowy thighs, his blood rushing everywhere as he proceeded to impatiently slip his hand in your panties— you squeaking and flailing your hands out flat behind you on the desk.

dear god the amount of times yuta had fisted his cock to the thought of this exact scenario...

"you're so warm." he murmured, his greedy little fingers feeling you up and slotting in between your pussy lips, you already so fucking wet and squelchy, heat rising to your face at how loud you sounded as he played with you, fingers brushing your sensitive clit.

you were so embarrassed...

you gnawed on your bottom lip and shyly peered up at him with rosy cheeks, a hand coming up to cup your mouth as you whined.

"m's— sorry..."

he breathily chuckled, finding you oh so incredibly cute as you hiccuped and whimpered with every dragging rub of his fingers, drunk off of how much of your juices were coating his hand, your hips chasing after his every move.

"for what baby..?" yuta placed his unoccupied hand on the desk before lunging forward, his puffy chest gently colliding with your front and pulling you down flat on your back with no other option, a high pitched gasp! slipping from your throat as you looked up at him.

"for this?"

he plunged his index and middle finger inside your leaky little hole, you letting out a surprised moan that made you slap a hand over your mouth to shush yourself up, your face fucking burning now.

"you're so silly." he laughed, giving you no time at all to adjust to his long fingers as he pumped them in and out of you and shoved his face back into your neck, planting his mouth in the space just below your ear to slobber, you turning your head the other way with a slack jaw and heaving chest. "if anything i need you louder—"

you were quite literally trapped underneath him... and you were fucking obsessed— in a state of fuzzy euphoria as he continued to finger you in such a way that pulled more obscene sloshing noises from your pussy, you whining and helplessly lifting your hips at how fast he was going.

yuta almost dug his nails into the wooden desk as he supported himself.

he can't cum in his pants he can't cum in his pants—

—but shit you were being so agonizingly beautiful in this moment as he moved— rapid and desperate, needing you to make a mess on his hand while he curled his fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot that had you mewling louder, squealing and arching your back off the table.

"you felt that baby?" he lapped and sucked at different parts of your neck, drool trickling down your skin— the desk rattling with his jerking arm and you jolting underneath him by the force, him getting a perfect view from the corner of his eye of your tits deliciously bouncing from your low cut top.

"god your pussy's swallowing my fingers i can't even pull them out." he huffed. "such a pretty greedy girl..."

"mmm yuuu!—"

your hand shot to his wrist and gripped it, though that did nothing in halting his jack hammering movements.

"what... you trying to stop me now?" he lifted his head to catch your fucked out gaze. "you bad little fucking thing..."

your mind was going through a whirlpool, having difficulty processing how a sweetie boy could speak so filthily to you and scold you in the way that he was.

"'cause i could." he hotly continued. "'i'll give you what you want and stop right now—"

"no!—"

you pulled both your hands up and away from his work, your shiny glazed eyes staring up at him, pleading.

"please no yu i'm— m'gonna cum!—"

"yeah?" yuta wildly grinned. "but i dunno if you deserve it baby... you broke my heart trying to pull my fingers out—"

you sniffled and frantically shook your head side to side in a panic. "no please! i'm sorry yu i'm so so sorry please i need— i didn't mean to!"

"mmm..." he pondered, and that only made you more desperate, quickly cupping his cheeks and bringing his face down to mush your lips against his, your kisses fast and sloppy as you tried your best to tongue him down through his fingering.

"please— mmpf— please baby—"

yuta's knees almost gave out, letting you ravish him and slop your tongue all over his mouth for a few moments before he slightly pulled back, panting against your lips and feeling how tight you were clenching on his fingers.

"good thing i can never stay mad at you."

and you fucking came, a white hot flash flooding through your body as your limbs locked up, moaning and choking‚ your thighs clamping around his hand while trying to keep your high pitched squeals to a minimum, not knowing when or how long it was until you seemingly came back down from the cloud you were riding on.

you laid there, both of your chests pumping and breaths misty, your brain trying to rewire itself back into place through the numb fuck you just went through, yuta peppering tiny little kisses along your jaw that aided in pulling you back to him.

when he suddenly detached from your skin and dipped down between your legs—

“w— wait! yu!—”

“mm?” he hummed, coming back up with a happy loopy smile on his face, only to lip lock with you again.

yuta could not get enough.

“you should—” you panted. “—be out there celebrating my love i—”

“i don’t give a fuck.”

you laughed against his mouth and forced a bit of separation, both of your chests rising and falling as you looked at each other— lips plumped red and cheeks flushed.

“why not?” you pouted, sliding a hand through his slightly sweaty raven locks, softly caressing. “you deserve to have them see and appreciate you yu and all your hard work. let them please...”

he gave you a loving tender smile then, his twinkling eyes boring into yours as he squeezed your thighs a little.

“you’ve done that this entire time.” he murmured, nudging his nose with yours. “that’s all i ever needed.”

you shyly blushed and rested your forehead against his, the both of you slipping into a fit of lovesick giggles then as you held onto each other, completely wrapped in a warm fuzzy atmosphere that consisted of no one else but of just you and him.

together.

the strings on your pinkies finally untangled and thicker.

yuta spent the majority of his life not knowing how he ended up playing football in the first place. it was something that he simply just couldn’t remember.

but the reasoning became abundantly clear to him as the days passed.

when he met you. when he befriended you through pathetic stutters and fumbles.

when he realized he’d fallen in love with you.

when he went to the grocery store during his thirty minute break to buy you a bouquet of lilies, standing there in line while he received odd looks from other customers because he was bulked up in his uniform, doing it all with absolutely no requirements because he adored you. so fucking much.

when you saw him through a lens that was entirely your own despite everyone else telling you not to.

and that's exactly the reason why life had pulled and insisted and nagged for him to keep playing football even through his embarrassing failing trials and tribulations.

why it had made him the luckiest boy alive.

so he’d cross paths with you, even if it was at the price of being the worst player on his national football league team.

for he was honored to be it.

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

and as of right now, your relationship with higuruma has felt like the inception of expired milk. granted, when prompted by curious friends and family about your budding relationship with the man, you generally have nothing but good things to say about him. higuruma is a gentleman, and he’s kind, and remembers all the things you’ve told him in the short times you’ve been seeing each other, and altruistic to his very core. he’s also a very generous lover in the bedroom, so your sexual compatibility has never been considered as something to ring alarms about. everything should be great…

but it isn’t.

you see, while you’ve only been together for a few months, give or take, you feel as if many a milestone should have been crossed by now… the most important one (in your eyes, anyway) being that you stay the night at each other’s place.

and yet, it hasn’t happened. you think to all the times where you and higuruma have finished fooling around in the comfort of his bedroom, out of breath and very sated, and the dimming of the sky begins to brush over the horizon — and like clockwork, you sit up, scratching the soft skin of your belly awkwardly as you say, “gosh, it’s getting late.”

the response you’ve so desperately sought out for was a lidded eyed higuruma, who would be looking up at you with so much desire and yearning, his arms outstretched to wrap around your body to pull you in, with barely a word uttered between you two as he says, “i would really like if you could stay.”

unfortunately, that has never been the case during these few months, where he would sit up next to you, nodding owlishly as he helped you collect your clothes, calling a taxi while helping you to the door and kissing your forehead goodbye.

the disappointment in itself feels unfounded and unwarranted. he’s a nice man. he never leaves you high and dry, always pays for your ride home, ensures that you text him when you get there, and he’s sending you a good night text where he asks when you both may see each other again.

the guilt you feel for the rejection that climbs up your throat when he doesn’t offer you respite at his home is insurmountable, to say the least. it’s no different at your place either: by the time you’ve disjointed from his sweaty grasp, he’s already jingling his car keys while looking for his displaced socks.

it doesn’t make any sense to you. did he not see this going beyond a few dates and sex? he had already introduced you to his cat, shifu, and likewise had became acquainted with your own kitten, popo. it felt incredibly serious in your eyes. you had gushed about him to your friends, posted him online via fleeting 24hr story posts, but his existence in your life was there.

so what was going on?

it feels like your day has been dragging on after having spent the morning in your own bed yet again, your mind going back to a few nights ago where you had a nice home cooked dinner with higuruma, with the night — of course — ending in sexual intimacy (you think the few glasses of pinot noir and a seductive carbonara made you a deer in headlights to your boyfriend’s whims, despite all your warring feelings), and, like clockwork, with higuruma picking up your clothes as he dialled for the taxi to come pick you up, much too drunk to drive you home (and apparently too out of his wits to suggest that you stay the night).

your eyes stay glued to the text chain between the both of you, with the last two of your messages having been left on delivered since last night — albeit they’re nothing out of the ordinary, just you tell higuruma you made it home safely and that you couldn’t wait to see him again… and nonetheless, the texts stay unread, taunting you through the screen.

a deep sigh leaves your chest, and you close your phone to look off into the distance (the aforementioned being the sharply lit hallway of your workplace, with patients and nurses going in and out of their respective rooms). just then, one of your colleagues-turned-friends rounds the corner, and you look up to see shoko, hands on her hips when she sees you sulking on the waiting chair outside your office.

“you’re looking especially forlorn today,” she teases and you deadpan at her as she takes a seat next to you, nudging you gently. “what’s up with you, huh?”

you nibble on your bottom lip, shaking your head. “it’s… it’s nothing,” to which shoko scoffs at, this time poking you with her foot.

“are you seriously going to try and lie to me right now?” she says, unimpressed. you shake your head.

“exactly,” she responds, poking your arm. “so i’ll ask again: what’s up with you?”

you huff, looking down at your phone, edging down a fingertip to switch the screen on just to see a whole lot of nothing (save for a the same text messages staring up at you) on the OLED.

shoko snatches the phone from your hand before you can protest, and her eyes glance downwards and her shoulders sag in immediate knowing. “ohhhh… it’s him.”

you don’t even have to answer, nor do you really want to.

she nudges you again, this time with her elbow. “did something terrible happen with him? why is he not answering your texts?”

“it’s… stupid,” you sigh, shrugging to which shoko scoffs.

“it’s obviously not stupid if it has you moping around like a heartbroken, lovesick tween,” she snorts, to which you nudge her this time. “if he’s making you feel like this, then maybe you should talk to him about it.”

you huff, snatching your phone back. “it’s not that simple… we’ve only been dating three months… that’s nothing in the adult world.”

shoko rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “don’t give me that bullshit. you’re a grown ass woman, and i’ve never known you to not communicate your feelings like one either—”

she then pokes your foot with hers. “and who cares if it’s only been three months? it’s not like you’re asking him to get one knee and buy a ring, you’re asking for attention. that’s not exactly a big ask.”

you sigh resoundingly and defeatedly, shoko’s words reminiscent of what you should’ve been thinking if you were a mature, adjusted woman.

“i know, i know… it’s just… when we have sex—” (the word is uttered under your breath, your eyes darting around the near empty hospital hallway), “he knows just what to say and do and everything seems perfect.”

you swallow thickly. “the we finish and he acts like he doesn’t know how to speak to me… then in return, i don’t know how to speak to him.”

you then laugh bitterly. “god, how pathetic does that sound?”

shoko stares at you for five solid seconds before slapping a palm against her forehead, to which you sit up in alarm.

“sho—?!”

she just as quickly responds with an iteration of your name. “you’re not pathetic,” she says, voice firm. “you’re human, and you just happen to be caught up with an emotionally constipated man. it happens to the best of us. either way, none of this is your fault in particular.”

your eyes begin to water slightly, and you have to tuck your thumbs into the sleeves of your jumper to dab at the inner corners of your eyes. you lean your head on shoko’s shoulder, sniffling quietly.

“what do i do? do i break up with him—?”

shoko snorts again, shaking her head. “you don’t have to go to those extremes just yet, silly.”

she then throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug that has you leaning even further into her hold. “you should definitely talk to him, though. sit his ass down and look him in the eyes and say, “we need to talk,” and if he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll listen. it’s that simple.”

you nod against her. “you’re always right, shoko… that settles it. i’ll talk to him.”

“of course i am,” she teases with a grin, pressing her lips to the crown of your head gently.

just then, her pager goes off with a loud beep and she groans, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze before standing.

“i’m off to finish off my rounds. i’ll find you in your office later, yeah?”

you nod again, smiling up at her. “yeah, i’ll see you then, sho’.”

shoko disappears with a wave over her shoulder, her heels a familiar click clack against the tile as she slides around the corner, and you’re left with your phone and unanswered texts all over again.

your stomach churns, fluttering with anxiety at the idea of confronting him, or worse, upsetting him about something as menial as this (though, clearly not with the way it has consumed you to the point of fatalistic worry that your romance is already over before it could properly blossom into something more).

either way, shoko was right. you deserve to know your place with a man you actually see a future with, no matter how early or budding the prospect is.

you unlock your phone again, fingers padding until higuruma’s contact comes up on the screen: hiromi <3

you ring him without so much a second glance, paying no heed to what he could be doing right now as a man of such a busy and demanding career.

the cell rings once, twice, a third time— then it clicks, higuruma’s warm voice through the speaker.

“hello?”

you can hear the clicking of multiple keyboards in the background, and he’s obviously in the middle of working, that much you do know, so you can’t help but let out a puff of relief at the fact he’s picked up almost instantly.

“hey, hiromi. it’s me,” you breathe, a straying finger playing with a lock of your hair absentmindedly.

your name leaves his lips just as breathlessly, and you have to bite back at smile at the fact you can just hear the corners of his mouth lift up in his voice.

there’s a slight pause with some shuffling, and suddenly it’s a lot quieter. he’s giving you his full attention, which eases some of the pressure in your mind.

“is everything okay? I don’t usually expect to hear from you during a working day.”

you let out a little puff of air, as if to deflate yourself like a balloon and a dirty spoon. “no, no, everything’s fine, i just… wanted to ask if you were busy friday night, since you, uh… never responded to my text.”

his voice catches from beyond the speaker and he sighs, and you can hear him rake a hand through his hair.

“i’m sorry. i got caught up in work, and i meant to open your message but i got caught up in work and it slipped my mind—”

there’s a slight moment where higuruma exhales, mumbling quietly, before he clears his throat. “to answer your question, yes, i’m free on friday. did… you want to do something?”

you pretend to hum thoughtfully, as if you hadn’t been mulling over these date plans for the past few days since you’ve last seen him. “i was thinking dinner at my place? if that’s alright with you, of course.”

higuruma laughs softly, a slightly crackle to the sound. “i’d love that. what should i bring?”

“just yourself,” you say teasingly, a fond smile now lighting up your entire face. “maybe a bottle of wine but that’s not obligatory in the slightest.”

he laughs softly — low and warm, the sound washing over the phone line like liquid honey, so much so that you almost forget that the purpose of this impromptu date is to talk to him about the future of their relationship.

emphasis on almost.

“you sure? i have no trouble picking something up.”

you shake your head, nibbling at the skin of your bottom lip as his words drape over you. “really… i don’t mind.”

“if you insist, my love. i will be there around seven?”

you hum sweetly. “seven is perfect.”

“seven it is,” he responds, and you hear some movement from behind the screen and higuruma coughs. “i should get back to work now but… i will see you on friday?”

“o-oh yeah, of course,” you stammer, a little shy now for some reason. “don’t let me keep you. yes… i’ll see you then. bye hiromi.”

he murmurs your name with the same adieu, voice terribly soft, as it always is when he’s talking to you.

when the line clicks dead, all you’re left with is silence and the quiet ache in your chest that seems to ebb and flow but never truly go away when it comes to him.

you stare at your phone a moment longer, before stuffing it into your pocket and getting up from the chair.

friday suddenly can’t come quick enough.

ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ

the rest of the week comes and goes, and before you know it, friday evening is just mere minutes away.

you walk around your apartment doing some finishing touches while dinner cooks: fluffing up your couch pillows, making sure your little cat stays tucked in and asleep in the spare bedroom, fixing the angles of your framed photos, and of course, making sure your bedroom is presentable lest you partake in any after meal activities (which, of course, is purely contingent on how the conversation with higuruma goes, and that conversation will be had, you have made sure of it).

you then saunter to your bedroom mirror, hands smoothing over your dark evening dress as you take a mirror selfie, sending it to your friends who insist that you’re not too dressed up, as they respond with a flurry of heart eyes, compliments and gushing words.

with some newfound confidence, you throw your phone onto the bed, admiring yourself in the reflection for a moment, and the thought of higuruma’s reaction to how you look sends your knees into a slight buckle, to which you scold yourself over.

“composure, woman,” you grumble, storming back into the kitchen, your heels clacking alongside you in rhythmic fashion. “it’s not about that right now.”

unbeknownst to you, higuruma stands outside your apartment, glancing at himself through the metal of your numbered door, and he lifts a thumb to brush through his eyebrows and the front of his hair.

with one arm, he tightens his black tie against his crisp white shirt, balancing a bottle of pinot noir and a bouquet of dark orchids and lillies. he checks the time on his wristwatch once more, waiting for the clock to strike at exactly seven when he lifts a finger to press against the doorbell.

you’re back in the kitchen and checking on the starter when you hear it, gasping and muttering a few expletives under your breath as you click and clack to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open, smiling up and expectantly at higuruma in all his glory.

“hey. right on time.”

a slow, steady curve of a smile spreads across his face as he takes you in — really looks at you — for the first time that week since your last rendezvous.

“you,” he says softly, voice already teetering on ragged, “are killing me.”

he steps forward, eyes scanning you up and down like he wants to permanently etch the image of you right now into his retinas and brain.

as bashful as ever, you bite back a smile, cheeks heating up at his very obvious appreciation. higuruma then gestures to the bottle of wine and bouquet of flowers in his hold. “these are for you. i know you said i didn’t need to bring anything but… it didn’t sit right with my conscience to show up empty handed while you dote on me.”

you awe at him, taking the the gifts into your arms, and stepping backwards into your apartment. “really, hiromi, you shouldn’t have… but please, come on. dinner will be ready in just a moment.”

hiromi steps in from behind you, and you don’t check to see that he’s already close to next to you as you get out a vase and fill it with water to accommodate for the lovely flowers.

he follows you inside, his gaze still roaming appreciatively over the way the smooth fabric of your dress curves over your hips as you walk. you can see his fingers twitch at his side from your periphery and you have to bite back a pleased smile at how well received your current get up is with the man lingering behind you.

“you look absolutely stunning, by the way,” he says, almost exasperated at the fact.

you look at him over your shoulder for a mere second, smiling as humbly as ever.

“thank you… you clean up well yourself,” you jest, with a teasing lilt to your voice.

you take out a vase, filling it up with water. “um, dinner won’t be ready for a little while so feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

all the while, hiromi just watches silently as you put the flowers he brought you into the vase. as if operating on pure instinct, he takes his blazer off, draping it over a dining room chair. his tie has already come a little loose.

he watches you bustle around the kitchen and youre yet to see that he just... stands there, watching you, so obviously taking in the way that you look.

you hum a little tune to yourself, getting out a couple plates as you finish up, eyes darting when it feels like you’re being watched from your peripheral vision.

you spin, wine glasses in your hand as you raise a brow at hiromi, walking over to where he leans by the dining room table.

“when i said make yourself comfortable, i meant make yourself at home. not watch me while i finish dinner.”

the corner of his lips twitches — like he knows he’s been caught.

he holds your gaze when you walk over, his eyes on you like an animal about to pounce on his prey, but when he catches you staring right at him, he has to look away for a moment and clear his throat, as if to signal that he was deep in thought and definitely not checking you out.

you huff, rolling your eyes as you place the glasses on the table. “the starter will be done soon… i just need to make sure that the wellington doesn’t burn and…”

you turn to him again as you trail off, hands moving from your hips to shoo him off. “now go away. snoop if you must. i’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“snoop?” he echoes, feigning offense as he finally pushes off the table. "i’m just appreciating the view."

hiromi gives you a slow, crooked smile of appreciation coupled with defeat — rare and genuine from a man of his stoic disposition (has that been said before?) as he then turns to wander into your living room.

when you finish up like promised, placing two plates on the table: two identical dishes of shrimp risotto across the table, parallel, you wander off to the living room, and you find hiromi strewn across the couch like he owns the thing, and from where you stand, you see his fingers over the spine of one of your textbooks on the coffee table before pausing at a framed photo: you and your friends, arms all slung around each other, grinning like fools in front of cherry blossoms.

his thumb brushes over it gently, and you almost don’t want to call for him from where you’re greedily eating up the way he fits in your home.

instead, you compromise. you quietly walk back into the dining room, coughing loudly before shouting out.

“hiromi, your presence is wanted!”

“yes, ma'am.”

he’s already there before you know it, his long legs carry him the distance to the dining table in a few strides, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting.

“that smells good.”

“thank you,” you say, sitting down. “please, enjoy.”

he doesn't move right away.

instead, he just... watches you spoon up your food, and it’s only when you look up at him to wipe away some remnants from the corner of your mouth does he smile softly and pick up his spoon.

“then i’ll start before i embarrass myself by staring at you any longer.”

he takes a bite — and genuinely moans in appreciation.

“… this is incredible.”

you smile softly, a little flustered. “thank you… it’s just something i threw together. i’m glad you like it.”

he laughs a little to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“just something you threw together? bullshit. this is better than most restaurants here in tokyo.”

another bite: this time, a slightly bigger one. he savours it, closing his eyes as he tastes it on his tongue.

“where the hell did you learn to cook like this?”

you shrug, taking another spoonful into your mouth. “cooking’s fun. there’s actually not much to do as a working woman when you don’t have time for anything but work, eat and sleep… might as well make it more tolerable.”

hiromi pauses mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “are you saying you spend your spare time cooking?"

he stares at you, completely incredulous before a slow, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you’re unreal.”

you raise a brow while hiding back a humble smile over the curve of your spoon. “i mean, what else could possibly better suited for my time? plus, i like cooking for people… makes me feel good.”

hiromi can't help the way his eyes rove over you again, lingering on your mouth, your neck, the smooth expanse of skin he can see above the neckline of your dress.

“you enjoy doing it for others, huh?” he teases, though there's a hint of something else in his voice. “and if you're the only person there? who do you cook for then?”

you ponder at that, taken aback at his faithfulness. “hm. i guess i’ve never really thought of it that way.”

you think for a moment, then takes a sip from your wine glass, sweet and red yet bitter and light. “i guess it’s a little different when it’s for myself… but that could be applied to almost everything in my life. i think you have to be slightly masochistic to be a doctor.”

a soft huff of laughter escapes him at that, his eyes warm and bright on yours over the rim of his glass.

“slightly masochistic, huh? is that a requirement for you doctors?”

hiromi takes another sip in tandem, tongue in cheek before he huffs again. “i guess that's how you end up working yourself into the ground for ungrateful patients and shitty hours."

“hey — takes one to know one,” you retort, raising a brow. “swap patients for clients and defendants and that’s basically your life to a t.”

hiromi tilts his head backward as if in thought before nodding in agreement, his shoulders shifting beneath his shirt.

“fair enough,” he concedes, lips curved in a wry smile. “though i get to charge them a hell of a lot more.”

he takes another bite, then:

“that being said... my shitty hours do come with a good salary.”

“oh?” you says, spooning another bite into your mouth. “here i thought that public defenders were one of the more oppressed groups in our judicial system.”

“ah—” he smirks, leaning forward slightly. “careful, doctor. i’m not just a public defender anymore.”

hiromi’s voice drops a notch — smooth, confident and it almost has your spine sitting up straight from the buzz of conduction that tickles up the nerves.

“i’ve got my own practice now. we handle civil litigation and criminal defense — you know, pro bono for those who need it most."

he watches you over his glass as he takes another sip, smacking his lips quietly as if to make a point.

“please don’t let the modest suits fool you. i can afford to take you out for more than just dinner.”

you raise your hands in mock surrender. “forgive me for my preconceived notions… and that’s very good to know.”

he laughs, low and warm that it has you grinning from bask of it, and there's a flicker of something proud in his eyes.

“not going to lie, i like that you didn’t know,” he admits, swirling the wine in his glass. “means you weren't after me for my bank account.”

his gaze lifts to meet yours, suddenly serious.

“...you were after me for me.”

it’s your turn to laugh quietly this time, leaning back in your chair.

“well, while i am glad to have given you that impression, i grew up relatively well off… men with money are a dime a dozen. it means very little to me in the grand scheme of things.”

hiromi’s lips quirk in an amused smile, eyes narrowing slightly. “is that right? have you dated a lot of rich men, doctor?”

you snort, leaning forward onto the palm of your hands as the man in front of you sets his fork down, his wine glass joining it in a quiet, soft thump. his eyes never leave your face. “do i give you that impression?”

“no, not at all,” he jibes, cheeks dimpling ever so faintly, “but i am beginning to wonder if I'm at risk here," he teases, but there's a hint of sincerity in his voice. "you might take one look at my paycheck and dump me for someone richer."

you shake your head, smiling a little. “au contraire, mr lawyer… all i can do is assure you in that—” and you top off his glass of red, before pouring some in your own.

“money just doesn’t impress me quite as much as you may think it does.”

you polish off your plate, looking at him. “now, are you done? the main is almost ready.”

hiromi blinks at you.

right. dinner.

you don’t fail to notice that he’s been sitting, staring at you the entire time. nevertheless, he recovers quickly with a curt nod, flashing you a lazy smile as he finally sets his silverware down.

“yes, i’m done. that was delicious, by the way… not that i expect anything less from you, doctor.”

he grins wider, raising his empty wine glass in a mock toast.

you rolls your eyes at him fondly, playfully brushing past his shoulder with the sway of your hip as you take his plate and your own to the kitchen behind where you eat.

the moment you walk away, hiromi’s eyes follow, lingering like a dedicated flame. he lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair and he tries his hardest to stay seated — fingers drumming once against the table — before finally standing and walking into the kitchen behind you.

he leans against the arched doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“let me help.”

you look over at him, putting on your apron and taking out some folded oven gloves. “i would be a terrible hostess if i let my guest help me cook.”

he steps closer, too close; close enough to smell the vanilla in his hair that mingles with the faint citrus of your perfume.

“then consider it a rebellion," he teases, his voice low and gentle, "against good hosting."

his fingers graze yours as he takes the dish from your hands, the heat between them not just from the oven.

“let me do this… please?”

you raise a brow in contemplation before decidedly raising your hands in stark white defeat. “okay… fine. you’ve officially browbeaten me into submission,” and you rest your hands on your hips for a second, before lifting up a tray.

“here. you can take the pot of gravy to the table while i slice the wellington.”

he smiles triumphantly, taking the pot from you easily. he’s a little too smug, the look in those grey eyes justifiably victorious.

“i am good at that, you know," he says as he walks away. the words have a double meaning, and you can’t help think that the both of you know it.

he sets the dish down in the middle of the table, then returns to the kitchen again, finding his way behind you once again.

“i would hope so, mr lawyer,” you say, passing him a pot of potatoes. “now take this and sit down. i’ll be there with our second course of the evening.”

“yes, ma'am.”

the corners of his lips twitch, holding back a smile at the authoritative tone in your voice. you can tell he wants to tease you more, to say something cheeky and infuriating, but the side eye glance you give him makes him hold his tongue, bowing his head as he returns to the dining room.

he takes the potatoes like the committed one he is and sits, hands on his lap, a proper gentleman waiting for his meal.

but his eyes never leave you.

you return, with two plates of beef wellington and tenderstem broccoli (to which you’ve told hiromi that there is a difference and that it is superior to normal broccoli), sliding them onto the table.

you sit across from him once again. “well then… please enjoy.”

he looks down at the meal before him; and then, of course, there's you in front of him.

he has to swallow thickly so as to not give anything away in his voice, dark eyes lifting back to yours.

“thank you,” he says quietly. “this looks amazing.”

you beam at him, (and you subtly notice that you keep doing a lot of that tonight, but can it even be helped when in such gorgeous and suave company?), digging into your own portion.

hiromi chews and swallows, making little to no noise —but then says suddenly, "can i ask you something?"

you look up at him, mid bite, nodding. “of course.”

“why’d you go into neurosurgery?”

his voice is gentle yet serious, which is typical of hiromi’s nature. it’s one of things you like most about him.

he watches you closely as he waits for the answer, to which your lips curl a little at the corners as you think, your eyes flitting down to your plate. “it was the only specialty that didn’t make me want to off myself after every rotation.”

hiromi is surprised into a shocked, choking sort of laugh. his eyes roam over you, a slight smirk on his lips.

“that is... brutally honest.”

you laugh a little sheepishly, shaking your head.

“i’m sorry i don’t have a more politically correct answer… i’m sure if you asked me 4 years ago in the midst of med school, i would’ve said that i just want to help people…but it’s like you said: the people are ungrateful and the hours are long. and the pay always starts out to be downright abysmal.”

hiromi snorts, shaking his head almost ruefully.

“oh, believe me, i know how bad the hours are. and the pay is just a joke, so much so it feels like an insult. you can work yourself to the bone and there's no reward—just a slap on the back and a 'keep up the good work.'”

his fingers drum softly on the tabletop, like he can't stay still. he lets out a sigh, a tired sound, accompanied by the dark circles under his eyes, as if to serve as a physical reminder of their shared relatability.

“i get it. trust me… i get it.”

you nod, eyes softening. “yeah… it’s pretty much exactly that.” you then huffs, shaking your head. “but i don’t know… i like my job for the most part. i work with a lot of kids mostly, so that’s the silver lining. although, maybe not… while they’re a lot more pleasant than the adults i take care of… that makes the suffering oh, so much worse.”

“you..." he pauses, a look on his face you can’t quite name. "...you like kids?"

“mhmm,” you hum behind a sip of wine. “i love them… i especially adore the kids i work with…” and you say it all with a growing smile on your face, unknowing to you but ever so obvious to the man sat opposite you.

“i think someone who dislikes the world’s most innocent would be someone i wouldn’t particularly want to get to know in any capacity… how about you? do you like kids, hiromi?”

he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “i do.”

the smile on his face is almost boyishly earnest when he says it— and he looks at you, with your soft, pretty features—and all he can picture is the way you'd look, a little swollen with a child in your belly.

he swallows, heat rising in his face. “... i like them a lot.”

this time, it’s your turn to be a little shocked, and you raise a brow. “really?” with blatant disbelief laden in your tone.

“huh. i never got that vibe from you.”

his lips twitch, caught somewhere between a smirk and an honest-to-god blush.

“you don't think i look the type?” he leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "just because i spend my days arguing with assholes in court doesn't mean i don't want to come home to tiny little people who call me daddy.”

he says it casually (too casually) but his eyes flicker to yours for just a second, testing the waters.

“...i have always wanted kids.”

you smile at that, chuckling at his choice of words.

“so, let me get this straight: you’re a 35 year old defence attorney who earns a decent living, loves kids and is dashingly handsome? what exactly were you doing before we met?”

his cheeks flush even warmer at your words, squirming a little in his seat. hiromi ends up just mirroring your own smile, dimple in his right cheek flashing as he does.

“not finding the right woman.” he lets out a mock sort of sigh. “i was starting to think I'd die alone, honestly.”

you let out a genuine laugh at the pure cynicism in his words. “oh? pray tell. what was the dating scene like before i came and saved you?”

“a nightmare,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “i dated this one woman who kept asking me what my net worth was. another one wanted me to choose between her and my career, and that's not even including the ones who just... couldn't handle the long hours, or the demanding work of being with a defence attorney of all people.”

hiromi gives you a rueful smile, but there's a subtle trace of bitterness in his eyes. “i was starting to think my only life partner would be my job.”

you hum sympathetically at that. “i can imagine…” and you trail off, before letting curiosity slip into the conversation.

“did you ever expect to be married by now?” and then you’re backtracking a little, sheepishly waving your hands. “not that there’s anything wrong with being unmarried at your age—!” you add, to which hiromi laughs at your sincerity, leaning backwards into the seat, arms folded.

“and, of course i don’t think you’re old by any means… I’m just… curious, is all.”

he makes a noise of understanding, nodding. “i’ve always thought i would be married before i turned thirty-five,” he admits quietly, taking another sip of the wine in his glass.

hiromi looks down at his hands, a little abashed as he says, “...i know, i know. it doesn't make sense. i’m relatively young; i’m successful. hell, i’ve even been told i’m attractive, which is really strange to say out loud.”

you laugh and so does he, but there's that rueful sort of edge to it again. “i guess i just never met the right woman.”

“did you ever get close to?” you ask, finger dancing over the rim of your cup.

he lets out a humorless sort of huff, scrubbing a hand over his face as he thinks.

“once or twice,” he confesses, “i got close a couple of times. things were going well, and i thought we were on the same page, and then... suddenly, they'd realize the hours were too stressful. or i was too obsessed with my job. or we just wanted... different things.”

hiromi glances at you across the table, grey eyes steady as he says, “it never worked out for one reason or another.”

you hum again, pondering… thinking.

“that’s fair… unfortunately, i can’t fault it. long hours can really make or break a relationship. it’s always that, coupled with miscommunication.”

“miscommunication,” he repeats, almost grimly, the word itself leaving a tart taste in his mouth.

he says your name, shaking his head. “you have no idea. i’ve been told i was too 'emotionally distant', that i don't show enough affection. that i expect people to read my mind. hell, i’ve even had women walk out because they said i was 'too intense'.”

he snorts.

“i’m not that difficult, am i?”

you go noticeabley quiet at that, eyes widening before they dart back to your finger playing with the rim of your wine glass. “difficult?…that’s a loaded word.”

he cocks his head at the hesitance in your voice, as if he can practically see you gearing up to respond with some sort of placating bullshit— you're too nice, too kind —so he speaks before you can.

“please," he says softly. “be honest. i can take it.”

you open and close your mouth, looking at him with pitying eyes for a second before sighing defeatedly, looking down at your half eaten meal.

“i actually think it might be the opposite… you’re not…” and you trail off, nibbling your bottom lip gently.

“i don’t know how to articulate this in a way that doesn’t sound too presumptuous or… insulting.”

“then don't sugarcoat it.”

hiromi’s voice is quiet but steady, eyes locked on yours despite the forlorn look of something… not as hard hitting as agony, but not as unassuming as pain.

"i’m asking because i want to know. not for comfort. so say it—whatever it is."

you sigh again, this time deeply.

“i don’t think you’re intense enough.”

he blinks at that, caught completely off guard by the response. you could see that he was bracing himself for something bad — probably waiting for you to list all the things he was used to hearing from past relationships. this was probably the last thing he was expecting.

hiromi’s lips part, grey eyes widening ever so slightly.

“...say that again?”

you look up at him from your plate, swallowing thickly.

“…i… i like you a lot, hiromi… and i know it’s very early days into this relationship,” and you say that a little quieter than the rest, “but sometimes… sometimes it feels like you don’t… like me all that much, at least, not as much as i do.”

you scoff, face warming a bit under the strobe light of the dining room. “god, i sound like an immature school girl with an unrequited crush.”

hiromi’s throat seemingly goes completely dry, all the air leaving his lungs in a quiet whoosh. “...what makes you think that?”

you shrug, shaking your head, picking up your fork to drag a stray piece of broccolini stem across your plate, back and forth, back and forth.

“it’s silly now that i think about saying it out loud.”

immediately, his expression softens, almost pained by the hesitance in your voice.

he looks at the uncertainty in your eyes and you don’t fail to notice that his arms twitch, as if he wills them to stay by his side.

“please,” he repeats softly. “tell me. why would you think for even a second that i don't like you?”

“it’s not that i think you don’t like me, or that you don’t enjoy my company to a certain degree…” and you trail off, looking up at him, eyes soft and gentle but a little nervous.

“i… just… sometimes, beyond our sexual chemistry… i never know what you’re thinking… you don’t say much, nor do you call, o-or tell me what you’re really thinking. and i know, it’s only been a few months, so i’ve kept most of this to myself in fear of… scaring you away with my own intensity…”

the longer you speak, the more the breath leaves your body, and the more his expression grows solemn in nature.

hearing the quiet insecurity in your own voice makes your chest ache in a way you can’t control, and you’re sure hiromi feels it too, with the way he shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear it.

“...you can't be serious,” he murmurs. “...of course i like you. more than like you. i thought that was obvious.”

you’re still rendered unable to look him in his warm grey eyes.

“i know you like me, of course i do… but i don’t know…” and you trail off, the vegetables on your plate thoroughly covered in sauce and gravy now.

“i just… i’ve never stayed the night, nor have you offered… and i know, i know it’s immature of me when i could just ask, and you’d more than likely say yes, but…”

the words get stuck again, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i don’t know. it’s stupid. i’m sorry.”

meanwhile, hiromi is stunned into momentary silence.

almost immediately, he reaches across the table, fingers closing gently around your wrist.

“no,” he breathes, eyes pleading. "it’s not stupid, not at all. look at me.”

you looks at his hand enclosed around your wrist, before meeting his earnest gaze, still waiting… quiet and expectant.

his grip tightens ever so slightly.

"you’re not stupid," he repeats, his voice even more gentle. “don’t apologise. i’m not upset, i just... i can't believe you've been feeling this way and i never knew. i was so worried about scaring you off, i’d never even thought to consider about how you'd view me during all of this.”

his thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling your racing heart beneath his fingertips.

it’s your turn to look at him in disbelief.

“you’ve been worried about scaring me off?”

his free hand runs anxiously through his hair, frustration clear in his expression.

“of course i have,” he confesses. “you’ve no idea how much i’ve tried to keep myself in check — to keep myself from going too hard, saying too much, going too fast... i didn't want to scare you off or make you think i was clingy.”

his thumb continues to brush circles across your wrist, the motion so soothing, so subconscious, he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it helps lower your guard nonetheless, as he has you huffing out a laugh now, way more relieved and very sheepish.

“i… i had no idea… now i feel silly for assuming the worst. i’m sorry.”

“don’t say that,” he murmurs, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

“i should have been more straightforward from the very beginning, i just... i didn't want to push you. i figured you'd want to take things slow. that you'd want space. i didn't want to...”

he scoffs, his voice growing thick. “...i didn't want to come on too strong too early on and end up losing you.”

you slide your wrist out of his hand to replace it with your palm instead.

the moment your hand slides into his— warm, steady, and oh so, sure —something inside him cracks open like a gently steamed egg. his breath hitches.

“i really like what we have, hiromi… and i’d like us to be serious. i want you to want me even if you think i’ll reject you… because nine times out of ten, i’m most definitely thinking the same thing as you.”

hiromi looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. the softness in your eyes undoes him completely.

“... i want that too," he agrees quietly. “more than anything.”

you nod, smiling at him. “okay, then. it’s settled.”

the both of you just stare at each other, his eyes that bore into yours wordlessly converse with your own weighted gaze, hopeful and filling in the gaps of what doesn’t need to be conveyed.

“so…” you finally voice, “what would you like to do after dessert?”

hiromi’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand this time, absentminded.

his adam’s apple bobs and settles before he clears his throat.

“i have somewhat of an idea," he says, voice low and sultry, “but it might make me a bit of a bastard to suggest it out loud.”

you shrug, your other hand sliding atop their already conjoined ones. “i guess i’ll be the judge of that.”

hiromi’s eyes flicker down to where your hands encompasses his, and he sniffles thickly.

“…how would you feel if i suggested i spend the night at your place?"

you smile, almost showing all of your teeth.

“i’d really, really like that…” but then your face falls in innocent confusion. “though, i fail to see how that would make you look like a bastard.”

his eyes darken at your guileless smile, and he manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “...well. there is one caveat."

you narrow your eyes curiously, lips pouty.

“oh? what is it?”

for a second, hiromi is completely distracted by the pout of your lip, but when you squeeze his hand, he recalibrates, coughing with no cough backed up.

“well,” he says as casually as can be, fingers still brushing softly across your knuckles. “i have one or two... expectations, i suppose you could call them, for the night. if you're amenable, that is.”

you nod, eyes wide, still a little confused and unsure but ready to accommodate to his very preferences.

“i’m all ears— oh,” and realisation washes all over your face. “are you insinuating what i think you’re insinuating?”

seeing you begin to catch on spreads a slow, predatory smile across his lips.

he takes his time before answering, dragging out his words like silk. “that depends. what do you think i’m insinuating?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

you bite your bottom lip, before smiling innocently, shrugging.

“hey, you’re supposed to be the bastard right now. it wouldn’t be ladylike of me to say.”

a low, rumbling laugh escapes him — dark and full of promise.

“then i’ll say it for you.”

he leans across the table just slightly, voice dropping to a velvet murmur.

“i want to stay the night. and not just sleep,” and he says your name even quieter after, “i want to have you, touch you everywhere, taste every inch of your skin.”

hiromi’s hand glosses over your knuckles again and then your palm — slowly and deliberately.

“and if you're lucky... maybe i’ll let you get some sleep afterwards.”

your eyes widen, and after a pregnant pause, you inhale deeply, nodding as you pull your hand out of his grasp, standing abruptly from the table.

hiromi blinks, taken aback by the sudden loss of your touch. the beginning twist of a frown takes over his once keen expression as he watches you stand, his tone confused when he says your name, eyebrows furling. “are you oka—”

“how about we skip dessert for now?” you interject, taking the dishes from the table.

a marauding, lopsided grin spreads across his face once again.

“oh,” he says, standing slowly from the table, dangerous when he walks toward you, closing the distance until he's just behind you against the sink. his hands rest lightly on your hips. “i like that idea.”

he noses at your neck. “i guess dessert will be served,” he murmurs against your ear, lips soft.

you snort, placing the dishes in the sink, as you look behind your shoulder and up at him. “so cheesy.”

“maybe,” he admits unashamedly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. he doesn't move his hands from your hips despite your slight movements around the kitchen jostling him around. he knows it’s impractical, but he can’t seem to let go of you knowing what is yet to occur.

“but you're still standing here. still letting me touch you.”

his lips brush the shell of your ear as he adds, barely above a whisper:

“...and later tonight, when i’ve got you gasping and begging and completely undone, you'll be calling me a lot of things.”

he grins unabashedly against your skin.

“cheesy won't be one of them.”

with an airy sigh, you lean back in his touch, eyes fluttering at his touch and words, before you flicker them open, clearing your throat as you move his hands away.

“at least let me clean up before you try to seduce me, ‘romi,” you retort, opening the dishwasher.

his grip tightens on you instinctively when he hears it, but he has to let go of you when you push his hands away, albeit reluctantly, stepping back to let you clean up.

“you’re no fun,” he complains in a teasing, exasperated voice. "you really are going to make me wait, aren't you?"

“i’m not leaving dirty dishes in the sink because you want to get your dick wet,” you say crudely, turning to face him with folded arms and a smirk on your face.

“besides, aren’t you always telling me that patience is a virtue?”

he laughs tightly, shaking his head at the vulgar words coming out of your mouth, he then closes the distance between you to cage you in against the counter.

“not when the patience has me aching for you,” he maintains, voice low and rough. “you’re making it hard to behave.”

you let your hands slide up his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt, a teasing smile on your face.

“are you that insatiable, my dear hiromi?”

his breath stutters in his chest as he watches you toying with the buttons on his dress shirt.

his eyes are hooded, darkened by pure, aching want.

“you have no idea.”

his pelvis dips in, pinning you even further against the kitchen counter.

“it’s taking every ounce of self-control i have to keep from hauling you off to the bedroom this very second. you’re going to drive me absolutely insane.”

you gasp when you feel the very presence of his desire for you — thick and wanting against his slacks, and you slide your hand down to his belt loops, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his jaw.

“is there any way i could incentivise you to wait a little while, at least until my kitchen doesn’t look like such a mess?”

a low, ragged groan escapes him as he feels your kiss on his jaw, the sound coming deep from within his chest.

when you suggest that he wait, he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and when he speaks, his voice comes out thick.

“define a while.”

“no more than ten minutes,” you insist, your arms going to wrap around his waist.

he has to swallow, closing his eyes to ground himself when you wrap your arms around him. your touch is soft, gentle on purpose, but you’re sure that it is pure torture to him right now — like the sweetest fire engulfing you in its steady flames.

he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent, before he growls low in his throat. “ten minutes,” he affirms, eyes opening to meet yours.

“you have ten minutes and then I'm having you.”

you smile, kissing his cheek before letting go. “go wait in the bedroom… i’ll be right there.”

he lets out an almost pained-sounding laugh when you kiss his cheek.

hiromi nods only once. “i’ll be waiting,” he says, voice gruff, full of barely-kept-together restraint.

he leaves the kitchen, heading to your bedroom, his thoughts already a mess of fantasies and wanting.

at just around seven and a half minutes, you saunter into your bedroom, your heels clicking and clacking against the hard floor, and you knock teasingly, a sultry smile on your lips as you lean by the doorway.

hiromi stands by the window — deliberately composed — but the moment he hears your heels, his control slips.

the low click-clack-click of your steps sends a thrill straight down his spine. he turns slowly, and there you are: leaning in the doorway like some kind of vision sent to ruin him.

his jaw tightens.

“cutting it close,” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger as his eyes drag over every inch of you. “i was about to come looking for you.”

you roll your eyes, walking up to him and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“i’m two minutes early. what happened to the ever so patient man i know, hmm?”

his hands find your waist instantly, like a pair of magnets fighting against gravitational pull.

“that man,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours, “disappeared the second you kissed my jaw and let me know how badly you want me as i do you.”

a low hum vibrates in his chest as he finally closes the distance: not quite kissing you, but letting his lips ghost over yours with every word.

“you happened. you’re my kryptonite."

“that’s not good,” you pout, eyes flicking from his own to his lips.

“now there’s nothing stopping me from using my powers against you,” you tease, your lips one breath away from his.

a dark, thrilling laugh rumbles in his chest.

“oh, but you already have,” he whispers, lips brushing yours with every word. “every time you look at me like that… every time you touch me… i’m putty in your hands.”

his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him so there’s no space left between the both of you.

“but go ahead," he dares, voice low and rough. “use them.”

you roll your eyes. “like i said before… cheesy.”

you don’t let him retort, pulling him down by his loosened tie to kiss him deeply.

hiromi lets out a low, ragged sound the second your mouth touches his, like all the air leaving his lungs in a one swift rush.

he kisses you like a man starving, every kiss heavy and demanding, filled with a need that borders on desperation. he can't get close enough to you; he pulls you up hard against him, fingers slipping into your hair to hold you in place as he slides his tongue against yours.

your head spins, letting him overcrowd your very senses until your knees are buckling, until you're breathless and trembling in his hands.

you can’t help but whine haplessly into his mouth, your tongue gliding against his and you eventually pull apart, moving his hands off of you to hold him by the arm.

“take off your shoes.”

when you pull back, it takes him a moment to collect himself enough to hear your words.

he lets out a low, ragged laugh at your order, though he obeys immediately. his shoes get kicked off his feet and hit the floor with a thump and he looks at you, eyebrow raised.

“bossy,” he quips, his voice still rough. “you’re lucky i find it sexy.”

you kick off your own heels, tugging him by his arm till he’s at the edge of your expansive bed, and you push him down into the silky sheets and quilted pillows.

he lets himself be pushed back easily, his eyes darkened with desire as he looks up at you.

immediately, he reaches for you, wanting to haul you down on top of him.

“c'mere…" he murmurs, the words both an order and a plea.

you swat his hands away, but you comply anyway, climbing on top of him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

his breath hitches as you settle on top of him — warm, soft, perfect. “you’re killing me," he grunts against your lips, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips.

he arches slightly beneath you, silently begging for more.

“do you have any idea what you do to me?

you shake your head, laving wet kisses against his jaw, neck and the corner of his mouth, avoiding his lips that edge towards you.

“no… but i’d really like for you to tell me.”

his fingers dig into your hips as you kiss every inch of skin except his mouth and lets out a low, ragged swear when you drag your lips over his jaw, leaving his skin on fire.

“i ache,” he confesses, voice cracking, “i ache to touch you, to taste you, to be inside you. you’re all i think about sometimes — all i want… you drive me crazy.”

a pleased grin takes over your swollen lips, and you place your hands flat by his head as you look down at him. “good answer.”

you finally decide to take him out of his misery, sliding your arms around his neck again and then slotting your mouth over his.

he groans against your mouth, the sound coming from deep within him, the last thread of his restraint snapping.

without warning, he flips you both over so you're beneath him, his hips pushing between your legs, pinning you down against the bed.

his lips crush yours in a crushing, searing kiss. he parts your lips with his tongue, invading your mouth like a man starving. he kisses all sense of reason from you, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully tight.

you squeak against his lips when he does, your hands holding his face as you lick into his mouth with just as much passion and enthusiasm.

your arm lifts slightly to rest against the back of his neck, eyes rolling back under their lids as you moan into him.

he feels your moan vibrate against his mouth, sending fire through his veins.

his hands slide under your dress — slow at first, then bolder — as they glide up the soft skin of your thighs. a low noise rumbles in his chest when he feels you trembling beneath his touch.

“let me feel all of you,” he pleads, voice ragged with need as he grinds down harder, the heat between you almost unbearable. “please.”

you break the kiss with a wet pop!, pushing him onto his back and into the pillows as you kneel up on the bed.

“since you asked so nicely,” you tease with swollen, shiny lips, your hand pushing a strap down from your shoulder.

his breath comes fast and uneven as he watches you move over him, rasping out your name with a voice thick with desire, hands twitching at his sides like he's fighting not to reach for you.

but when you slowly push the strap down, revealing just a hint of skin, his control frays at the seams.

hiromi surges up suddenly, fast and smooth, flipping you beneath him once again in one swift motion.

“let me," he sighs against your ear. “let me undress you."

you giggle, but it’s only full of desire. “you’re so impatient, today, hiro… but please, be my guest.”

when you give him permission, he doesn't hesitate. his hands fly towards to the zipper behind you, tugging it down agonisingly slowly, letting each inch of skin reveal itself like a gift he's unwrapping with reverence.

“so beautiful," he murmurs raggedly, eyes dark and hungry. “i’ve been aching to see you like this again for days.”

you bite your lip, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders loosely, the material around your breasts bunching up around you as hiromi pulls down the zip even further. his touch — even the most innocent touch — has your body on fire, your blood singing while every muscle in your body coils tight with aching.

“it hasn’t even been a full week since we last had sex,” you breathes, a little giggly and very infatuated with the man lying on top of you.

“every moment i’m not touching you is a moment too long, as far as I'm concerned,” he contends, leaning in to brush his lips feather-soft against your neck.

as the dress drops away from your top half, he drinks in the sight of you, like a man dying of thirst. “christ, you're gorgeous.”

you open your mouth to retort teasingly, but instead you just sigh when his lips touch your skin, the dress bunching and falling to sit around your waist, inadvertently revealing your bare breasts to him, and surprisingly, a silver bar in your left nipple.

hiromi’s eyes land on that small, shining piece of metal with a sharp intake of breath.

for a moment, all he does is stare, his heart hammering in his chest.

“you got a piercing,” he murmurs, voice coarse. “and you didn't tell me?

he can't help himself; he reaches, calloused fingers tracing lightly over the skin over the shiny metal. it’s like a jolt to his monkey brain receptors, seeing you like this. “when did you get this?”

you bite your lip, a soft groan leaving your throat.

“back during my rebellious university days… took it out once i grew my frontal lobe,” you tell, then your eyelashes flutter to where he thumbs around the hardened peak, “but i put it back in every now and then so it doesn’t close up… i never meant to not tell you, hiro.”

meanwhile, you can tell hiromi is so overwhelmed right now: by you, by the sight of you like this, and all he can do is take a slow, sharp inhale as his fingers runs over the jewelry.

“it’s...holy, it's sexy," he mutters, his eyes still fixed on your chest as his thumb and forefinger run feather-light over the cold titanium. “jesus, i don't think i’ve ever been more turned on by something in my entire life.”

you can only just let out a bubble of laughter, eyes hazy at how fascinated he is with a simple piercing on your body. it soon breaks off into a moan when his fingertip flicks against the skin.

“you sure know how to make a woman feel beautiful.”

“you are beautiful,” he murmurs quicky, voice thick with veneration, with you at the altar. “every inch of you.”

his lips find your neck again, soft, hot kisses trailing down to your collarbone. then lower.

when his mouth hovers just above the silver bar, he looks up at you through his lashes — dark eyes burning with hot desire.

“may i?” he asks, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

you keen at his words, the way he’s looking at you right now doing little to quell the flames in your lower belly.

a sharp whine leaves your throat before you can stop yourself, nodding. “of course, hiro.”

his whole body responds to the way you give him consent, shuddering while his groin drags a little against you. he has to take a moment to compose himself, though the moment lasts less than a few seconds because he then he lowers his head, mouth closing around the sensitive, metal-clad nipple. he sucks gently at first, his warm, soft tongue moving in slow, languid licks.

there’s something so oddly intimate about this, despite the obviousness of him almost having you. it can't be described with mere words — you just... feel completely taken with him, and you know he feels the exact same. it has you wanting to slap yourself for ever second guessing how he feels about you.

your eyes flutter shut, a hand weaving into his strands as he sucks the sensitive peak, a flurry of gentle whines and whimpers leaving your lips in succession.

the sound of your whimpers — soft and needy — has him sucking harder, teeth grazing. one hand press further onto your hips, wanting to keep you here like this for as long as possible, while the other slides up to your other less than decorated nipple, fingers pinching and pulling at the skin.

“that’s it, sweetheart," he whispers softly, lips trailing a path up your chest. “let me hear you.”

his hand moves then, tracing down the flat of your stomach, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of whatever's still left of your dress.

you hum, helping him pull down the rest of your dress as you shimmy, till you’re fully naked, save for your cotton panties, a cute navy blue with a growing damp spot in the middle of it.

“jesus...” he breathes, voice raw when he says your name as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, trembling, so wet for him already.

hiromi’s fingers trace the damp spot over your panties with agonizing slowness, watching your hips twitch beneath his touch.

“so responsive,” he murmurs. “so perfect.”

he leans down until his mouth hovers just above the fabric. “can i take these off?”

you nod incessantly, watching as his deft fingers curl into the waistband.

you’re a little breathless when you eventually speak while his hands drag down your thighs with your permission, pushing them together slowly. “just for the record, while i think the fact that you ask for my consent is really sexy… i always want you to touch me, hiro.”

his breathing stutters at your words, his fingers now back on the edge of your panties.

a low, ragged sound rumbles from the depth of his chest.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, eyes dark and hazy with need. “i will never forget you said that.”

his fingers slide beneath the fabric, tugging softly. “lift your hips for me, baby.”

you comply obediently, lifting your hips and letting hiromi slide your underwear down your legs, a slight string of your wetness snapping and pooling against the cotton of the panties.

he watches every movement, entranced and breathless as the last scrap of fabric finally falls away, leaving you bare under his ravenous gaze and preying hands.

the glistening heat between your thighs steals his voice completely; all he can do is crawl back up your body, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh… then higher… until his breath fans over you, searing and eager.

“so pretty," he says to himself. “so wet.”

hiromi looks up at you one last time before he leans in:

“let me taste you.”

you bite your lip, eyelashes fluttering when you feel a puff of balmy air over your sensitive folds, your hole clenching over nothing, eyes lidded as you watch just how close he gets to where you want — no — need him.

“are you asking or are you telling?” you breathe out, voice sliced thick with unrepentant desire.

hiromi chuckles softly, eyes still fixed on your core as he edges closer.

“i’m telling,” he says, subdued in its tone. “i just want to make you feel good.”

his mouth is so close that it's almost like he's speaking against you. “can i, sweetheart? please," he mutters, eyes meeting yours in a way he knows you can't resist. “let me taste you.”

you whines at the way he speaks to you, it going straight to your already leaky core while your mind turns to mush even before he can even get his mouth on you. you end up just nodding dumbly.

“o-okay. yes, please.”

“good girl,” he responds, the words barely above a whisper, like a secret just for you and him.

and then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and devastating. he laps at you like he's been starving, slow at first to savor every drop, then deeper, hungrier. his tongue circles your clit with just the right pressure — one hand sliding under your lower back to hold you steady as his lips close around that sensitive nub.

“mmm,” he groans against you, on purpose but also not, feeling how your entire body jolts at the sensation.

you taste sweet and sharp all at once.

your mouth falls slack, your hand weaving into his thick dark strands as a saccharine moan flies out of your mouth.

“oh, hiro—” you sigh breathily, lidded eyes watching the way he devours at you, the way the curve of his nose digs into your puffy little clit, his groans sending little pulses of sharp pleasure through you, your essence flowing out of your tensing hole.

when he hears name on your lips like that, it nearly unravels him.

he growls against your slovenly cunt, drinking in the way you shudder and pulse under his mouth. the more you drip, the deeper he laps at you, chasing every drop. his tongue circles your clit again and again before he pulls back just enough to blow softly over your wet heat.

“so responsive,” he grunts heavily. “do you like it when i eat you out like this?”

he doesn't wait for an answer: he instead just dips two slender fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right as his mouth closes over your clit again with an intense suction.

you cry out, your fingers tugging on his hair a little tighter as he curves two fingers inside your wet cavern. a breathy “oh, fuck Hiro” climbs out of your chest, and you subconsciously raise your hips against him, body like a live wire when the curve of his angular nose digs into your clit in tandem with his soothing yet bullying tongue.

on the other hand, the way you tug on hiromi’s hair makes him shiver, the vibration travelling from his mouth to your body.

pulling his mouth away from your core ever so slowly, his fingers work even deeper, crooking just right as he looks up at you through thick, dark lashes. “say it again,” he demands, his breath fanning against your inner thigh. “my name. i want to hear it again.”

“hi-hiro,” you stutter, a heavy moan tearing out of your esophagus when his blunt fingers catch against that spongy spot inside of you, your back arching. “fuck, ‘m close… slow down… i’m gon’... ‘m gonna make a mess—!”

“yeah?” he double checks, fingers moving in fast, torturous circles.

“you want me to slow down, sweet thing?” he dips his head, kissing your inner thigh with a wet open mouth. “but i thought i was gonna make a mess of you. isn’t that what i promised, sweetheart?”

he sucks a mark into the skin — dark and blooming like the others, a quiet claim in the midst of your harvesting orgasm.

“you’re so close,” he groans in awe. “so pretty when you're about to come all over my fingers, sweetheart.”

you shake your head as if trying to will away the intensity of what’s to come, intaking a sharp breath as your stomach tenses, eyes rolling back, your mouth dropping in a silent scream as you cum all over Hiromi’s fingers and face, squirting clear liquid all over him.

you warble out his name in a sea of “oh fuck Hiro, right there, don’ stop, ‘m cumming, oh Hiro—” riding out your peak against his mouth, nose and fingers.

all the while, hiromi doesn't pull away. he can’t, not does he want to.

the moment you cry out his name, he groans low and deep, fingers still pumping deep inside you, curling them just right as your walls clamp down hard and arduous.

his lips stays locked around your clit — sucking gently, rhythmically — as you sob through your orgasm, and even as your body tenses and spasms into oversensitivity, he doesn’t stop.

he drinks your arousal like a man possessed, and his cock is painfully hard now, straining against his slacks as he grinds into the mattress below.

hiromi drags every last wave from you with slow thrusts of his fingers and soft flicks of his tongue until you’re whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

when your trembling begins to subside, he pulls back slowly: lips glistening and slick with your release. he looks up at you through hooded satisfied eyes, kissing your inner thigh gently.

you pant breathlessly, looking down at him for a second before collapsing despite already lying down, boneless. when you come to, you cover your face when you see the dampness on the sheets that still drips from your boyfriend’s face.

“please, please don’t tell me i squirted on you,” you say, muffled.

he smiles against the skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing gently, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your blanched flesh as he watches you try to collect yourself.

“oh, sweet thing,” he coos at you, “is that what you're worried about? that you made a mess?”

he kisses right behind your knee as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, bringing them to his lips and humming in deep, vulgar satisfaction as he sucks each one clean. “i don't mind a little mess.”

you groan behind your hands, shaking your head.

“you don’t understand, hiromi… i’ve literally never done that before… i’m mortified.”

he chuckles quietly against your skin, his hands continuing to move across your body like he can’t keep them still after witnessing you fall from grace, like he just needs to be touching you.

“sweetheart, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, i promise,” he states, matter of fact.

hiromi reaches up to pull your hands away from your face, looking at you with eyes full of a tenderness that nearly burns your skin raw.

“look at me.”

you sigh, opening your bleary eyes to look down at him, letting him pull your hands away.

he looks into your eyes, his gaze locked and intense, still dark and hungry behind his usually warm and sated pupils.

“you don't have to be embarrassed," he repeats, his thumb stroking your thigh. "i liked it.”

his eyes drop to your lips and he wets his own, tongue darting out. “it made me feel so good to make you feel so good, sweetheart," he admits softly.

you can’t help but pout nonetheless. “…really?”

“baby,” he lets out, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your thigh. “i swear i loved it. i love feeling you lose control like that… knowing that i’m the one to make you—” he presses another kiss to your skin. “—feel—” kiss. “—so—”kiss. “—good.”

you sighs as he litters kisses all over your skin, chewing on your bottom lip to wane the noises that want to come pouring out. “hiro…”

the man in question lifts himself over you slowly, bracing on one arm as the other trails up your side. his lips hover just above yours.

“yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, a thick palm sliding up your soft belly, to grope at your breast, before tipping your chin upwards to him. “what do you want?”

you just… shake your head. “nothing… just want you.”

the simplicity of your words have him sighing.

“you have me," his gaze locking with yours as he grinds up his clothed core between your legs, his body settling against yours. he brushes up your cheek, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “all of me. you know that, right?”

you nod sweetly, tongue darting out to lave over his thumb. a cloying mhmm leaves your throat.

hiromi is entranced — absolutely spellbound by the sight of your tongue on his thumb and the little sound that leaves your throat in accompaniment.

“so greedy already," he tuts, sucking through his teeth as he presses his thumb gently against the wet muscle. “can’t keep your mouth off of me, even for a second, huh?”

the words are set to be teasing, and a little humiliating but all you do is shake your head, closing your eyes, sucking on his thumb with more force before blinking them back open, your eyes boring into his own, wide and wet.

the sight of you like this: lips parted, eyes wide, sucking gently on his thumb, has him pushing his thumb deeper between your lips.

“you’re going be the death of me, you know that?” he breathes. “so sweet. so pretty.”

you exhale faintly at his words, your teeth dancing around the digit, refusing to break eye contact for even a second.

hiromi lets out a slow, shaky rumble when your teeth skims his thumb. his eyes darken, jaw tightening as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“keep looking at me like that,” he grunts, sotto voce, "and i won't be able to go slow as i want.”

his hips shift forward instinctively, the clothed, hard length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.

“do you want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

your head bobs up and down wordlessly, your lips still pursed around his thumb that still slides against your tongue, eyelashes fluttering when you feel him hard against you despite the layers of all his clothes.

he groans at your silent answer, but it’s simply not enough.

hiromi pulls his thumb from your mouth slowly, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the corner of your lips. “you’re going to have to use your words for me, sweetheart,” he insists, “i want to hear you say it.”

much too pent up to retort or feel any shame about your desire for the man in front of you, you steadily oblige, a deep, warm suspiration of air leaving your chest.

“please fuck me, hiro.”

a guttural, ragged sound rips from his throat at the sound of his name coupled with your words, the wanting in your voice completely unravelling what's left of his control.

he kisses you roughly, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “since you said that so politely...”

you smile against his lips, wrapping your arms around him as he utters those words against you, your legs spreading to wrap around his hips.

hiromi kisses you even harder now, his tongue delving in deep, his fingers gripping your bare ass as he pulls you against him.

in haste, his hands begin fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to shed the fabric keeping him from you.

he pulls away, fixing you with darkened gaze as he undoes away his tie, flinging it over the edge of the bed before shrugging out of his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours. he’s impatient, almost hurried, like he needed to be inside you yesterday or else he might go insane.

the dark haired men looks like he's barely holding on as he pulls a gold foil wrapper from his trouser pocket, black swallowed pupils watching you tentatively now, waiting to see if you’ll say no to him in any way shape or form (and although he would appease to whatever you wanted at the time, he’s convinced he might actually break right now).

you’re the only thing holding his control together, and he needs to know he can touch you right now.

you lean back, watching with longing filled eyes as hiromi strips, till he’s just as bare as you are.

his body is all lean muscle and sharp lines as he spreads his legs, ripping open the foil packet to pull out the latex.

he looks at you again, and the way you're watching him like you want to devour him alive steals whatever teasing words that he had locked and loaded at that moment.

he says your name with a rasp, clear ing his throat. “are you sure?” while rolling the condom down his pulsing length slowly. “last chance to stop.”

even though they both know there's no going back: not when he's already kneeling between your thighs, and especially not when your legs are already parting for him without his hands intervening.

you blink slowly at him, akin to a sated cat, a saccharine lilt to the sigh that leaves you, giggling breathily.

“i know you mean well, babe, but asking me if i’m sure while you roll a condom over your really hard dick…” and you trail off with a raised brow, opening your arms as you settle further into the sheets.

“just come over here already.”

he hisses out a laugh at your words, before letting rip a deep, guttural groan as his gaze drops down to the shine between your thighs. he quickly obeys, crawling forward until he's sitting up on his haunches over you.

“so bossy, sweetheart,” he sighs, hands roaming over your legs, and simply put: he cannot get enough of you. “i like it.”

you can’t help but quirk up the corner of your lips, your arms wrapping around his back, hands pressed against the planes his shoulders, your legs spreading to wrap around him.

he inhales coarsely as you pull him closer, your legs locking around his waist like a vice now.

hiromi leans down, brushing a soft peck to your lips tenderly, before dragging it to your ear.

“ready?” he rustles, the tip of him nudging against your heat, already slick and welcoming.

you give him the okay with a dip of your head, eyes looking up at him wide eyed and full of anticipation. “ready.”

a slow, steady exhale leaves him as he lines up, observing the rise and fall of your tensing stomach and fluttering eyes, the hand resting between your bodies guiding him to you.

he doesn't look away even as the thick tip of him breaches past the first ring of muscle, to which the both of you moan synchronously.

hiromi takes one of your hands, threading your fingers with his.

it’s so intimate that’s it’s almost heart-stopping.

“you okay?" he asks, every part of him so aware of how vulnerable you look and are right now.

you utter out a delicate, “mhmm,” a docile noise following soon after when you feel the rest of his weighty cock push through your wet cavern.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingers binding around your hand.

“you feel so good," he gasps, his voice bumpy with barely tethered restraint.

he then stops for a moment, stilling to let you adjust, not wanting to hurt you.

“you okay, my love?” he whispers and asks again, scanning your face, to which your thumb brushes over the back of his hand that rests over your head.

“yeah… keep going… please.”

he leans down to smooch your forehead. “anything you want, sweetheart," he rumbles, his hips pressing forward slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he's deep inside you, and you're both completely joined, and that feeling you’ve both never been able to shake finally makes sense.

harmonious groans leave your lips, your pussy stretching to accommodate his girth, and it’s still a struggle even though you’ve been thoroughly prepped.

looking down ever so slightly, your chest rises and falls heavily as you break eye contact to look at where your cunt is wrapped around his cock, folds swallowing up his length and sucking him in further.

the sight of you — glistening and perfect — has hiromi letting out an uncharacteristic moan, loud and brazen.

“jesus—” he hisses, your name coming out wobbly. it’s all too much, yet he can't even look away: but neither can you.

his hips twitch forward on instinct, not pulling out yet —just pressing deeper into you with a slow roll of his pelvis that makes your breath hitch and your thighs didder around him.

“feel that?" he croaks hoarsely. “all of me... for you.”

he leans down until his damp lips brush yours.

“look at me when I'm inside you," he pleads. “please.”

you tilt your head up, locking your lips with his wetly, eyes up at him. your nails dig softly into the scruff of his neck, and you lift a thigh to sit comfortably around his waist.

the way you look at him has him groaning, so he kisses you again, more thorough this time, pouring everything into it. his hips begin to move — slow at first, a gentle roll that draws a whimper from your throat.

“so sweet," he murmurs against your lips. “so damn sweet.”

hiromi’s hand slips between your bodies to touch where you’re joined, and then he’s stroking two fingers gently over your clit in small circles as his cock slides almost bottomless inside you again.

“feel good?”

you choke on a gasp, your hand flying down to hold his wrist, keeping it there as you nod.

“feels so good,” you whine. “more, hiro.”

he growls low in his throat at the sound of those words, his gaze locking onto your eyes.

“more?” he asks, breath hot on your lips. “say please, sweetheart.”

“please,” you whimper obediently and instantaneous, too wound up to retort with any sarcastic witticisms.

he rewards you with a slow, penetrating thrust, just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch, before pulling almost all the way out.

“like that?” he soughs, “or do you want it harder?”

he doesn't wait for a response this time.

with a sharp snap of his hips, he drives into you - deep and sudden - and it has you clenching down on him with every push and pull.

you squeal in ecstasy, each drag of his veiny, thick cock against your sensitive walls sending you reeling. you swear you can feel the beat of his heart inside of you as his length fucks into you, fast, wet and noisy.

one of your legs start to slip from his waist from the sheer force of his thrusts, and without breaking his rhythm, he catches it firmly to drape it over his shoulder.

“there you go, pretty thing,” he chuckles affectionately. “let me take care of you.”

the new angle makes you gasp as he sinks even deeper - each stroke hitting that sweet spot like he was made to fit right here.

he leans in close, brushing a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then up to your thigh.

hiromi’s hands finds yours again, fingers lacing tight and over your head.

your eyes practically roll back into your skull, and there’s nowhere to hide as hiromi forces your arms over your head, masking the desire of wanting to see your face wound up in pleasure with an act of romanticism.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he groans. “so perfect.”

in any other situation, you would make fun of him, teasing him for being such a romantic, but this new position has you speechless, practically sobbing as you feel the head of his cock press so much deeper, heeding the ceiling of your cervix. your eyes begin to water with pleasure, and your fingers tighten around his own, your nails digging into his knuckles.

every whimper and desperate noise that falls from your lips is symphonic, and hiromi cannot get enough.

he needs you closer.

he lets go of your hands to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you up - so you're sitting in his lap, your arms snaking around his neck on instinct, your faces so close, every shaky breath washing over the other's skin.

“there you go.”

he starts to thrust up into you with a renewed fervour, like he was born to do this - to love you like this. each snap of his hips draws a gasping sob from your throat, and he feeds on it. “that’s it… take all of me.”

you cry into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck tighter as you pull him closer, mouth sloppily slotting over his, all teeth and saliva and tongue — hardly even a kiss at this point, but you’re desperate, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

this new position has him bouncing you up and down his cock, hips thrusting at a pace that starts to get sloppy, and you can tell what that means.

“you close? i…’m close,” you moan, eyes hazy.

hiromi breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“so close,” he groans, voice broken. “you’re killing me, sweetheart — so tight, so wet, fuck.”

his thrusts grow deeper, more uneven; he can't hold back anymore, so one hand slides between your bodies again to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

“come for me," he grunts against your lips. “please,” and your name comes out half a syllable or two. “…let go.”

he’s barely moving inside you now, with hiromi dragging his cock back nice and slow against that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur with white-hot pleasure.

you grunt a little animalistically when his thumb returns to your overworked love button, your thighs seizing on either side of hiromi, your nails digging into his back, sure to leave red, stinging welts.

“oh god, hiro—” you sob, tongue lolling out of your mouth. “fuck, ‘m—” and you gasp sharply, choking sweetly as you cum, eyes lulling back, vision turning white as you babble nothings that make sense to nobody, throwing your mouth over his to moan onto his tongue, all the while you creams all over his cock.

watching you hit your peak causes hiromi’s hips to stutter, then still deep inside you as the orgasm rips through him, violent and blinding.

“sh-shit—“ he chokes out against your mouth, your name following soon after as his body bows forward, pressing you into the mattress as he empties himself into the condom with a low, shuddering groan.

his breath comes in dilapidated bursts against your skin, sweat-slicked and trembling in your arms. he pants against your cheek, body still shaking, his hand stroking your hair in reverent tenderness.

“that... was incredible,” he gasps, voice still raspy from how badly he fought for breath. “i don’t think i’ve ever —fuck — come that hard.”

he presses his lips on your pout, but softly this time, his breath then hot on your neck as he nuzzles his face against it, leaving a kiss right behind your ear. “feeling okay, sweet thing?” he whispers. “i didn't hurt you, did i…? think i got a little too carried away at the end there.”

you shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as he presses wet kisses onto your moist skin.

“no, fuck no,” you contend. “that was probably the best sex of my life.”

hiromi laughs at that, the sound low and affectionate.

“yeah?” he smirks, pressing another kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder. “best you've ever had, huh?”

he lifts his head to look at you, a cocky little grin settling on his face.

“guess i did a pretty good job, then," he says, clearly pleased with himself.

you hum, and mirror a smile back at him, nosing his damp hair. “it was more than pretty good, hiro.”

he nuzzles into your post-sex affections, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below your ear.

“you’re gonna make me fall in love with you,” he jokes quietly.

then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes full of warmth, yet dark.

“if i haven't already.”

you raise a brow at him, your lips curled up slightly. “i mean… isn’t that the goal?”

he chuckles smoothly, shaking his head with a smirk. “you’re going to get a big head at this rate, sweetheart,”he teases, wrapping you further into his arms .

“can’t help it when the sexy man in my bed thinks my pussy is that good it could make him fall in love,” you tease.

he groans, half-laughing, half-groaning at your words. “what a way with words, my love,” he mutters, pressing his face into your neck, as if to try and hide the way you make him feel.

it’s hapless anyhow, since he can't help the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the affection so plain and simple even in the way he speaks to you.

“but to answer your previous question… yes," he murmurs earnestly, lips still brushing over your skin like a painter and his most prized canvas. “i hope so.”

there’s a pregnant pause before you hum. “… i hope so too.”

however, he lifts his head after, eyes locking with yours - serious now.

“for the record," he says softly, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "It's not just your…pussy, or how you’d put it—” to which you laugh, and to which he kisses you to shut you up.

“…it’s you.”

you break out into a fit of light giggles anyway, holding his face to kiss all over his sharp and curved angles: from his nose to his cheekbones.

“and, for the record,” you mock teasingly, “it’s not just your gorgeous nose or big di—”

hiromi presses a hand over your mouth before you can finish that sentence, face reddening. “you can't say that,” he protests weakly.

“god, you’re shameless, woman," he grumbles, shaking his head at you.

you snort into his hand, all the while you ever so accidentally clench around hiromi’s softening penis that’s still inside of you.

you wiggle your brows up at him, amused when he jerks at the sudden clench (half-limp, half-alive, it’s hard to tell) and lets out a strangled groan.

“you're evil,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut as if to hold back the feeling. “absolute nightmare.”

but his pelvis still twitches forward on instinct — he truly can't help it — his cock stirring again inside you with a slow, traitorous throb.

he glares down at you through heavy lashes. "don’t do that again.” his voice cracks halfway through.

“you say that but i can feel you getting hard all over again, baby,” and you whisper the last part like it’s shameful.

you pullshim down by his neck to kiss against the husk of his ear. “what’s the consensus on a round two? i’m thinking that we take a little break before we resume activities.”

he shudders as your words almost drown him from the outright viscosity, his body already responding at the mere suggestion.

“a break... sounds good,” he mumbles against your skin, planting a kiss between your shoulder and neck once more. “i’ll go get something to clean up."

hiromi pulls back, slipping out of you, making you hiss at the removal, stretching your back with a groan as you then wander around the bedroom, throwing on an oversized hoodie and some panties.

when hiro returns from the bathroom, you grin at him, passing him some folded items. “here. i, uh, have some spare men’s clothes,” to which hiromi raises a brow and you gasp in exaggerated offence, shoving his shoulder playfully, “don’t give me that look—! i like the way men’s stuff fits sometimes…” and you drop the articles into his hand. “consider this impromptu sleepover the prequel to so many better, more prepared ones in our future.”

hiromi watches you, dazed and perhaps still a little drunk on you, but he manages to laugh at the defensive grin on your face. he takes the clothes, unfolding them and glancing between them and you.

“and you’re sure you want me to stay the night?" he asks, as if you won't actually want him to.

you can only roll your eyes, deadpanning.

“baby. i am 100% sure… i would’ve liked to have gotten this crossed off of our list sooner but…” you shrug with some diffidence. “next time it can be your place… if you want.”

he’s already tugging on the soft cotton shirt as you speak. “of course i want you at my place,” he says. “anytime. any night. every night, if we can.”

he cups your face gently, his thumb brushes over your cheek. “if that's what you want too.”

you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pull him down for multiple wet smooches. “of course it’s what i want, silly.”

he kisses you back at your pace: romantic and thorough, then teasing and humorously.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips. “really good.”

he envelops his arms around you, pulling you flush against him despite the layers now between your bodies.

“then i’ll hold you to it.”

You sigh at the thought, blaming the pounding in your skull on last night’s cocktails with your girl friends and the tiny hairs still sticking to your damp shirt from a morning shower. You’re not ready for polite family small talk, questions about your job or relationship—or the endless commentary about how “you should really be settling down.”

You pull over your parents’ street, already noticing a whole luggage outside the house.

“Seems like she’s here.” You mutter to yourself, as you got out the car, quickly looking at the mirror to make yourself presentable, and totally not hangover.

Grabbing your bag, you try to summon your most convincing “I’m totally together” expression. If your mom’s friend was anything like she described, this was going to be a lot of chatter, a lot of smiles, and probably a few pointed questions about your love life that you weren’t ready to answer.

You knock on the door. “I’m home!” you annouce, and almost immediately, you hear your mom’s footsteps scampering over to open it. You chuckle at her cuteness—always so excited to see you, even when you barely had your life together.

“Finally!” she exclaimes, practically dragging you inside. “You’re just in time—she’s already here!”

You groan inwardly, bracing yourself for endless small talk and awkward introductions, but couldn’t help smiling at your mom’s enthusiasm.

When you came inside the house, in the living room, a middle-aged lady—seemingly the same age as your mom—sits on the couch, her posture polite but relaxed. She looks around with a warm smile that could make anyone feel immediately welcome, though your hungover brain mostly registered her as an interruption to your carefully curated morning recovery.

“She must be Mrs. Lee,” you say, glancing at your mom, who was practically glowing with excitement. You couldn’t help but grin despite yourself—your mom always had a way of lighting up a room, and apparently, it was contagious.

“Oh, my, she had grown up to be such a fine young lady!” Mrs. Lee greets with a smile, hugging you warmly.

You return the hug with a polite squeeze, your head still pounding from last night and your brain screaming too early for this kind of energy. “Thank you,” you mutter, secretly hoping your slightly messy hair and damp shirt weren’t too obvious.

“I’ve been telling her so much about you!” your mom chimes in, practically beaming. “All good things, of course.”

You smile faintly, wondering exactly how much she had told her friend about your chaotic, fun-filled nights out with friends—and mentally prepare yourself for a gentle roasting session disguised as small talk.

But Mrs. Lee just look at you softly, a motherly smile plastered on her face, as if she could see right through all the bravado you were trying to put on. It was the kind of smile that made you feel both warm and a little… exposed.

“What about your boy, Lee?” Your mom asks and Mrs. Lee claps her hands as if remembering a completely important detail.

“Right, right!” She laughs. “I told him to buy us some fruits at the supermarket! We can’t stay here and come empty-handed.” She smiles, in which your mom joking hits her arm. “What a hassle! But, thank you anyway,”

Mrs. Lee looks over to you. “I feel like you and my son could be such good friends too!” She grins, in which you awkwardly smile.

Great.

Another one of your mom’s friends trying to set you up with their good-for-nothing sons.

“Honey, help her get her luggage inside!” Your mom says, walking to the kitchen, already arms in arms with Mrs. Lee. You nod before walking towards the entrance.

That’s when you heard a car pull up outside.

The sound of tires against the pavement cut through the room, followed by the soft thud of a door closing. Your mom glanced toward the window almost instinctively, her face lighting up even more than before.

“Oh, perfect timing,” you can hear Mrs. Lee’s voice from inside. “That must be Heeseung!”

You decide to pay no mind to it, as you walked over to carry her luggage.

“Shit, what does she pack in here?”

“Clothes enough for two weeks.” A voice answers your little mutter to yourself.

A familiar one—deep, oh so soft, and far too recognizable—making your breath hitch as you stand straight.

“Do you feel good? Am I making you feel good?”

“Let go for me, baby.”

Your mind suddenly betrayed you, replaying the words spoken in that same voice two months ago—back when you’d been careless, impulsive, and not so smart.

Heat rushed to your face as the memory collided with this current moment. You turn to look and there he was, still wearing the soft eyes you had been so enchanted by that night.

Evan. Evan Lee. At least that’s what he introduced himself as.

The same eyes that had studied you under dim hotel lights now widened, just barely, before masking it with something polite and unreadable.

Mrs. Lee came out before you could even say anything, her voice bright and proud as she introduced you. You barely registered the words, too focused on the way he straightened beside her.

He nodded, polite and distant, the kind of courtesy reserved for strangers. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Then he smiled—easy, effortless—before turning to follow his mom into the house. He picked up her luggage, handling it with practiced care as he walked past you, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne.

He didn’t even glance back.

So he didn’t remember.

You had both been drunk that night, after all.

…

Dinner is already laid out by the time everyone gathers around the dining table a few hours later. The familiar smell of your mom’s cooking fills the room—warm, comforting, painfully normal for a moment that feels anything but.

You take a seat near the edge of the table, choosing distance over comfort. Across from you, Heeseung pulls out his chair and sits down smoothly, posture relaxed, expression polite. To anyone else, he’s just a guest—your mom’s friend’s son, well-mannered and quiet.

To you, he’s the man whose voice still lingers in the back of your mind—whose hands had memorized you in the dark, whose lips had left impressions you were foolish enough to think time would erase.

Conversation flows easily between your mom and Mrs. Lee, laughter spilling over shared memories from high school, old teachers, stories you’ve heard a hundred times before. You nod at the right moments, pushing food around your plate, forcing yourself to eat despite the tight knot in your stomach.

“So, Heeseung,” your mom says brightly, turning to him, “Are you okay with the spare room? Her brother hasn’t been home since his marriage, and she doesn’t want to give her childhood room for guests,” Your mom turns to you and snickers.

“That’s because I visit you and dad all the time, I still need a room here.” You groan softly, while Mrs. Lee laughs.

“Yes, ma’am. The room is just nice. Very well-kept.” Heeseung smiles at her.

“Well, that’s good,” she continues. “By the way, you two are around the same age. You should show him around a bit, don’t you think? This isn’t a city he always comes by.”

Your grip tightens around your utensils.

Before you can answer, Heeseung looks up—briefly, carefully—meeting your eyes for the first time since earlier. There’s no recognition on his face. No spark. Just polite interest.

“If she’s free,” he says simply.

If you’re free.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The lie settles between you, heavy and unspoken.

Under the table, his foot shifts slightly—close enough to make your breath hitch, close enough to make you wonder if it’s accidental. He still doesn’t look at you. Still doesn’t acknowledge the past.

But your body remembers a different name.

And for the first time since he walked past you without a second glance, you realize something unsettling.

Heeseung might not remember you.

But Evan would have.

After dinner, the house settles into silence faster than you expect.

Laughter fades. Doors close softly. The hallway light dims until only a thin strip glows beneath bedroom doors. You lie awake longer than you should, staring at the ceiling you’ve known your whole life, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of another presence in the house.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just an old insignificant memory overstaying its welcome.

Eventually, thirst wins.

You slip out of bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak, padding your way toward the kitchen. The house smells faintly of detergent and leftover dinner, comforting in a way that almost makes you forget why your chest feels tight.

Almost.

The kitchen light is already on.

You freeze in the doorway.

Heeseung stands by the counter, sleeves rolled up, a glass of water in his hand. His hair is slightly tousled now, stripped of the careful neatness he wore earlier. He looks… different. More real. More like the man you left sleeping behind hotel curtains two months ago.

He looks up when he hears you.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “I just—couldn’t sleep.”

He nods, accepting that without question. No tension. No recognition. Or maybe too much control to show either.

You grab a glass from the cupboard, deliberately choosing the one farthest from him. The tap runs. Too loud in the silence. You focus on the sound, on anything but the awareness of him standing only a few feet away.

“Your mom’s cooking was really good,” he says after a moment. “She didn’t exaggerate.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “She always does that.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost absent-minded: “You mentioned earlier you don’t live here?”

“Not anymore,” you answer. “I moved to my own apartment a year ago.”

“Oh,” he says.

The word hangs between you.

You take a sip of water, finally glancing at him. He isn’t looking at you—his attention fixed on the counter, jaw relaxed, expression unreadable. If he remembers, he gives nothing away. If he doesn’t, then this ease is genuine.

You hate that you can’t tell which one hurts more.

“Well,” you murmur, setting the glass down. “Good night.”

He looks up then, meeting your eyes fully for the first time since dinner.

“Good night,” he says.

Still nothing. No crack in his voice. No hesitation. Just calm, polite distance.

You walk past him toward the hallway, careful not to brush his arm, careful not to slow your steps. Behind you, you hear him turn off the light.

In the darkness of your room, you lie awake again—heart louder now, thoughts sharper.

You were the one who left that morning.

You were the one who chose silence.

And yet somehow, standing in your parent’s kitchen, it feels like he’s the one holding all the control.

…

Morning comes too soon.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, thin and pale, landing across your face like an accusation. For a moment, you forget where you are—until the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminds you that you’re back in your parents’ house. And that you aren’t alone.

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your temples. The night had offered no answers. Just silence, politeness, and the unbearable calm of not knowing.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, your mom is already bustling around, apron tied, hair pulled back. Mrs. Lee sits at the table, sipping tea, looking far too refreshed for someone who traveled across the country.

“Morning,” your mom chirps when she sees you. “Perfect timing.”

You hum in response, reaching for a glass of water.

“Could you help Mrs. Yang walk her dog later?” she continues casually. “You remember—next door. You used to do it all the time when you lived here. Besides, litte Jungwon is in Uni now, so no one is there to help her.”

You pause.

“Maeum? Yeah,” you say. “I can do that.”

Mrs. Lee’s face lights up. “Walking outside right now would be so refreshing,” she says warmly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns toward the hallway. “Heeseung!”

Your stomach tightens at the sound of his name.

He appears a moment later, sleeves rolled up again, hair still slightly damp like he’s just washed his face. He looks… awake. Calm. Completely unaffected. “Hm?”

“You should go with her,” Mrs. Lee says easily. “It’ll be good for you to get some fresh air after traveling.”

Heeseung blinks once, then nods. “Sure.”

Sure.

Your mom smiles, clearly pleased. “Perfect! Two birds with one stone.” You force a smile of your own, even as your pulse starts to pick up. “Yeah. No problem.”

Heeseung glances at you—not searching, not curious. Just attentive.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

As you step outside together a few minutes later, the morning air feels too crisp, too quiet. The street looks the same as it always has. Familiar. Safe.

And yet, walking side by side with him, you’re painfully aware of the space between you—and how little it would take to close it.

You’re the one who left. It’s a one-night stand.

You remind yourself of that as you head toward the neighbor’s gate.

So why does it feel like this walk might be the first step toward something you can’t walk away from again.

Heeseung kneels slightly as Maeum charges toward him, tail wagging like it could knock him over.

“He’s… lively,” he says, keeping his voice casual as Maeum circles him, sniffing, then jumping up in excitement. A low chuckle escapes him, and you feel your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah, Maeum’s a handful,” you reply, gripping the leash before he decides to chase a squirrel or something worse. “But he’s harmless… mostly.”

Heeseung brushes a hand along Maeum’s back. “Mostly is good.”

Maeum barks happily, spinning between the two of you. There’s a brief moment where the dog seems to notice the tension radiating off both of you, but of course, he can’t name it.

“Shall we get going?” you ask, starting toward the sidewalk.

Heeseung falls into step beside you, careful not to crowd, careful not to overstep. Close enough to notice the little things: the way you tense when Maeum yanks, the faint crease in your brow, the subtle sway of your hair in the morning sun.

The street is quiet. Early birds call from the trees. Leaves rustle under your shoes. Maeum dashes ahead, then back, sniffing everything in sight.

“So…” you begin, trying to sound casual, “long drive yesterday?”

He shrugs. “Enough to make me remember why I prefer flights.”

You laugh softly. “Fair enough. It is kind of chaos on the road here sometimes.”

Silence falls for a few steps, filled only with Maeum’s padding and your own heartbeat.

Then Maeum stops abruptly, sniffing at a patch of grass right between you and Heeseung. The leash jerks. You stumble forward slightly, and his hand reaches out before you can think, steadying you.

Fingertips brush.

A fleeting touch—but it’s enough. Enough to spark memory, enough to make your stomach twist.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say a word. He takes Maeum’s leash and keeps walking.

And that’s the worst part.

Because whether he remembers—or is pretending—you have no idea.

And it leaves the quiet hanging between you like a question that refuses to be answered.

Maeum slows near the corner, distracted by something only he seems to find interesting. You stop with him, shifting your weight as you wait.

Your fingers curl in on themselves without you noticing.

A slow fist.

Tight enough that your nails press into your palm.

Heeseung’s gaze drops.

Not immediately. Not obviously.

But it lingers just long enough.

“You do that often,” he says.

You look up. “Do what?”

He nods toward your hand. “That.”

You follow his eyes, startled, and force your fingers open. Faint crescent marks bloom red against your skin.

“Oh,” you say lightly. “I guess I clench my hand when I’m waiting.”

“Or when you’re holding back,” he replies, tone even. Too even.

The street feels quieter suddenly.

You laugh, trying to brush it off. “You’re very observant.” He doesn’t smile. Not quite.

“Hard not to notice,” he says.

And just like that—

Your mind betrays you.

Dim light. Your back against unfamiliar sheets.

His voice low, close, asking something you can’t quite remember the words to—only the way your hand had curled then too, nails biting into your palm as you nodded instead of answering.

You remember looking down afterward.

The half-moon marks.

The way he’d gently pried your fingers open, thumb brushing over the indents like he was committing them to memory.

The leash tugs.

You blink, pulled back into the morning air, the quiet street, Maeum wagging his tail impatiently.

Heeseung is already looking ahead again, expression unreadable.

“You good?” he asks, as if nothing had happened.

You nod, heart racing, and start walking again.

But your palm still tingles.

Both of you continue walking with Maeum tugging on his leash once in a while, before stopping infront of a convenient store near the park.

“I’ll buy us drinks, anything you like?” He asks. You look at him as you shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He nods, entering the store while you wait outside while Maeum settles at your feet. Through the glass, you watch him move with easy familiarity— scanning the shelves without hesitation.

He came out a few minutes later with two drinks in his hand. Americano for him, and another for you.

Green Grape Ade.

“Green Grape Ade?” His voice rings in the loud bar music, looking at you with precise judgement, while you mockingly glare at him.

“What’s wrong with it?” You ask, voice slightly loud trying to drown out the music at the bar. He smiles.

“You’re original.” He clinks his glass againts yours, the ice chiming softly over the music.

“I just prefer sour drinks. Especially from the convenient store.” You drink as your gaze turn to him. He’s already staring at you.

He hums. “That’s why your face so sour?” He teases in which you gasp, mock-offense.

He laughs, before shaking his head. “That was a lie. You might just be the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.”

The memory fades as quickly as it came.

You’re back outside the convenience store, the morning air cool against your skin. The bottle in your hand is cold, condensation slick against your fingers.

Heeseung is already walking ahead with Maeum, Americano in hand, posture relaxed like he hasn’t just reached into something you never gave him permission to keep.

You take a sip. It tastes exactly how you like it. How you were imagining it when you were admant on telling Heeseung or Evan it was your favourite at the bar.

And for the first time since you woke up that morning, you wonder if leaving first had really meant leaving anything behind at all.

You catch up to them, glancing at Heeseung. He has a questionable smug look on his face.

“What?” You ask. He shrugs before looking at you.

“I have a lot of things I remember about you.”

…

A few hours pass.

The afternoon drifts by slowly, measured in the ticking of the clock and the occasional sound of movement elsewhere in the house. You spend most of it in your room, half-lying on your bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone without really reading anything.

Every so often, you hear his voice. Muted through the walls. Calm. Easy. Laughing lightly at something your mom says.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

When hunger finally wins over avoidance, the sun is already dipping lower in the sky. The house smells faintly of reheated food, warm and familiar. You take a breath before leaving your room, practicing a neutral expression in the mirror.

The kitchen is quieter now. You’re just about to turn the corner toward the kitchen when you hear your mom speak.

“…She’s been a little off today,” she says, voice gentle. “Probably tired. Or avoiding something.”

You pause without meaning to. Heeseung answers after a beat. “She does that.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Your mom chuckles softly. “Does what?”

“Pulls back,” he says, careful. “When she doesn’t know how to react yet.”

Silence. Then the faint clink of a spoon against a bowl. “You sound like you know her pretty well,” your mom says lightly.

Another pause. Short. Measured.

“I had an impression,” Heeseung replies. “A while ago.”

An impression.

Your fingers curl at your side.

“Huh,” your mom hums. “That’s funny. She actually does leaves impressions on people,”

There’s a smile in Heeseung’s voice when he answers. “Yeah. She does.”

Your mom moves on easily, talking about dinner, about how long Mrs. Lee plans to stay. The conversation drifts, harmless again.

But you don’t move because impressions aren’t made in passing. They’re made when someone sees you up close. When you let them.

You step back quietly, retreating before either of them can notice you there. Back in your room, you sit down slowly, heart still racing.

He didn’t say you’d met.

He didn’t say when.

But he didn’t say you were strangers either. And somehow, that middle ground feels far more dangerous.

A soft knock echoes through your room a few minutes later.

“Hey… you awake?” Heeseung’s voice—calm, controlled, but just close enough to make your heart stutter.

You freeze. Your chest tightens, your pulse spiking. Act normal. Just act like you weren’t eavesdropping.

You smooth your hair with a trembling hand, blink rapidly, and open the door. “Yeah… just woke up,” you say, voice a little too bright, trying to sound casual.

Heeseung steps into the doorway, just enough to glance around your room. His eyes flick over you—not accusatory, not teasing—just aware. The way he looks at you makes the air between you feel suddenly heavy, like it’s charged with electricity you both can’t ignore.

“Your mom’s calling,” he says softly. “Everything’s ready.”

You nod quickly, gripping the doorframe as if it can anchor you. “I’m… not that hungry,” you murmur.

Heeseung tilts his head, that faint, knowing curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he replies, voice smooth, steady, and sharp enough to cut through your attempts at calm.

You step aside, but your foot catches on the edge of the rug. You curse under your breath, forcing a laugh. Too loud. Too sharp.

He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to. The silence itself feels deliberate, heavy. The space between you is so tight that you feel him even when he doesn’t touch you.

“I’ll be eating downstairs,” he finally says, straightening, eyes lingering just long enough to make your stomach clench.

“Okay… see you there,” you say, breath uneven, heart hammering.

He nods once, easily, and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

The click echoes like a verdict.

You press your back against the door, sliding down slowly, hands trembling.

He knows I was listening.

He remembers… more than he should.

And he didn’t say a word.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist.

You straighten abruptly, forcing yourself to move. Down the stairs. To the dining room. To the table.

Every step is a battle between calm and the chaos churning under your skin.

Because you know tonight, nothing is going to feel casual. Not with him. Not after this.

The whole time during dinner, you caught him staring at you. Shamelessly at that, gave you a sheepish smile when you eye him suspiciously. He’d move his leg closer to yours, it’ll bump a few times, but he doesn’t pull away.

After dinner, you volunteer on doing the dishes. Your mom and Mrs. Lee’s voices fade into the living room, laughter and chatter blending together.

You take a steadying breath and move to the sink, rolling up your sleeves. Warm water runs over your hands, steam curling around your wrists. For a second, it almost feels normal. Almost.

Then you sense him before you hear him.

Heeseung steps beside you, quiet as a shadow. You tense instantly, shoulders stiff, fingers tightening around a plate.

“Need some help?” he asks softly, tilting his head. Not teasing, not accusing. Just calm, measured.

“I’ve got it,” you reply quickly, eyes trained on the suds, forcing the tone casual.

He doesn’t insist. He simply picks up a stray plate, moving closer than necessary, letting his hands brush yours ever so slightly as he rinses it. You flinch, heart hammering, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t linger. Just present.

The silence stretches, heavy, almost oppressive. Every splash of water, every clink of a dish, echoes too loudly.

You scrub a pan a little harder than needed, trying to focus on anything else—the warmth of the water, the smell of garlic, the mundane rhythm of washing—but his quiet presence keeps threading through every thought.

He moves another plate, sets it down. Your hands brush again.

You feel your pulse spike, your chest tightening. Every subtle movement, every glance he doesn’t make—it’s all charged, all deliberate.

The kitchen is small. Empty. Safe. Except it isn’t. Not with him here.

You swallow hard, scrubbing away your nerves as the quiet stretches on, aware that he notices everything, even the things you think he can’t.

And somehow, that makes it impossible to breathe normally.

The sponge squeaks softly as you scrub, the rhythm steady but your thoughts anything but. You’re just about to reach for another plate when he speaks again.

“You know,” Heeseung says, evenly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “you’re not very good at pretending.”

Your hand stills.

“…Pretending what?” you ask, eyes fixed on the sink.

“That you weren’t listening earlier.” He sets a plate onto the rack, movements unhurried. “In the hallway.”

Your chest tightens. You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off gently. “You were.” Not accusing. Just factual. “You always stop breathing when you do that, though your eyes give it away, that you’re pretending everything’s fine.”

That makes your fingers curl instinctively around the sponge.

You let out a short laugh, more defensive than amused. “You don’t know what I ‘always’ do.”

He glances at your hand, then back to the dish he’s drying. “I know because I’ve seen it before.”

You twist the dish towel in your hands, knuckles whitening. The quiet stretches too long, presses too hard against your ribs.

“Are we really doing this?” You snap, turning to look at him directly.

He raises his eyebrows, “Do what?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, before sighing. “Implying things happened, without really saying it?”

He watches you for a second, expression unreadable—not defensive, not amused. Just… attentive.

“I’m not implying,” he says evenly. “You are.”

That only makes your chest tighten.

You scoff, turning back to the sink and reaching for another plate you definitely don’t need to wash. “Right. Of course. Because I’m the one who keeps bringing up impressions and ‘remembering’ and—whatever this is.”

He lets out a quiet breath, more tired than annoyed. “I brought it up once.”

“And you’ve been hovering ever since,” you shoot back, voice sharp but not loud. “So tell me—are we pretending we don’t know each other, or are we circling around it until I crack?” The words hang between you.

He sets the towel down, slow, deliberate. “I’m not trying to crack you.”

“Then what do you want?” you ask, finally facing him again.

He meets your gaze, steady. No smile. No games. “I wanted to know if you leaving meant what I thought it did,” he says simply.

Your throat tightens. “And what did you think it meant, Evan?”

His breath hitches at the usage of his other name, “That you didn’t want to stay,” he replies. “Not just that morning. In general.”

You laugh softly, but it’s brittle. “It’s a one-night stand.”

He nods once. “It is, but I clearly told you before we fell asleep, that I’d prefer you staying.”

Silence settles again, thicker now. The kitchen light hums overhead. Somewhere in the living room, your mom and Mrs. Lee laugh at something on TV.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” you say finally, quieter. “I left because staying would’ve made it… complicated.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “And now?”

You hesitate. “Now it already is.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, then exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

Neither of you move back to the dishes, he wipes the last plate before walking out of the kitchen.

APRIL 2025

The room is dim, lit only by the city glow slipping through the curtains. Everything feels slower, warmer—like the night hasn’t quite caught up with you yet.

You’re tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy, head resting against the pillow. Your skin is still buzzing, your thoughts pleasantly loose around the edges. Somewhere nearby, Heeseung shifts, the mattress dipping slightly as he turns onto his side.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

You hum, half-laughing into the pillow. “I think so. Might need a minute to remember my name.”

He chuckles softly. “Fair.”

The pause lingers, easy and unforced. The city light paints soft lines across the ceiling, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

You’re the one who breaks it first.

“Evan,” you say, voice lazy, still warm with alcohol and comfort. “What do you actually do when you’re not… here?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, turning his head slightly toward you. “That’s a loaded question.”

You smile into the pillow. “I’m serious. You feel like someone with a very normal answer and a very complicated explanation.”

He considers that. “I work in the music industry. Producing. It sounds fancier than it is.”

“Everything sounds fancier at night,” you mumble. “Especially after drinks.”

“True,” he agrees. Then, after a beat, “What about you?”

You shrug, the sheets rustling. “Still figuring it out. I bounce around a lot, job-hunting.”

He smiles and run his hand on your hair, as if wanting to see your face clearly. “You’re tense, like there’s a lot going on here.” He softly taps on your temple.

You huff a quiet laugh, eyes fluttering shut at the gentle touch. “Is that your professional opinion?” you murmur. “Because I didn’t realize producers did mind-reading too.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing lightly through your hair, unhurried. “Not mind-reading. Just… paying attention.”

You turn your face toward him then, cheek sinking deeper into the pillow. “There’s always a lot going on,” you admit. “I just don’t like sitting still long enough to sort it out.”

“Why not?” he asks, not pushing—just curious.

You think about it for a moment, gaze drifting to the ceiling. “Because if I do, I might realize I’m not as put-together as I pretend to be.”

He hums softly, fingers still tracing slow, absent patterns. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mumble. “You seem like you’ve got things… handled.”

He smiles faintly. “I’m good at looking like I do.”

You glance back at him. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “I just learned how to keep the chaos quiet.”

That earns a small smile from you. “Guess we’re not that different then.”

“Guess not,” he replies.

The room settles again, the air warm and slow. His hand stays in your hair, grounding, gentle—like he’s in no rush to let the moment slip away.

Neither of you says it, but the thought hangs there between you, soft and dangerous all at once:

This feels easy.

Too easy.

He pulls you closer, lips pressing on your temple as he sighs.

“I’d love it if you stay.”

And you felt your heart breaks a little when you doze off.

…

Three days.

Three days until he leaves.

And for the past two, he hasn’t said a word to you.

You can feel it in every glance across the kitchen, every step in the hall, every time the front door opens and closes. He’s there, moving around the house, calm and composed as ever, but the silence between you? It’s deafening.

You try to keep yourself busy—laundry, dishes, scrolling mindlessly through your phone—but the tension follows you everywhere. Even sitting in your room, pretending to read, you can hear him talking to your mom in the living room, laugh light and easy, and it makes your chest tighten.

Your mom insists on taking Mrs. Lee and Heeseung to the city’s famous park for a “little sightseeing and fresh air,” and somehow, you’re drafted along.

“Come on,” your mom says, practically bouncing. “You’ll enjoy it! The weather’s perfect, and it’s not a usual thing that we all went out together!”

So here you are, in Heeseung’s car with your moms at the back chatting mindlessly, pointing out shops, telling stories, laughing easily, while you sit in the passenger’s seat and him driving beside you.

He doesn’t say much, just drives with that calm, effortless composure that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to name. Your mom and Mrs. Lee chatter nonstop behind you, oblivious to the tight coil of nerves in the seat beside him.

You glance at him occasionally, catching his profile in the sunlight, the way his hands rest lightly on the wheel, the faint line of concentration in his jaw. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the awareness there, quiet, unspoken, like a weight pressing just enough to make you swallow hard.

“I hope you like walking,” your mom says suddenly from the back, as if reading your tension, “the park’s beautiful this time of year. Lots of trees, fountains—perfect for photos!”

“Yeah,” you murmur, keeping your voice neutral, though your chest is still tight.

Heeseung hums softly, not answering but shifting slightly in his seat, just enough that you notice.

The car slows, pulling into the park lot. Sunlight streams through the windshield, glinting off the pavement and the scattered autumn leaves. Your mom practically leaps out first, Mrs. Lee following close behind, both chattering excitedly.

You take a deep breath, adjusting your bag, and slide out of the car. Heeseung steps out after you, calm and measured, slipping into the rhythm of the park like he belongs there—yet you feel every step he takes, each one a quiet reminder that the past two days of silence haven’t lessened the tension between you.

As the group moves along the tree-lined path, your mom and Mrs. Lee wander ahead, comparing flowers and pointing out fountains. Heeseung falls in step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, walking slightly behind but close enough that you can feel the space between you shrinking.

“Nice day,” he says finally, casual.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice careful. “Not too crowded either.”

He hums softly, and you feel that subtle glance he throws your way—quick, unobtrusive, but enough to make your stomach twist again.

The silence between words is heavy, but not hostile. It’s loaded. Sharp. And as you continue along the winding paths of the park, you realize these three days—and these stolen moments in the quiet—might be harder than anything you expected.

You barely get a chance to say more to him before your mom is already digging through her bag.

“Phone—where’s my phone?” she mutters, then brightens. “Oh! There it is.”

Mrs. Lee laughs beside her. “You’re just as excited as ever.”

“Of course I am,” your mom says. “When do we ever get everyone together like this?”

Everyone.

You glance at Heeseung without meaning to. He’s still looking around, taking the place in quietly, like he’s memorizing it. First time here. First time seeing your city like this.

“Alright,” your mom says, raising her phone. “Group photo first.”

You shuffle closer, standing beside Mrs. Lee. Heeseung ends up at the edge, half a step apart from you, hands in his pockets.

“Wait, no,” your mom frowns. “Heeseung, come closer. You’re getting cut out.”

He obeys, stepping in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours—brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway.

Click.

“Again,” Mrs. Lee says. “That one was blurry.”

You barely have time to reset before your mom adds, “Okay, now just you two.”

“What?” you and Heeseung say at the same time.

“It’s nice to have one of the younger generation,” your mom insists. “For memories.”

You exchange a quick glance with him—too quick to mean anything, too loaded to be nothing.

“Just stand there and act normal!” your mom says.

Easier said than done.

You stand side by side this time, not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of his presence—his warmth, the way he’s careful not to move too suddenly.

“Smile,” your mom sings.

You do. Heeseung offers something polite, restrained.

Click.

“That’s nice,” Mrs. Lee says warmly. “You both look good.”

You almost laugh at that.

As your mom reviews the photos, muttering happily to herself, you step back without thinking. Heeseung does the same.

You don’t make it five steps more into the park before your mom stops again.

“Wait—stand there,” she says, already lifting her phone. “The trees look really nice from this angle.”

Mrs. Lee nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, the lighting is beautiful.”

You exchange a look with Heeseung. Not a look—just a flicker. A silent here we go.

Click.

You start walking again. Ten steps this time.

“Oh!” your mom gasps. “The fountain—Heeseung, you’ll love this. You two, go stand near it.”

“We just took one,” you say weakly. “That was over there,” she replies, like it explains everything.

So you move again, standing side by side while people pass behind you. Heeseung keeps his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression neutral. You keep your arms crossed, suddenly very aware of where you’re standing.

Click. Click.

Mrs. Lee laughs. “You look very natural together.”

You almost choke on air.

The walk continues. The photos do too.

By the flower beds.

Near the bridge.

In front of the pond.

Each time, your mom adjusts angles, steps back, waves you closer, tells you to smile more, tilt your head, stand straighter.

“You don’t have to look so tense,” she tells you at one point.

You laugh, tight. “I’m fine.”

Heeseung glances at you then, quick and unreadable.

At some point, he murmurs quietly, just for you, “If we keep this up, we’ll have enough photos for a family album.”

You blink, surprised.

“…I’m sorry,” you mutter. “She gets like this.”

He hums. “I noticed.”

There’s no edge in his voice. No teasing. Just observation.

Another photo.

Your shoulder brushes his this time, accidental. Neither of you move away immediately.

Click.

“Perfect!” your mom says.

You step away first.

The walk goes on, but your nerves don’t settle. If anything, they tighten with every forced smile, every staged moment, every second you’re made to look like something you’re very much not.

And the worst part?

Heeseung never once complains.

He just keeps walking beside you—calm, composed—letting the photos pile up like quiet evidence of something neither of you is ready to name.

You make it halfway up the stone path before it happens.

“Wait—wait, *here*,” your mom says suddenly, already lifting her phone again. “This spot is perfect. The water, the rocks—very scenic.”

You glance down at where she’s pointing and feel a flicker of hesitation. The stones near the edge of the stream are uneven, damp from the spray of the fountain nearby. The drop isn’t dramatic, but it’s enough to make you cautious.

“I don’t think that’s—” you start.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Mrs. Lee says cheerfully. “Just be careful.”

Famous last words.

You step forward anyway, because of course you do. Because this is not the hill you’re dying on today.

Heeseung follows a step behind you, quiet as always.

“Stand just there,” your mom says, framing the shot. “Yes, yes—perfect.”

You shift your weight slightly to adjust your footing.

And then your shoe slips.

It happens fast—too fast for you to catch yourself. One second you’re steady, the next the ground tilts and your stomach drops, breath punching out of you as you instinctively reach for anything.

Strong hands grab your arm.

Another slides to your waist, firm and immediate, pulling you back before you can even gasp.

You stumble—not forward, not down—but straight into him.

Your back hits his chest, solid and warm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you upright. For half a second, you’re frozen there, heart racing, fingers clutching at his sleeve.

He’s close. Too close.

You can feel his breath near your ear, feel the tension in his hold, the way his body adjusts automatically to steady yours.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low—meant only for you.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I—thanks.”

He doesn’t let go immediately.

Just long enough to make sure you’re steady.

Just long enough for the moment to stretch thin and dangerous.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost instinctively.

Then—click.

“Oh my goodness!” your mom exclaims. “That was scary! But—oh, wait. Hold on.”

You stiffen.

“That one looked nice,” Mrs. Lee says, peering at the phone. “Very… natural.”

You finally step away, cheeks burning, suddenly very aware of how his hands had been on you, how easily he’d caught you, how familiar it felt in a way that made your chest ache.

Heeseung straightens too, composure snapping back into place like nothing happened. Hands back in his pockets. Expression calm.

But when you dare glance at him, his eyes linger on you just a second longer than necessary.

Your mom laughs. “See? Good thing he was there. You’d have fallen otherwise.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a laugh. “Good thing.”

The walk continues, the photos continue, but something has shifted.

Your heart doesn’t slow down.

And every time Heeseung walks just a little closer after that, you can’t tell if it’s accidental—

—or if he’s making sure you won’t fall again.

…

After dinner, you decide to hog the living room all by yourself, continue binge watching another C-drama you have postponed watching for the longest time.

It’s almost midnight, the moms had already wished you goodnight. You smile to yourself at the very well-earned time to yourself.

Or not?

Heeseung appears at the bottom, slightly disheveled, hair tousled like he’s just run a hand through it one too many times. He’s in simple grey sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, the kind that clings just enough to show he didn’t bother thinking about how he looked.

His eyes are still half-lidded with sleep as they settle on the TV screen, expression calm.

He looks at you, before taking a seat.

“I watched this one.” He says softly. Voice hoarse with sleep.

“No spoilers, please.” You says, turning away to look at the TV. He laughs.

“Nothing to extreme, it’s a rom-com. Nothing can be a spoiler.” You clutch your heart, dramatically looking at him.

He shrugs. “What? It’s true. You know in the end they end up together.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Well, true that.” He lean back too, making your shoulders touch.

“Why did you wake up?” I look at him. “It’s barely midnight.”

“Can’t sleep. I mean, I kept waking up.” He replies, fingers tapping on his thigh. You nod, continue watching the romantic scenes on the TV.

“You enjoy stuffs like these?” He asks, not looking at you.

“Anything feel-good is enjoyable.”

“So the concept of romance, you like it?” He asks, carefully.

“Where are you going with this?” You look at him, eyes narrowing. He meets your gaze, his expression looking more earnest.

“Just wondering, if you’d like it in real life too.”

You scoff. “You and your nonstop bull—“

“Is it bullshit, really?” He asks, seriously this time. You felt your heart beating fast, you look away, just anywhere. Not sure where to look when he’s all up in your space like this.

“Evan.” You started,

“No, let me tell you this.” He straighten up, body now fully facing you, as he look directlt into your eyes.

“I’m sorry if I ever come up as pushy, talking about you with your mom, hinting at our past to her, making you feel things you don’t like, that wasn’t my intention.” He winces.

“I just…I just wanted to get to know you, really look at you. No dim lights of the bar, no dark night sky as we walk back to some hotel, and certainly no dark hotel room where I spent the whole night feeling good with the woman I knew nothing about.” He sighs.

“It’s just a one night stand, I get it.” He scoffs, “but what if I told you that I wanted more? That I regret waking up without your presence the next morning, how every sound you let out that night made me fantasize the sounds you’d make if it wasn’t casual?”

At this point, you were looking at him speechless. You’re not trusting your voice right now.

“Evan—“

“Heeseung.” He corrects. “Evan saw you first, but Heeseung fell for you.”

You fall silent again. Just staring at him like he didn’t just pour his heart out while you’re watching some corny C-drama.

“Say something. Anything.”

The TV continues playing, characters confessing under scripted rain.

But this?

This isn’t scripted.

And you’re not sure which feels scarier.

Your throat feels tight.

The drama’s background music swells dramatically, the male lead on screen confessing under artificial rain, but it feels distant—like white noise compared to the very real, very raw man sitting inches away from you.

You swallow.

“Heeseung…” you finally manage.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“You’re leaving in three days.”

It’s not the response he expected—but it’s the only one that makes sense in your head.

His jaw tightens slightly. “I know.”

“So what is this?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “You confess, we… what? Start something? And then you’re on the road back home in another city?”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his already messy hair. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“I think you’re being impulsive,” you snap, but there’s no heat behind it—just fear. “You’re here. It feels intense. Nostalgic. But when you go back—”

“It’s not nostalgia,” he says firmly.

The way he says it makes you pause.

“It wasn’t just that night,” he continues. “I’ve tried to brush it off. I’ve tried to tell myself it was just chemistry. But then I see you here. The way you argue. The way you laugh with your mom. The way you pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

You glare at him slightly. “I am tough.”

His lips twitch faintly. “I know.”

That softness again. It’s worse than teasing.

“I don’t expect you to promise me anything,” he says. “I just needed you to know that I’m not playing around.”

Your fingers tighten around the blanket.

“You don’t get to say all that and then expect me to just… be calm,” you whisper.

“I don’t want you calm,” he admits. “I want you honest.”

The word lands heavily.

Honest.

You look at him then—really look at him. There’s no arrogance. No flirtation. Just a quiet steadiness that makes your chest ache.

“You think this is easy for me?” you ask softly. “Seeing you in my house. At dinner. At the park. Acting like we didn’t—”

Your voice falters.

“Like we didn’t matter,” he finishes.

You nod.

Silence settles again, but it’s no longer suffocating. It’s fragile. Balanced on something sharp.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he says quietly. “It just happened.”

Your heart pounds harder at that word.

Fall.

“You don’t even know me that well,” you argue weakly.

“Then let me,” he replies immediately.

That catches you off guard.

“Let me know you properly,” he says. “Not just the version from one night. Not just the version that pushes me away when things feel too real.”

Your breath hitches.

“You’re scared,” he says gently.

“Of course I am,” you admit, almost frustrated. “You’re leaving. I don’t do long distance. I don’t do uncertainty, I…certainly don’t just date from one good sex.”

“And I don’t do pretending I don’t care,” he counters.

The drama on the TV ends its confession scene with applause-worthy music. You grab the remote and mute it.

The silence now is entirely yours.

“What are you asking from me?” you whisper.

He leans a little closer—not touching, just closing the space enough that you feel his presence fully.

“A chance,” he says. “Not a guarantee. Just… don’t shut the door before we even try.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

Three days before he leaves.

Three days to either build something—or protect yourself from it.

You look at him, eyes searching, trying to find a reason to dismiss this as temporary emotion.

You don’t find one.

And that’s what terrifies you.

“Say something,” he murmurs again, softer now.

This time, you don’t look away. You stare at him for one long, overwhelming second.

Your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are colliding into each other. Three days. Confessions. “A chance.” It’s too much. Too sudden. Too real.

You stand up abruptly.

“I—I need time to think,” you say, words tumbling out before you can filter them.

Heeseung rises halfway from the couch instinctively. “Hey—”

But you’re already stepping back.

“I just… I can’t answer you right now,” you add quickly. “It’s a lot.”

His expression tightens, but he nods once. “Okay.”

You don’t wait for anything else.

You bolt down the hallway, heart pounding, shutting your bedroom door a little harder than necessary. You lean against it, breath uneven.

Why now?

Why three days before he leaves?

Why does it feel like if you answer wrong, you’ll lose something you didn’t even realize you were holding?

You slide down against the door and press your palms to your eyes. You needed time. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The next morning smells like butter and coffee.

You frown, your mom does not wake up early on weekends.

You shuffle out of your room, still half-asleep, hair messy, expecting silence. Instead, you hear the sound of a pan sizzling. You blink.

Heeseung is in the kitchen.

Sleeves slightly rolled, apron tied awkwardly around his waist (clearly borrowed), hair still soft and unruly from sleep—but this time he looks very awake.

Focused.

Your mom and Mrs. Lee are seated at the table, watching him like he’s some kind of five-star chef.

“He insisted,” your mom says the moment she sees you. “Said we should let him cook.”

He glances up at you.

Not smug, not teasing. Just steady.

“Morning,” he says.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

He turns back to the stove. “Scrambled eggs or sunny side up?”

You blink. “What?”

“For you,” he clarifies. “How do you like your eggs?”

Your mom gasps softly. “He even asked me what you usually eat.”

You shoot her a look.

He continues like this is completely normal. “I made toast too. And there’s fruit.”

You step closer to the counter, still confused. “Since when do you cook?”

“Since always,” he replies casually. “You just didn’t stay long enough to see.”

Your ears burn, looking over to your moms if they notice it, they don’t.

He plates the food carefully—neatly, intentionally—and sets it in front of you first before sitting down.

That alone makes your stomach flip.

He doesn’t bring up last night.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t corner you.

Instead, he talks to your mom about the park photos. Asks his about souvenirs to bring home. Clears plates without being asked.

Too proactive.

Suspiciously proactive.

When your mom mentions needing to run errands later, he immediately says, “I can drive.”

When Mrs. Lee talks about wanting to visit a bakery nearby, he says, “Let’s go after breakfast.”

You watch him the entire time.

He’s not performing.

He’s consistent.

Intentional.

When your mom leaves the table to grab something from her room, and Mrs. Lee follows, you’re briefly alone in the kitchen.

He stands by the sink, rinsing dishes.

“You don’t have to… do all this,” you say quietly. He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“I know,” he replies then glances at you over his shoulder.

“But I want to.” There’s no pressure in his voice, just effort.

You swallow.

“You said you needed time,” he continues calmly. “I’m giving it to you.” The water runs softly between you.

“But I’m not going to act like I didn’t say what I said.” Your pulse stutters.

“I meant it,” he adds. “So I’ll act like I meant it.”

You stare at him and he turns the tap off and dries his hands slowly.

“I’m leaving in three days,” he says. “I don’t want to waste them pretending.”

And somehow, that hits harder than the confession itself.

…

From the moment breakfast ends, he doesn’t leave your side. Not in a suffocating way. Not hovering. Just… present.

When your mom asks you to help bring laundry out to dry, he’s already reaching for the basket before you can. When you struggle with the stubborn sliding door, he steps in quietly, fixing it without making a show of it.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere,” you mutter at one point, adjusting the clothespins.

“I’m not following you,” he replies lightly. “I’m staying here temporarily too, remember?”

You glance at him. He looks almost amused—but there’s intention behind it.

Later, when you head to the small grocery store nearby because your mom forgot coriander, he walks beside you without even asking if he should come.

The afternoon sun is warm. The air smells like pavement and fried snacks from a stall down the street.

“So,” he says casually, hands in his pockets. “What did you want to be when you were younger?”

You blink. “What?”

“When you were eight. Ten. What was the dream?” You huff softly. “That’s random.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It tells me things.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You analyzing me now?”

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes—but you answer anyway.

“I wanted to be a novelist,” you admit. “I used to write stories. Cringey ones.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You still write?”

You hesitate. “…Rarely now, in my notebooks in my apartment, or my notes app.”

“Why’d you stop wanting to be it?”

The question is gentle. Not invasive. Just curious. You shrug. “Reality. Expectations. It didn’t feel practical.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that like it matters.

“It still matters,” he says after a moment.

You glance at him. “What does?”

“The fact that you wanted to create something.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t brush it off. Just lets it sit there like it’s important.

Back home, when your mom asks you to help reorganize some old boxes in the storage room, he follows again.

It’s dusty. Warm. Dim.

You crouch down to open a box of old photo albums. He kneels beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours.

“That’s you?” he asks, picking up a picture of you at maybe twelve years old, hair shorter, smile wider.

You snatch it lightly. “Don’t judge.”

“I’m not,” he says. And he isn’t. He studies the photo like he’s memorizing it.

“You looked happy.”

“I was a kid.”

“And now?”

You look at him sharply. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“I told you,” he reminds you quietly. “I want to know you.”

There’s no rush in his tone. No desperation.

Just steadiness.

The day continues like that.

When you wash dishes, he dries them.

He asks about your university. Your friends. What stresses you out. What makes you laugh. What kind of music you secretly listen to when you’re alone.

At one point, he says, “You hum when you’re focused.”

You freeze. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insists softly. “You were doing it while cutting fruit earlier.”

You didn’t even realize.

“The thing you do with your hand? That too.” He points out, while taking your hand, opening it and see the crescent marks on your palm.

“You notice too much,” you murmur.

He doesn’t deny it.

“Someone has to,” he replies.

The living room is dim, only the lamp by the window casting a warm glow across the space. The TV is on but forgotten, some late-night rerun playing to fill the silence.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you. Heeseung sits beside you—not too close, not too far—close enough that you’re aware of him without feeling crowded.

He’s been quieter tonight. Observing.

“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually.

You glance at him warily. “You’ve been doing that all day.”

A faint smile. “Humor me.”

You sigh. “Fine.” Only because you can’t resist his charming smile.

“That night,” he says carefully, “why were you really there?”

You stiffen slightly. “At the bar?”

“In another city. On a random weekend.”

“It wasn’t random,” you reply automatically.

He waits.

You stare at the muted TV screen for a long moment before answering.

“I party a lot with my friends,” you say finally.

He doesn’t react. Just listens. “More than people expect,” you add.

“Why?” he asks softly.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Because it’s loud.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“Because when the music’s blasting and the lights are flashing and everyone’s moving,” you continue, “I can’t hear my own thoughts.”

The honesty surprises even you.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“You know how exhausting job hunting is?” you ask quietly. “Applications. Tailoring your resume for every company. Writing cover letters that feel fake. Preparing for interviews. Smiling. Selling yourself.”

His expression shifts—more focused now.

“And then the emails,” you continue, voice flattening. “‘We regret to inform you.’ ‘After careful consideration.’ ‘We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.’”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sometimes they don’t even reply.”

Silence stretches.

“It gets to you,” you admit. “You start wondering what’s wrong with you. If you’re not good enough. If everyone else is moving ahead while you’re just… stuck.”

He doesn’t look away.

“So yeah,” you shrug lightly, though your chest feels tight. “I party.”

“To forget?” he asks.

“To breathe,” you correct.

You shift slightly, hugging your knees closer.

“When I’m out with my friends, I’m not the girl refreshing her email at 2 a.m. I’m not the candidate who didn’t make it to the final round. I’m just… me.”

He studies you carefully.

“And that’s why you were in another city.”

You nod.

“We’d just gotten two rejections that week,” you admit. “Back-to-back. I felt so stupid for getting my hopes up.”

Your voice lowers.

“So we booked a cheap place, took a train, and told ourselves we deserved one reckless weekend.”

“You call it reckless,” he says quietly. “But you sound calculated.”

You frown slightly. “What?”

“You didn’t go there to ruin yourself,” he says. “You went there to survive.”

That makes you blink.

“I like dancing,” you add quickly, deflecting. “I like dressing up. I like feeling wanted without having to prove I’m competent or impressive.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that word.

“Wanted.”

“It’s simple,” you say. “No resumes. No interviews. No expectations beyond having fun.”

“And me?” he asks gently.

You swallow.

“You weren’t part of the plan,” you admit.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I wasn’t looking for something serious,” you continue. “It was easier that way. Temporary city. Temporary connection. No future to mess up.”

“You think you mess things up?” he asks.

You give him a look. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says evenly. “I’m trying to understand.”

You hesitate.

“When you don’t get chosen enough,” you say slowly, “you stop expecting to be.”

The words hang in the air.

He goes very still.

“That night,” you continue, quieter now, “I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow. I just wanted to feel good. To not think about rejection emails. To not feel like I was behind in life.”

“And I was… what?” he asks softly.

“A distraction,” you answer honestly.

The word lands heavy.

But before he can retreat into it, you add—

“A good one.”

His gaze sharpens slightly.

“You were easy,” you explain. “Not in a bad way. You didn’t interrogate me. You didn’t act like you were doing me a favor. You just… were there.”

He exhales slowly.

“And when I woke up alone,” he says quietly, “it didn’t feel temporary.”

You look at him.

“I didn’t want to be just a distraction,” he continues. “I wanted to be something that stayed.”

Your heart stutters.

You look away first. “I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit.

“Because you’re used to them leaving?” he asks.

The vulnerability in the room shifts everything.

He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t crowd you. He just sits there, steady.

“You party to break free,” he says after a moment. You nod.

“I’m not here to take that away from you.”

You glance at him cautiously.

“But I don’t want to be another escape,” he continues. “I want to be something you choose even when the music stops.”

Your chest tightens again.

Outside, the night is quiet. No music. No flashing lights. No crowd to drown out your thoughts.

Just him.

And the terrifying possibility that this time, you won’t be the one walking away before you can be rejected.

The room feels smaller after that.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The lamp beside the couch casts a soft golden glow across his face, catching in his eyes. The TV is still muted, forgotten entirely now. Outside, the world is quiet—no music, no city noise, no chaos to hide behind.

Just you.

And him.

“I don’t know how to let things stay,” you admit again, softer this time. “Nor how to stay.”

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just watches you like your words matter.

“Then don’t decide forever,” he says gently. “Just decide now.”

Your heart pounds.

“That’s how it starts,” you whisper. “Now turns into later. Later turns into expectations.”

“And expectations scare you,” he says.

“They fail,” you correct.

He studies you for a long moment. Then he shifts closer—not abruptly, not cornering—just enough that the space between your knees and his disappears.

“I’m not an interview,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to impress me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I already like you,” he continues. “On your stressed days. On your stubborn days. On the days you party too hard to feel free.”

You huff softly. “I don’t party too hard, I still control myself.”

He almost smiles. “You know what I mean.”

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache.

“You don’t have to earn staying,” he says.

The words hit somewhere deep.

You look at him, really look at him. His hair is still slightly messy from earlier. He’s not styled, not composed like the first night you met. He’s just… him.

And he’s looking at you like you’re not temporary.

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You’re leaving.”

“In two days,” he says.

“And then?”

“Then we figure it out,” he replies. “Or we try. Or we fail. But at least we won’t be wondering.”

Your breathing feels uneven.

He lifts his hand slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away.

When you don’t, his fingers brush lightly against your cheek.

The touch is soft. Careful.

Nothing like that first night.

That night was heat and impulse and dim lights and stolen glances.

This is quiet.

Intentional.

His thumb traces gently along your jawline, barely there. You feel your pulse everywhere at once.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You swallow.

He doesn’t laugh at you.

Doesn’t tease.

His hand shifts slightly, cupping your cheek fully now. Warm. Steady.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean in first.

It’s small. Barely an inch, but it closes the distance.

His breath brushes your lips before they meet. Slow. Careful. Testing.

When he kisses you, it isn’t rushed.

It isn’t hungry.

It’s soft.

Like he’s asking a question.

Your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his T-shirt without thinking. The kiss deepens just slightly—not intense, not overwhelming—just enough to make your heart feel like it might burst.

He pulls back a fraction, forehead resting against yours.

His voice is low. Almost unsteady.

“This isn’t an escape,” he says.

You nod faintly, breath mingling with his.

“I know.”

He kisses you again.

This time with more certainty.

Not claiming. Not demanding.

Choosing.

Your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. He exhales softly against your lips, one hand moving to your waist—secure, but not pulling you in without permission.

The world outside the living room feels nonexistent.

No rejection emails.

No interviews.

No expectations.

Just this moment.

When you finally pull back, your lips feel warm, your thoughts scattered.

“Now,” he murmurs softly, echoing his earlier words.

You let out a shaky breath.

“Now,” you repeat.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something you’re running from.

It feels like something you’re choosing.

The living room feels impossibly small after that kiss. Your pulse is racing, every nerve on fire, yet your mind is dizzy in a way that makes thinking impossible.

Heeseung pulls back just slightly, his forehead still resting against yours, and you can feel the warmth of him everywhere. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, the air thick with unsaid words.

“I—” you start, but your voice falters.

“I’ve got you,” he says suddenly, firm but gentle. His hands slide under your arms, and before you can protest, he lifts you effortlessly.

Your stomach flips. “Heeseung! Put me down!” you squeak, half-laughing, half-panicking, but you don’t resist.

“I don’t want to,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the side of your temple as he carries you toward your room. His voice is low, intimate, and the closeness makes your chest tighten even more.

Your room feels impossibly far and yet too close. The walls, the soft glow of your lamp, the familiar smell of your space—all of it is suddenly charged.

He sets you down gently on your bed, but the tension doesn’t leave. His hands linger near your waist, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your shirt. You feel the deliberate weight of his gaze on you, assessing, quiet, patient.

“Are you… okay with this?” he asks, voice husky but careful, and you can’t tell if he’s asking about the kiss, being alone together, or everything.

You swallow hard, your pulse loud in your ears. “I—I think so,” you admit, your words trembling just enough to betray your certainty.

He shifts closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on the mattress near yours. You’re inches apart, every movement amplified. The air feels electric, charged with anticipation and heat.

His eyes trace your face slowly, almost like he’s memorizing every line, every shadow. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Your breath catches. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. Your fingers twitch at the edge of the blanket, trying to ground yourself, but he leans in, closing the space further.

His hand moves to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, brushing against your jaw as he does. You feel your own hands rise, unconsciously resting on his forearm. The intimacy is subtle, teasing—every touch deliberate, careful, yet charged with something unspoken.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admits quietly, gaze locking with yours. “All day. Since breakfast. Even when we were doing the dishes… I couldn’t stop thinking.”

Your chest tightens. The honesty in his tone, combined with the nearness, makes your head spin. “Maybe you also have been lingering in my head all along for the past two months.”

“I—” you start, but he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slower, deliberate, exploratory—but there’s a hunger there too, restrained yet unmistakable.

Your hands find his chest, fingers brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt, feeling the solid warmth underneath. The kiss deepens slightly, teasing, suggestive, daring—but still measured.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, reading your reaction, searching for consent in your gaze. Your pulse is racing, your thoughts scattered, but the answer is clear in the flutter of your heartbeat.

His lips hover over yours again, close enough that you can feel the warmth and breath, and for a moment, nothing else exists: no hesitation, no past regrets, just the two of you, the quiet room, and the thrilling, dangerous pull of something more.

And then he whispers, low and husky, “Do you trust me?”

Your answer is a shiver, a nod, a soft, “Yes,” barely audible—but it’s enough.

The air between you thickens, charged with a suggestion, a promise, a question that doesn’t need words—because the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s close enough to touch, it says it all.

…

Heeseung’s lips trail down your neck with a slow, teasing warmth—each kiss featherlight at first, then lingering just enough to leave faint tingles in their wake. His breathing is uneven but controlled, clearly trying to balance the haze with focus.

“Always smell so good.” He murmur between kisses. One hand rests tentatively against your shoulder while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before continuing his path lower.

Then he pauses abruptly near your collarbone as if remembering something, “I don’t have condoms with me,” He looks at you.

You huff, turning to your handbag. Pulling out the small foil packet, he smiles at you. “For your other one night stands?” You laugh.

“That was the plan, but I stopped doing thise after you.” He doesn’t question it, because he knows. You tug at his shirt, signalling you want it off.

Heeseung makes quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside before popping the button on his pants. His movements are fluid—confident but not rushed—as he steps out of them and kicks them toward the floor.

“Better?” He asks, voice low as he reaches for you again, now only in his boxers.

His fingers are gentle but eager as he helps you out of your own clothes—each piece discarded with care until there’s nothing left between you. His touch lingers on bare skin, like he’s relearning every curve after months of yearning.

"God… I love this,"he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “So beautiful.”

Heeseung trails kisses downward—slow, deliberate—each one hotter than the last. His hands follow, mapping your body like he’s memorizing it anew. When his lips finally reach the place you have been dying for him to touch, he glances up at you through his lashes, smirking.

“Want me to touch you here?”

You nod, he tsks. “Need to hear you, baby.” As his breath brushes your open folds.

“Yes.” You gasped, “Yes, please.”

He smiles, Heeseung doesn’t waste another second—his mouth sealing over you with practiced devotion. Every flick of his tongue, every hum against your skin is calculated to unravel you.

And it works.

His free hand grips your thigh, holding you steady as he focuses entirely on pleasuring and loving you—like this is the only mission that matters tonight.

Heeseung zeroes in on your clit instantly—his tongue circling it with just the right amount of pressure before sucking lightly. His eyes stay locked on yours, gauging every twitch and gasp to adjust his technique.

"This okay?" he murmurs against you, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear you say it anyway.

You nod, he hums in approval—taking your nod as permission to double down. His tongue flicks faster now, alternating between broad strokes and precise little darts while his fingers slip inside you, curling just right.

You yelp at the sudden intrusion, Heeseung pauses immediately—pulling back just enough to check your expression. His brows furrow in concern, but he keeps his fingers still inside you.

"Too much?" he asks softly, ready to adjust at your slightest hint. You shake your head, “It’s good, s’good..”

He exhales in relief—his tension melting into renewed focus. He resumes with even more care now, his movements deliberate and gentle as he coaxes you toward pleasure rather than overwhelming you.

"That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh between words. "Just relax… I’ve got you."

“I’ll make you feel better than that night.”

He adds a second finger—stretching you gradually as his thumb replaces his tongue, rubbing slow circles over your clit instead. His eyes stay locked on your face, tracking every flutter of pleasure.

“Tell me if anything’s too much," he reminds, voice thick with concern beneath the desire.

Heeseung's touch remains gentle and attentive, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm that builds pleasure without rushing you. Every now and then, he glances up to make sure you're still comfortable—his expression soft with care even as desire burns in his gaze.

“So good for me, you’re so good for me.” He murmurs againts your skin, words warm and reverent.

He senses you're close—your breaths hitching, your body tensing around his fingers. He presses a final open-mouthed kiss to your clit before murmuring,

"Come for me, baby.”

His words are the last push you need—your climax crashing over you in waves as Heeseung rides it out with his fingers, his touch never faltering. When your tremors subside, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and slowly withdraws his hand.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, crawling up to claim your lips in a deep kiss—letting you taste yourself on him.

“Need you, now.” You breath againts his lips

Heeseung groans at your words, his body responding instantly. In one fluid motion, he flips onto his back—pulling you atop him, before rolling the condom on with practiced ease.

“Ride me,” he rasps, before teasing his tip on your folds and guiding himself to your entrance. He hisses as you sink onto him—his hands flying to your hips, gripping hard as he adjusts to the sudden tightness. His head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forces them open again, needing to see you.

"Fuck," he grits out, "You feel…"

Words fail him—too overwhelmed by how perfectly you take him in.

His breath comes in ragged bursts as you start moving—his hips instinctively bucking up to meet each of your descents. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down into a searing kiss while the other presses possessively against your back.

He loses himself in the rhythm you set—every roll of your hips sending sparks through his veins. His hands roam your body, worshiping every curve as he murmurs praise against your skin.

“Gonna kill me like this, baby.” He cups your breasts as he pinches one of your nipples, you moan.

His control starts to fray—his thrusts becoming less measured, more desperate. He can feel his climax building rapidly, but he refuses to let go until you do first.

Heeseung flips you onto your back with surprising gentleness despite the urgency in his movements. The second he’s nestled between your thighs again, he surges into you—each thrust deep and deliberate.

"Look at me," he demands softly, cradling your face as his pace turns relentless. "Want to see you when we finish."

His thrusts grow erratic—his breath coming in sharp gasps as he chases his release. But even now, at the peak of pleasure, his focus stays on you, making sure you’re right there with him.

“Searched for you like crazy, kept..kept..asking around.” He went down to latch on your nipple, sucking softly and twirling his tongue making you whimper underneath him.

“Need the girl that made me fall hopelessly from just one night.”

Heeseung’s eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in his gaze nearly overwhelming as he pushes you both toward release. His thrusts grow sharper—each one hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure, making your moans slightly louder than before.

"Close?" he rasps, voice strained with restraint.

You nod frantically, your body coiling tight with impending pleasure. Heeseung’s answering grin is fierce—he can feel it too.

"Then let go," he urges, his own rhythm faltering as he chases his own peak alongside you.

The moment your climax hits—waves of pleasure crashing over you in relentless succession—Heeseung follows with a broken groan. His thrusts stutter before he buries himself deep, shuddering through his release as he holds you close.

For several breathless seconds, all either of you can do is cling to each other, sweaty and spent but utterly satisfied.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave this time.” He says, pressing a lazy kiss on your shoulder.

“Can’t run even if I tried,” you laugh, finally aware that you guys fucked in your childhood bedroom, in your parents’ house. With his and your moms just a few doors away.

…

Morning comes softly.

Not with alarms. Not with loud footsteps downstairs.

Just sunlight.

It slips through the thin gap in your curtains, warm and golden, stretching slowly across your walls, across your desk, across the edge of your bed.

You blink awake gradually, consciousness returning in pieces.

The warmth against your back registers first.

Then the weight around your waist.

Then the steady rise and fall of someone else’s breathing.

Your heart stutters.

Heeseung.

His arm is draped securely around you, palm resting flat against your stomach like it belongs there. Your back is pressed lightly to his chest, his face buried somewhere near the back of your neck, breath warm against your skin.

For a second, you don’t move, you just lie there and lets the reality settle.

Last night wasn’t loud or reckless or fleeting. It wasn’t dim bar lights and alcohol-blurred edges.

It was slow.

Intentional.

You remember how careful he was. How he kept checking in. How he looked at you like this wasn’t just physical.

Your cheeks warm at the memory.

Behind you, he shifts slightly. His arm tightens instinctively when you move.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t go.” You freeze.

“I’m not,” you whisper, even though you hadn’t actually planned to.

He exhales softly against your shoulder, clearly not fully awake yet. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

The sunlight climbs higher.

You slowly turn your head just enough to glance at him.

His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes. His lips are slightly parted, expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. No guarded composure. No teasing edge.

Just him.

Peaceful.

He blinks awake a moment later, eyes adjusting slowly.

There’s a brief second of confusion.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Morning,” he murmurs. Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

Neither of you moves away.

Neither of you makes it awkward.

He studies your face like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he half-expected to wake up alone again. “You’re still here,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “So are you.” A small smile touches his lips.

He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb gently along your cheekbone. Not suggestive. Not urgent. Just… tender.

“Regrets?” he asks carefully.

You consider it. The sunlight. The warmth. The quiet. His arm still wrapped around you.

“No,” you answer honestly.

Relief flickers across his face so subtly you almost miss it.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Silence settles again, but it’s comfortable.

You’re suddenly aware of the house. Of your mom downstairs. Of Mrs. Lee probably already awake.

Reality creeping back in.

“We should probably get up,” you say softly. He groans lightly. “Five more minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your waist absentmindedly.

“Last night,” he begins quietly, “wasn’t just… heat.”

You turn slightly to face him more fully now, the blanket shifting around you.

“I know,” you reply. His eyes search yours.

“I meant what I said,” he continues. “About wanting more.”

The weight of it is still there. But this time, it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels steady.

You reach out, brushing a piece of hair away from his forehead. “I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says immediately.

“But I don’t want to run,” you add.

Something shifts in his expression—something hopeful. “We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”

He leaves tomorrow.

But right now, he’s here.

Warm. Real. Looking at you like you’re not temporary.

His hand slides into yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining slowly.

SEPTEMBER 2025

Three months later, your apartment feels both fuller and emptier at the same time.

Fuller — because his hoodie is draped over the back of your chair. Because there’s a mug he likes that you bought “accidentally.” Because your call logs are filled with his name. Because there’s a toothbrush tucked into the corner of your sink like it belongs there.

Emptier — because right now, he isn’t here.

Long distance wasn’t glamorous.

It was: falling asleep on video call, propping your phone against your pillow just to see his face, texting “reach home safe” every long rides he takes back home, syncing up dramas and pressing play at the same time,

It was him visiting every three weeks without fail. No excuses.

He comes by Friday night, spends the weekend before saying goodbye Sunday night. Sometimes with a small bouquet.

Sometimes with your favorite snacks.

Once with nothing but a tired smile and open arms.

And every time he left, the goodbye got quieter. Less dramatic. More heavy.

But you were trying. Both of you were.

Tonight, you’re expecting him again.

You’d cleaned the apartment earlier, even though he’s seen it messy before. There’s a faint scent of citrus from the candle you lit. Your heart always beats a little faster on visit days.

When the knock finally comes, you don’t pretend to be calm. You open the door.

Heeseung stands there with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

And that smile, the one that makes three weeks feel like three seconds.

You don’t even greet him properly—you just step forward and hug him. He laughs softly, arms wrapping around you tightly, lifting you slightly off the ground for a brief second.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs into your hair. When you pull back, you notice something. He looks… different.

Not physically.

But there’s a weight behind his eyes.

“What?” you ask immediately. He exhales lightly. “Can I come in first?” You narrow your eyes but step aside.

He drops his bag near the couch, looks around your apartment like he always does—taking it in, grounding himself.

You close the door.

“Okay,” you say, crossing your arms. “What’s going on?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize.

“I have news,” he says. Your stomach drops slightly.

“Good news?” you ask cautiously.

He hesitates just enough to make your heart pound.

“I’m moving.” The word hangs in the air.

Your mind scrambles. “Moving?” you repeat. “Where?”

He steps closer. “Here.”

You blink. “…What?”

“I got a transfer,” he continues, the words coming faster now. “There was an opening in the branch here. I applied a month ago.”

“A month ago?” you echo.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to promise something that might not happen.”

Your heart is racing now. “I got it,” he says quietly. “It’s finalized.” Silence fills your apartment.

“You’re… moving here?” you whisper.

He nods. “I don’t want to do long distance anymore,” he says. “Not when I don’t have to.”

Your brain is still catching up.

“But your mom? Your place? Producing?”

“She supports it,” he replies. “And my job is still my job. Just different location.”

You stare at him.

“You did this… because of me?”He steps closer until there’s barely space between you.

“I did this because I want a life where I don’t count down weeks just to see you,” he says. “Because I don’t want to miss small things. Your bad interview days. Your random 2 a.m. thoughts. Your victories.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t want to visit you,” he continues softly. “I want to be here.” Tears prick at the corner of your eyes before you can stop them.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’m yours.”

note: freaking finally! i know i promised you guys this a month ago, and yes i’m alive. just wanted to wrap things up with my semester and have a small break after stressing out for finals, but alas! here we are! first work kinda nervous >< hope u guys love it!

“Smells good,” Mingi mumbles, voice still thick from his nap.

“You just woke up and you’re already attached to me,” you say, but you lean back into him anyway.

He presses his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like that’s the most important thing he has to do tonight. “I missed you.”

“You were asleep for forty minutes.”

“Still counts.”

You laugh softly, turning your head just enough for him to steal a kiss from your cheek. Then another. And another. He trails them down to your jaw, slow and lazy, like he has nowhere else to be.

The apartment reflects the both of you. A low wooden dining table sits near the living room, surrounded by floor cushions in burnt orange and sage. Framed art pieces hang on the walls, bold abstract portraits of Black women in gold crowns, textured canvases with raised paint. There’s a woven basket in the corner filled with throw blankets, a record player on a shelf beneath a large mirror with a carved dark wood frame.

It feels lived in. Warm. Yours.

Mingi squeezes your waist tighter. “You’ve been in here forever.”

“Cooking takes time,” you tell him. “Unlike someone who just hovers.”

“I’m not hovering. I’m supporting.”

“You’re heavy.”

He gasps dramatically and turns you in his arms so you’re facing him. His hair is messy, eyes soft, hoodie slightly wrinkled. He looks younger like this. Gentler.

“You love when I’m heavy,” he says, leaning down to press a slow kiss to your lips.

You hum against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric at his sides. The kiss deepens just a little before you pull back, brushing your nose against his.

“Go set the table,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move.

“Mingi.”

“I am setting the table. Emotionally.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. He finally lets go, though not without stealing one more kiss, quick and firm.

Dinner is simple. Pasta, roasted vegetables, warm bread. You eat cross legged at the low table, knees touching. He keeps reaching over to tuck loose strands of hair back from your face, to brush his thumb over your cheek, to feed you bites even though you’re fully capable of feeding yourself.

“You’re clingy today,” you observe.

“Today?” He grins. “I’m always clingy.”

He’s right. He’s always reaching for you. Always touching your thigh, your waist, your hand. Always finding some excuse to pull you into his lap even though he’s the one who ends up folded awkwardly around you on the couch later.

After dinner, you clean up together. He dries while you wash. Music plays softly from the speaker, some old R&B playlist you put together weeks ago. He sways behind you, hips bumping into yours on purpose.

“Stop,” you say, even though you’re laughing.

“Dance with me.”

“There’s soap everywhere.”

He ignores that, grabbing your hands and spinning you carefully away from the sink. You squeal when water droplets flick off your fingers onto his hoodie.

He pulls you in close, one hand at the small of your back, the other holding yours up between you. You rest your chin against his chest. He smells like detergent and sleep and something warm that’s just him.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

His expression softens, thumb brushing over the curve of your waist. “This. Coming home to you. Cooking together. It’s everything.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. You lean up and kiss him, slow and unhurried. The kind of kiss that lingers, that says more than words. His hands slide up your back, holding you close like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip.

You don’t.

Later, you’re curled together on the couch. A thick woven throw blanket is draped over both of you, your legs tangled. The living room lights are dimmed, just the soft glow of a floor lamp with a patterned shade casting warm shapes across the walls.

The coffee table holds two mugs of tea and a half eaten bowl of popcorn.

“Okay, start it,” you say, nudging him.

He grabs the remote, pulling you closer with his other arm. “You’re too far.”

“I’m literally on top of you.”

“Not close enough.”

You shake your head but settle into him anyway, your cheek pressed against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm while the familiar intro of Single's Inferno plays on the screen.

He groans when one of the contestants starts flirting immediately. “He’s doing too much.”

“You’d be worse,” you tease.

“Never. I’d just sit there and wait for you.”

“That’s not how the show works.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d find you.”

You glance up at him. “You’re so cheesy.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

Halfway through the episode, he shifts so you’re practically lying across his chest. His hand moves up to gently scratch at your scalp through the scarf, careful, affectionate. You melt instantly.

“Mingi,” you murmur.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t stop.”

He smiles against your hair and keeps going, fingers slow and soothing. His other hand rubs small circles against your back. Every few minutes he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. Your temple. The tip of your nose.

By the time the episode ends, you’re barely paying attention to the screen. You’re focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of him wrapped around you, the quiet comfort of being exactly where you belong.

“Stay like this,” he whispers.

“We live together. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Still.”

You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him again, soft and lingering.

The TV continues playing in the background, but neither of you move to start the next episode.

You’re already exactly where you want to be.

Masterlist Taglist

neighbor!dilf grayson who starts calling you sweetheart in a low, rough voice that makes your knees buckle. First time was accidental (he was half-asleep, handing you a package). Now he says it every chance he gets, watching you bite your lip and try not to melt.

neighbor!dilf grayson who hears you drop something heavy in your apartment at 2 a.m. and is at your door in thirty seconds, hair tousled, voice gravelly with sleep: “You okay in there, baby?” You open the door in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, and he has to grip the doorframe to keep from pinning you to the wall right then.

neighbor!dilf grayson who finally snaps the night you knock on his door at midnight, eyes red from crying over some asshole who ghosted you. He pulls you inside without a word, sits you on his counter, and kisses you slow and deep until you’re gasping his name into his mouth.

neighbor!dilf grayson who doesn’t let you speak for the first ten minutes. Just kisses you like he’s starving (slow, filthy, tongue stroking yours until your hands fist in his shirt and you’re trying to climb him right there on the counter). He tastes like whiskey and the mint gum he chews when he’s thinking about you too hard.

neighbor!dilf grayson who lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing, hands under your thighs, and carries you to the kitchen island. Sets you down, spreads your legs wide and drops to his knees without a word. Rips your panties off with his teeth. The first swipe of his tongue is so gentle you sob, the second is so rough you see stars.

neighbor!dilf grayson who eats you out like it’s his last meal on earth (slow licks, then fast flicks, then sucking your clit until your thighs clamp around his head and you’re grinding against his face). He growls “come on my tongue, baby” and you do, back arching off the marble.

neighbor!dilf grayson who stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and kisses you so you taste yourself on him. Then spins you around, bends you over the island and fucks you from behind with one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. He leans over you, mouth at your ear: “This what you needed, sweetheart? Someone who knows how to take care of you?”

neighbor!dilf grayson who pulls out just to flip you onto your back on the couch, hooks your knees over his shoulders and slides back in so deep you feel him in your throat. He fucks you slow now, eyes locked on yours, watching every expression like he’s memorizing it. When you come again he swallows your moans with a kiss and keeps going until you’re begging.

neighbor!dilf grayson who carries you to the shower, pins you to the tile, and fucks you standing up (water pounding down your back, his hand between your legs rubbing tight circles until you’re coming again, legs shaking so hard he has to hold you up). He comes inside you with a low groan after he practically beg you to let him stay inside.

neighbor!dilf grayson who wraps you in his robe after, carries you to his bed to cuddle. He lasts five minutes before he's fucking you lazily on your side. One arm under your neck and his cock dragging in and out like he's savoring every second.

neighbor!dilf grayson who kisses your shoulder, your neck, your tears, and tells you “no one’s ever gonna hurt you again” right as you come one last time, clenching around him so hard he follows you over.

neighbor!dilf grayson who, when you’re both wrecked and trembling, pulls you into his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, and murmurs, “Stay the night, yeah?”

How could you say no to him?

megumi was your brothers bestfriend. he sold drugs, weed and some more shit that he kept stashed in different spots around his room.

your brother ended up on punishment for sneaking his girlfriend in the house one too many times, windows creaking and all.

and the only way he could get out was by taking his little sister out, buying you some dunkin’. donut strawberry and frosted with extra sprinkles because he knew you’d drag it out and a caramel frappe, extra caramel drizzle swirled on top and down the sides, the cup already getting that sweaty condensation ring by the time you got in the car.

though your brother left soon as he got there and begged you to not tell mom, voice low and desperate.

“sis please- i promise this is the last time.” he held the door knob wedging it in and outward while he stood in the hallway, sneakers squeaking on the wood floor.

“yeah whatever, hurry up.” you didn’t look away from your phone, just laid on megumis bed, legs kicked up, back against the headboard with the gray comforter bunched under you, the cold caramel frappe cup sweating against your thigh and leaving a damp spot on your sweatpants.

“okay call me if you need me, ima be at carmens house.” and with that your brothers car pulled out the driveway, tires crunching over loose gravel, and he was on his way to see his girlfriend—again.

you strolled on your phone, biting at your straw, the plastic slightly flattened from how long you’d been chewing on it, caramel still thick and sticky on the tip every time you took a slow sip through the whipped cream.

the faint smell of weed still hung in the air mixed with whatever body spray megumi used, and you could hear him moving around somewhere down the hall, door half open like he didn’t care who was in his space.

his room wasn’t dirty, it was actually clean. organized actually. shelves lined with vinyls in alphabetical order, a few jars tucked neatly in the corner drawer where he kept his product sorted by strain, desk clear except for a half-empty water bottle and his rolling tray flipped upside down like it was just decor. bed made, grey comforter pulled tight, no random clothes thrown around.

he walked in, sweats hanging low on his hips, black essential hoodie. his head tilted a bit, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pocket, shoulders relaxed.

“you good?” he looked at you, curled in his bed, straw at your lips and phone in your hand. curls spilling against his pillow, legs tucked under the grey comforter.

“every time my brother leaves me here—you always ask me that.” you looked up from your phone, long lashes fluttering as you met his gaze.

he nonchalantly shrugged, a small tsk sound escaped his lips, like he was half amused, half used to it. he leaned against the doorframe, hands still in his pockets.

“yeah—and you never answer it.” his head tilted just a fraction more, eyes steady on you.

you rolled your eyes a little, pulling the straw from your lips with a soft pop, caramel residue still glistening on it. you set the phone down on the grey comforter beside you, finally giving him your full attention.

“maybe i don’t need to?” your voice came out softer than you meant, lashes dipping as you glanced down at the cup in your hand, condensation dripping slow onto the comforter.

he looked at the comforter and sighed softly. “finna go make some runs—you can stay here.”

you leaned up, propping yourself on your elbows. “wait i wanna come.” you jumped out of his bed and slipped your clogs on, your anklet dangled with the little silver charms catching the dim light from the hallway.

you sat the cup on his nightstand, the condensation leaving a faint wet ring on the wood, and met him at the doorway of his bedroom, close enough that you could smell the faint weed and that body spray clinging to his hoodie.

he rolled his eyes slightly, pink lips twisted just a bit, like he was already regretting saying yes.

“okay, just don’t be annoyin’” he walked through the hallway and grabbed his bookbag off the floor by the couch—black, worn straps fraying at the edges—before snatching his keys off the table.

they jingled sharp against his palm as he headed for the front door, not even bothering to look back to see if you were following.

you grabbed your phone quick, tucking it into your sweatpants pocket, and hurried after him, the anklet making soft tinkling sounds with every step.

he made runs for hours, windows cracked just enough to let the cool night air mix with the faint weed smoke that clung to everything. every stop he’d hand you the crumpled bills or the cash app notification, letting you count it quick and fix the stack before sliding it into the side pocket of his bookbag.

or he’d pass you the pre-rolled or the little baggie his client already paid for, trusting you to hand it off smooth without drawing eyes.

you stayed quiet in the passenger seat most of the time, legs crossed, scrolling or just watching the streetlights streak by.

it was damn near dark out now, sky deep purple, streetlights buzzing on one by one, and he still had lots more trips to do. he pulled into a quiet side street to wait on the next text, engine idling low. he looked at you, eyes bored but softer around the edges than usual, lingering a beat longer on the way the white fabric stretched across your chest in the dashboard glow.

“you hungry?” his voice cut through the quiet, thumb tapping lazy on the steering wheel.

you glanced over, anklet shifting as you uncrossed your legs, the little charms catching the glow from the dashboard lights.

“yeah… kinda. been in this car forever.” you stretched your arms up, crop top lifting higher to show more skin, then dropped them back down slow.

“we’ll get something to eat after this order.” he rubbed his lips wit his fingers, eye still forward, other had at the top of the steering wheel.

he finally got the order and cranked the engine, felt like he was driving through town for hours, same streets looping under the tires, headlights washing over empty sidewalks.

when he finally pulled up the client wasn’t even there. porch light off, driveway empty, no sign of anyone.

you sucked your teeth, hungry and annoyed, stomach growling loud enough to cut through the quiet. “what the fuck.” you pouted, arms crossed under your chest so the white crop pulled tighter, thin fabric stretching across your nipples in the dashboard glow.

megumi just watched you. fingers caressing his lips slow, like he was thinking hard or just giving himself something to do. no rush in his face, no frustration—just that steady, quiet stare.

“relax.” he said, voice calm, nothing else behind it. he tilted his head back against the headrest, eyes flicking to the side window, watching—waiting for a car to pull up or headlights to flash down the block.

“i’m so hungry megumii—” you whined a little, didn’t mean to but it came out. the pout deepened, lips full and glossy from the way you’d been biting them all night. you uncrossed your arms to tug at the crop hem, trying to pull it down, but it just rode right back up, exposing more skin.

he kept watching. eyes went down your body—over the crop, the bare skin between it and your sweatpants, the way the waistband sat low—then back to your face. thumb dragged over his lip again.

car idled, engine humming. no client. minutes passed.

he exhaled through his nose. “come here.” quiet, not loud.

you looked at him. “what?”

he didn’t say it again. reached over, fingers around your wrist light, pulled you closer across the console till your side hit his. crop rode up more, edge almost under your tits now. his hoodie sleeve brushed your bare skin, warm.

he looked down at you, close. breath on your face. “you keep whining like that…”

his thumb rubbed once over your wrist. other hand left the wheel, landed on your thigh over the sweatpants. palm flat, heavy, not moving yet.

you felt your heart pick up. street quiet, just the engine.

he leaned in a bit, nose close to your hair. “i’ll get you food after this. be patient.”

hand squeezed your thigh once—firm—then slid up slow, thumb going under the loose waistband of your sweatpants, grazing bare skin right above your hip. stopped there. waited. eyes on yours in the dark.

you swallowed. heat low in your stomach. sweatpants felt too hot suddenly. “megumi…”

he didn’t talk back. fingers slipped under the band more, brushing skin slow, not rushing. breathing even but chest moving faster against you. ears red at the tips.

your heart jumped against your chest, sharp and quick, like it was trying to break free. you wanted this, wanted it for longer than you’d admit—but the want came wrapped with nerves, making your breath catch.

you looked up at him. he stared right back. lips pink, parted just enough, like he was already tasting the air between you. dark blue eyes gone darker, pupils blown wide in the dim dashboard light, swallowing the usual calm until it was just heat and focus locked on your face.

you pushed up to kiss him. he leaned down at the same time, meeting you halfway. your mouths crashed soft at first—then his tongue slipped past your plump lips, slow and sure, tasting the faint caramel still clinging to you from earlier.

patient. always patient. he didn’t rush the kiss, just deepened it steady, tongue sliding against yours in lazy strokes that made your head spin.

his hand in your sweatpants moved gentle, deeper now. fingers eased under the edge of your panties, brushing bare skin, then parting you slow. he found you wet already and let out the softest sound against your mouth.

barely a hum, like he was surprised but not really. middle finger circled your clit once, light pressure, testing. then again. patient circles that made your hips jerk up into his palm without thinking.

he kissed you softer after that, like everything about him gave—gave space, gave time, gave you room to breathe even as he took more. lips moving careful over yours, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth for a second before letting go. his free hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the soft skin under your ear, keeping you close but not trapping you.

your hand scrunched tighter at his hoodie, fingers bunching the thick black fabric over his chest, gripping like you needed something solid while he unraveled you. he took you passionately but quiet.

he didn’t groan loud or talk dirty, just kissed deeper, tongue curling with yours while his finger slid lower, pressing inside you slow, one knuckle, then two. curled just right, stroking that spot that made your thighs tremble and a small whimper slip out against his lips.

he broke the kiss slow, a thin string of spit breaking between you, shining for a second in the dashboard light before it snapped. his breathing came heavier now, chest rising against yours.

“your brother would kill me.” he looked down into your glossy, begging eyes, pouted lips still wet from him. voice low, rough around the edges, but steady. like he was stating a fact, not trying to talk himself out of it.

“you know that right?”

your eyebrows slouched, annoyed, frustration mixing with the ache between your legs. “i don’t care. i want this—give me this megumi.”

you tried to pull him closer by his neck, fingers digging into the soft skin there, tugging at the hoodie collar. but he didn’t budge, didn’t move much, just stayed where he was, solid and unyielding.

his hand still buried in your sweatpants, fingers deep inside you, but he’d gone still. no more stroking, just holding there, letting you feel the stretch, the heat, the pulse of him against your walls.

you could cry from it—he played with your pussy so gentle, kissed you soft and deep and now he was pulling away, even if it was only an inch.

desperation pushed up your throat. you gripped at his hand, the one still tucked under the loose waistband, fingers wrapping around his wrist like you could force him to keep going if he tried to pull away again.

“please—megumi—please. i want this.”

he paused for a second, everything still except the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours. eyes dropped to your lips first, then lifted to the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, glossy and catching the faint dashboard light. he didn’t blink. just watched them like they meant something heavy.

“if we keep going—” his voice came out low, rougher than before, almost a warning wrapped in quiet certainty, “—i’m not stopping.”

the words hung there, simple and final. no tease, no smirk—just him laying it out plain so you couldn’t pretend later that you didn’t know.

his fingers were still inside you, buried deep, but he’d gone completely still again, waiting.

letting you feel the stretch, the throb, the way your walls clenched around him involuntary every time you shifted.

you nodded fast, tears spilling over now, one sliding slow down your cheek. “i know. i don’t want you to stop.”

something changed in his face. softened just a fraction, the hesitation cracking open. he exhaled slow through his nose, thumb brushing once over your clit again, light enough to make your hips buck.

then he leaned in, kissed the tear track on your cheek gentle, lips lingering there like he was tasting the salt.

“okay,” he murmured against your skin.

then he moved.

fingers started again—slow at first, deliberate pumps, curling deeper each time he pushed back in, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake and your breath hitch. thumb circled your clit steady, pressure building patient but unrelenting.

the wet sounds were louder now in the quiet car, obscene and intimate, mixing with your small gasps and the low hum of the engine.

he kissed you again. deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours slow and thorough while his hand worked you open. free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your curls, keeping you close so every whimper went straight into his mouth. he swallowed them quiet, like they were his to keep.

your grip on his wrist loosened as the pleasure coiled tighter, turning into desperate clutching at his hoodie instead—nails digging into the fabric over his chest. sweatpants shoved down further around your thighs now, bunched and forgotten. his hoodie sleeve had ridden up, forearm flexing with every slow thrust of his fingers.

“shit.” he groaned into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your lips.

your eyes fluttered open, hazy and heavy-lidded, finding his in the dim glow. “what? what’s wrong?” you asked so softly, innocently, voice barely above a whisper, like you were scared you’d broken something.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—dark blue eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide. his breathing came uneven now, chest heaving under your palms.

“i’m so hard.” the words came out strained, honest, no filter. he grabbed your hand gentle but firm, guided it down between you until your fingers brushed the thick length straining against his sweatpants. even through the soft fabric you could feel how hard he was—hot, heavy, twitching under your touch when you wrapped your hand around him slow.

your eyes softened, something warm and needy blooming in your chest. you squeezed once, light, testing, feeling the way he throbbed against your palm. his hips jerked forward involuntary, a quiet hiss slipping between his teeth.

“fuck…” he breathed, forehead dropping to rest against yours. his fingers inside you had gone still again, just resting there, letting you clench around them while your hand explored him. he didn’t push your hand away—didn’t rush you—just let you feel him, thumb brushing slow over the head through the fabric where a damp spot had started to form.

you bit your lip, eyes flicking down to where your hand moved over him, then back up to his face. his ears were flushed deep red, jaw tight like he was holding himself back by a thread. the hoodie sleeve had ridden up higher on his arm, forearm flexing with every small shift, veins standing out under his skin.

“megumi…” your voice came out small, needy. you stroked him again, firmer this time, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut for a second, lashes dark against his cheeks.

he swallowed hard, throat working. “you don’t have to—”

“i want to.” you cut him off soft, hand slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants now, fingers wrapping around bare skin—hot, velvet-hard, thick enough your fingers didn’t quite meet. he groaned low in his throat when you touched him skin-to-skin, hips rocking up into your grip once before he caught himself.

his free hand came up, cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip again. “you sure?”

you nodded, leaning in to kiss him slow, tongue brushing his while your hand stroked him base to tip, slow and deliberate like he’d done to you. he kissed you back deeper, hungrier now, fingers finally moving again inside you—lazy curls that matched the rhythm of your hand on him.

the car felt smaller, hotter, windows fogged thick enough the outside world was gone. just wet sounds, heavy breathing, the way his thumb pressed your clit in time with your strokes, building you both up slow and steady.

he broke the kiss to murmur against your mouth, voice wrecked and low. “keep goin.”

you kissed his lips one last time—soft, lingering—before your hand slipped lower, tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down just enough. his dick sprang free, hard and heavy against his stomach, pink tip already glistening, thick and lengthy enough that your eyes blew wide when you saw it. veins standing out along the shaft, flushed dark at the base. you weren’t even sure if you could fit it all in your mouth, the thought making your stomach flip with nerves and want.

but you tried.

you leaned down slow, breath fanning over him first. lips brushed the tip—warm, soft—and he let out the softest moan, barely there, like it slipped out against his will. the sound sent a fresh pulse of heat between your legs. you sucked the head gentle, tongue swirling once around the slit, tasting the salt and the faint bead of pre-cum. your hand wrapped around the base—fingers not quite meeting—and stroked slow, steady, matching the rhythm of your mouth.

he moved your curls out the way careful, both hands coming up to hold your hair, fingers threading through the strands loose at first, then tighter when your tongue pressed flat along the underside. he couldn’t believe his best friend’s sister was eating his dick—right here in the front seat, sweatpants shoved down, crop top riding up, the faint smell of weed and caramel still hanging in the air. the thought alone almost made him nut in your mouth, hips twitching up once before he caught himself.

“fuck—you suck my dick so good.” his words came out breathy, almost guttural, cracking at the edges like he was already so close. no cocky edge, just raw, wrecked honesty. his thumbs stroked the sides of your face gentle even as his grip in your hair tightened, guiding you down a little more without pushing too hard.

you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper—lips stretching around his thickness, tongue working the vein underneath while your hand pumped what wouldn’t fit. spit slicked him up quick, dripping down to your fingers, making every stroke wet and smooth. his breathing turned ragged, chest heaving under the hoodie, small huffs of air escaping every time you bobbed your head.

“shit… just like that,” he whispered, voice strained. one hand left your hair to brace against the dashboard, knuckles white, like he needed something to hold onto. the other stayed in your curls, petting now—gentle strokes that made your scalp tingle. his hips rocked up shallow, careful not to choke you, but enough that you felt him hit the back of your throat once, twice.

your eyes watered a little from the stretch, but you didn’t stop—sucked harder on the upstroke, swirled your tongue around the head every time you pulled back. the wet sounds filled the car, mixing with his soft groans and the low idle of the engine. windows fogged thicker, streetlights barely cutting through.

he looked down at you—eyes dark, half-lidded, lips parted. “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep—fuck—”

his thighs tensed under you, abs flexing hard under the hoodie. he tugged your hair once, light, like a warning.

you moaned around him. vibration humming down his length, and took him deeper one last time, nose brushing his pelvis, throat working to swallow around him. that did it.

he came with a choked groan, low and broken, hips jerking up as he spilled hot and thick down your throat. you swallowed what you could, the rest dripping from the corners of your mouth when you pulled back slow, gasping for air. his dick twitched against your tongue one last time, spent but still hard.

he panted heavy, head dropped back against the seat, eyes closed for a second. then he opened them, looked at you. lips swollen, chin messy, curls wild from his hands. something soft flickered in his expression.

“cmere,” he murmured, voice hoarse and low, still rough from everything.

he pulled you up gentle, one hand steady on your waist while the other wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb—catching the last of his nut. then he kissed you deep-slow, tongue sliding in without hesitation, tasting himself on you like it was nothing. hand cupped your jaw firm but soft, thumb stroking the line of your cheek, keeping you close.

you broke the kiss first, breathing uneven, eyes bright and eager. pupils blown wide, lips parted and shiny. you looked at him like you were still starving, like nothing would be enough until you had all of him.

you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants and shoved them all the way off—gray fabric sliding down your legs, kicking them to the floor mat with your clogs. panties went next, tugged down quick and tossed aside. bare now from the waist down except the crop top still bunched high under your tits, thighs slick and trembling in the dashboard glow.

megumi watched every second of it, dark blue eyes tracking the way the material pooled around your ankles then disappeared. a soft smile tugged at his lips. quiet, almost fond, like he couldn’t believe you were this bold.

“what?” you asked, a slight attitude in your voice, head tilting as you caught him staring.

he rubbed his lips with his thumb once, slow, like he was buying time. “nothing—tryna figure out how we’re gonna fuck in my car.” slight sarcasm laced the words, but his eyes stayed soft, hungry.

you rolled your eyes, small huff leaving you. “push your seat back so i can ride you duh?”

he huffed a quiet laugh—barely there, more breath than sound. didn’t argue. just reached down with one hand, found the lever under the seat, and shoved it all the way back. the seat reclined with a soft click, giving you more room, his legs spreading a little wider under you.

his dick still hard, flushed pink at the tip bobbed against his stomach when he settled, hoodie riding up higher to show the cut of his abs.

you didn’t wait. shifted forward, knees bracing on either side of his hips now that nothing was in the way. bare skin against bare skin, heat meeting heat. reached down between you, wrapped your fingers around him.

hot, thick and twitching in your grip. lined him up slow, rubbing the head through your wet folds twice, teasing yourself until you both moaned.

his hands came to your hips. palms warm, fingers digging in just enough to steady you. no rush, no push. just holding, waiting for you to take what you wanted.

you sank down slow. inch by inch, feeling the stretch, the burn, the way he filled you up deep and thick. your breath hitched up, thighs trembling as you bottomed out, he groaned low in his throat, head tipping back against the headrest for a second, eyes squeezing shut.

“fuck…” he breathed, voice wrecked and rough. hands flexed on your hips, thumbs stroking slow over the soft curve there. “kiss me.”

the words came out more stern than usual, low and commanding in that quiet way he had. you rushed forward, crashing your lips to his, desperate and messy. your pussy clenched down hard around him the second your mouths met—fluttering tight against his fat dick, walls pulsing like they were trying to pull him deeper. a small whimper slipped into his mouth, muffled by his tongue sliding in slow to meet yours.

his hands slid down, gripped your ass firm—fingers digging into the soft flesh—and he lifted you up easy, just enough to slide almost all the way out before he fucked back into you slow. deep, controlled thrusts that made your toes curl against the seat. every time he bottomed out again you moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between you.

your hands gripped his face first—palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing the sharp line there—then slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. you tilted his head to the side, pressing it back against the cool window glass so you could kiss him deeper, tongue curling with his while he kept that slow rhythm—lifting you, dropping you, grinding up every time your hips met.

“fuuck—feel so good—” he groaned in pieces, words breaking against your lips between kisses. voice low and wrecked, cracking at the edges. his breathing turned heavier, chest heaving under the hoodie, abs flexing hard every time he thrust up.

one hand stayed locked on your ass, guiding the pace, while the other slid up your back under the crop top, palm flat and warm against bare skin, holding you close so your tits pressed tight to his chest.

you rocked down harder to meet him, hips rolling in small circles when he was buried deep, clit grinding against his pelvis. pleasure sparked sharp every time, making your thighs shake around him.

you pulled his hair a little harder. tilting his head more, kissing along his jaw, down to the soft spot under his ear, sucking light until he hissed and his hips snapped up sharper once.

“megumi…” your voice came out small, needy, muffled against his neck. you wanted to speed up—your body was screaming for it, hips twitching like they had a mind of their own—but megumi only held you down firmer, palms locked on your ass, keeping you seated deep. he gave you little circle thrusts instead—slow, deliberate grinds that dragged the head of his dick right over your g-spot, teasing it relentless. your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, a shaky whimper slipping out before you could stop it.

until his phone rang—sharp, cutting through everything.

“shit.” he cursed under his breath, low and annoyed. he glanced at the screen. your brother. of course.

he answered the facetime without thinking twice, thumb swiping quick, then propped the phone up on the arm rest so the camera caught mostly his face and the dark interior of the car. you gripped his shoulders harder. nails digging through the hoodie. heart slamming in your chest, panic mixing with the pleasure still pulsing low in your stomach.

megumi didn’t stop moving. still fucked you slow, hips rolling in tiny, shallow circles that kept the wet sounds faint but constant. your soft moans leaked out anyway. quiet, breathy, impossible to hide completely.

“yo? where y’all at?” your brother asked, voice tinny through the speaker. he was back in megumi’s room. gray comforter still bunched on the bed.

megumi’s jaw clenched. he tried to keep his voice steady. “shit—nothing—makin’ runs.” but the words cracked at the end, a groan slipping in when your pussy clenched tight around him again. fluttering hard from the slow drag over your spot. he bit the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking down to you for a split second.

dark and warning.

you couldn’t help it. the fear made everything sharper. you ground down against his deep, slow strokes—hips circling needy—and that drove him crazy. his grip on your ass tightened, fingers digging in.

“fuuck—” he moaned, low and broken, trying to swallow it but failing.

your brother’s face balled up on the screen—brows furrowing, suspicious. “oh word—where my sister?”

megumi’s breathing hitched. he forced his voice even, but it came out rougher than he wanted. “she’s… right here.” he shifted the phone just a fraction—enough that the camera caught the top of your head.

your curls spilling over his shoulder, but not low enough to show anything else. your face stayed buried in his neck, lips pressed to skin to muffle the next whimper when he gave another slow, deep grind.

you felt him throb inside you—harder now, like the risk was turning him on even more. your thighs trembled around his hips, slick dripping down where you were joined.

your brother paused on the screen. “she good? put her on.”

megumi’s hand slid up your back under the crop top calm, steady thumb stroking your spine like he was telling you to breathe. he didn’t stop moving, just kept those shallow, teasing rolls that kept you fluttering around him.

“h-hello?” you managed, voice shaky, waiting for your brother to respond. megumi picked up his pace right then—going a little faster, a little harder. hips snapping up just enough to make your breath hitch loud.

“you good? mom called you?” your brother asked, squinting at the screen. he could only see the top of your head, curls spilling over megumi’s shoulder, the car ceiling behind you. “put yo’ face in the screen.” he demanded, voice sharper.

you moaned softly. couldn’t hold it back. trying to hide it in your throat but megumi’s dick hit that spot again, heat racing up your back, making your toes curl against the seat. “i’m—no she didn’t call me.”

your brother leaned up closer to the phone hearing th faint noises. his face twisted mad. “what the fuck—megumi i know damn well you ain’t fuckin’ my little sister.”

megumi laughed—low, breathy, almost surprised at himself. the sound vibrated through his chest into yours. he didn’t stop thrusting, just slowed it back to those deep, lazy circles that made your eyes roll again.

“relax,” he said, voice rough but steady, like he wasn’t buried balls-deep in you right now. “she’s fine. we just… talkin’.”

your brother’s face got darker on the screen. “talkin’? nigga i hear her breathin’ like that. move the phone—let me see her face.”

megumi glanced down at you. eyes dark, lips parted, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth now. he shifted the phone higher with his free hand, angling it so the camera caught more of your face.

lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-lidded. you bit your lip hard to keep quiet, but another slow grind from him pulled a small, broken whimper out anyway.

your brother sucked his teeth loud. “yo—y’all really out here? in the fuckin’ car? megumi i swear—”

megumi cut him off calm, still moving inside you slow and deep, making your thighs shake harder. “she’s safe. we’re good. i got her.”

you gripped his shoulders tighter, nails digging in, trying to stay still but your hips rolled down on instinct—chasing the friction. megumi’s breath hitched quiet, hand flexing on your ass to hold you down.

your brother rubbed his face, frustrated. “man…take her ass home. now. megumi—if you hurt her—”

“i won’t.” megumi’s voice dropped lower, serious for the first time. “promise.”

your brother stared for a long second, face twisted up on the screen, then sighed heavy like the weight of it all hit him at once. “hell no— bring her back now. stop this shit.”

megumi didn’t flinch. didn’t even pause the slow grind of his hips. still deep inside you, still making your thighs shake every time he circled just right. his thumb kept stroking lazy up your spine under the crop top, calm as ever, like your brother wasn’t yelling at the phone.

“we’re good,” megumi said low, voice steady even though you felt him throb harder when your pussy clenched again from the tension. “she’s safe. i’ll bring her home when she’s ready.”

your brother sucked his teeth louder, leaning closer to the camera. “nigga you got my sister in the car—fucking her? my little sister.”

you reached for megumi’s phone quick—fingers fumbling—and hung it up. the little hang-up noise cut through sharp, screen going black. the second it did, you let go—moaning loud against his neck, no more holding back.

you slapped your ass down hard to meet his dick, the wet smack echoing in the car. “oh my god.” your eyes rolled back to the stars, lashes fluttering, whole body lighting up from the inside.

megumi watched you—bottom lip caught between his teeth, dark blue eyes locked on every twitch of your face, every bounce of your curls with each thrust. he didn’t say much, just let his hands grip your hips tighter, guiding you down harder while he rolled up slow to meet you halfway.

your curls bounced wild—sweat-damp strands sticking to your neck, your shoulders—as you rode him faster now, no restraint. the car rocked with it, seats creaking faint under the rhythm.

“oh my god you feel so go—” you winced, gripping his shoulders hard, nails digging through the hoodie fabric. thighs shaking, pussy fluttering tight around his thick length every time you bottomed out.

“how—how good?” he asked, voice rough, breathy, picking up his pace to match yours—deeper, harder, hips snapping up sharp. your legs shook worse, knees buckling against the seat.

you could barely respond—words dissolving into an inaudible moan, high and broken, spilling out against his collarbone. your head tipped back, mouth open, curls falling wild down your back. every thrust punched the air out of you, pleasure spiking sharp and hot up your spine.

megumi’s hand slid up—cupped the back of your neck gentle but firm—pulling you down so your forehead rested against his. “tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours between thrusts. “how good—say it.”

“so—so—ugh-so good,” you gasped out finally, voice cracking. “megumi—right there—don’t stop!”

he groaned low—hips stuttering once when you clenched hard around him. “yeah?” his thumb brushed your cheek quick, wiping a stray tear from the intensity.

“gonna cum on my dick? right here?”

“mhmm.” you sucked at your bottom lip.

“gonna let me nut in you.” he fucked into you harder now, hands locking on your hips, holding you down so every thrust bottomed out deep, the head of his dick kissing that spot over and over.

“yes—yes please.” the words tumbled out.brain foggy and breathless, knowing damn well you weren’t on any birth control. the thought barely registered.

just heat and want and the way he filled you up so completely you couldn’t think straight. you didn’t think he’d actually do it

he watched you close. dark blue eyes locked on every flicker of your face, one hand sliding up into your curls, fingers threading gentle but firm to tilt your head back so he could see you better.

the other stayed clamped on your hip, guiding the rhythm, keeping you flush when you tried to lift too high.

“tell me how much you want this nut.” voice low, rough, almost a growl. he didn’t speed up. just kept that deep, steady grind, dragging every inch in and out slow enough to make your thighs shake harder.

your eyes fluttered closed, lips parted on a shaky breath. “r-really bad. nut in my pussy please—please megumi.”

something shifted in his expression.

softened for a split second, then darkened again, pupils blown wide. he leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth without kissing you.

“yeah? you want it that bad?” he murmured, hips rolling slow circles now, grinding deep so you felt every thick inch pressing against your walls.

you nodded fast, frantic. nails digging into his shoulders through the hoodie. “yes—please—i want it—want you to nut in me—daddy!”

he groaned quiet—almost pained—then kissed you hard, tongue sliding in deep while his thrusts turned sharper, faster. the car rocked with it, wet sounds louder, your moans spilling into his mouth. his hand in your curls tightened just a little, holding you there so he could swallow every sound.

pussy fluttering wild around him. and that was it. his hips snapped forward one last time, burying deep, holding you flush as he came. hot, thick pulses spilling inside you, filling you up until you felt it leak out around his dick..

he groaned low into your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, keeping you seated while he throbbed through every spurt.

you shook hard. another wave crashing over you from the feeling alone, thighs clamping, back arching, a broken cry muffled against his shoulder as your pussy milked him dry.

then it hit you.

“megumii—” you whined, voice small and shaky, lifting up slow off his lap. his dick slipped out with a wet sound, falling heavy against the black hoodie, still twitching a little. you looked down between your legs—bare thighs spread over his, and saw his nut already dripping out, thick white cream sliding slow down your inner thigh, pooling on the seat beneath you.

“what?” he said calmly, with a bit of question in his voice, like he genuinely didn’t see the problem yet. he leaned back against the seat, breathing still heavy, one hand resting loose on your hip while the other rubbed slow at the back of his neck.

“megumi—did you really just nut in me?” your fingers dipped between your folds quick. feeling the warmth, the slick mix of both of you.

then pulled back, white cream coating your fingertips. you held them up like evidence, eyes wide, heart suddenly slamming harder than it had during the whole thing.

he glanced down at your hand, then back to your face. rubbed his neck a little harder, ears flushing red again in the dashboard glow. “you told me to?”

you blinked. “i—yeah but—” your voice cracked, half-laugh half-panic. “i didn’t think you’d actually do it. like… for real.”

he exhaled slow through his nose, eyes flicking to where his cum was still leaking out of you, then back up. no smirk, no joke—just that quiet, steady stare he always had.

“you said please. a lot.” he shrugged one shoulder, voice low. “thought you meant it.”

you stared at him, mouth open a little. the car felt smaller suddenly, air thicker. your thighs still trembled from the aftershocks, pussy dripping slower now, staining the edge of his hoodie where it bunched up.

“megumi…” you whispered, fingers still sticky. “i’m not on anything.”

he paused. really paused. the calm cracked just a fraction—jaw tightening, eyes searching your face like he was replaying every word you’d said in the last ten minutes.

“shit,” he muttered under his breath, hand dropping from his neck to your thigh. thumb stroked once over the soft skin there, gentle, almost apologetic. “you serious?”

you nodded fast, curls bouncing. “deadass. no pill, no shot, nothing.”

he rubbed his face with one hand. slow, like he was processing, then looked back at you. no panic in his voice, just quiet.

“okay.”

“okay?” you echoed, voice pitching up.

“yeah.” he sat up a little straighter, hands sliding to your waist to steady you. “we’ll figure it out. pharmacy’s open late. we can get plan b right now if you want. or tomorrow. whatever you need.”

“aw megumi.” you wrapped your arms around his neck in a tight hug, face burying into the crook of his shoulder. his hoodie smelled like him. faint weed,body spray, and now sex. you squeezed harder, curls tickling his jaw.

his face went back to that boring look. blank, almost indifferent, dark blue eyes half-lidded like he was already thinking three steps ahead. but you felt it.

the way his arms came around you slow, careful, one hand settling at the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he didn’t want you to pull away. he didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. he loved every second of this with you.

you stayed like that for a beat—engine humming low, windows fogged, night pressing in—until the thought hit you harder.

“wait—what if it doesn’t work?” you pushed back just enough to look at his face, hands still looped around his neck. your brows furrowed, eyes searching his.

he sighed. like you’d asked a dumb question, but soft, no edge to it. jus patient. he rubbed slow circles on your lower back under the crop top, eyes flicking down to where his cum was still leaking slow between your thighs, then back up to meet your gaze.

“then we figure that out too,” he said quiet, voice low and even. “together.”

you blinked fast, throat tight. “you’d… really?”

he nodded once—simple, no hesitation. “yeah. whatever happens. happens— i’m not leavin’ you.” his thumb brushed your cheek again, wiping away nothing this time, just touching.

a small laugh slipped out of you—shaky, relieved. you leaned your forehead against his, curls falling forward to curtain both your faces.

“you’re gonna be a dad at like… twenty-something?” you whispered, half-joking, half-serious.

he huffed soft—almost a laugh—nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark blue steady in the dim dashboard light.

“i’m starting to think you want this.” he looked up at you, hands still on your hips, thumbs stroking slow.

you blinked, caught off guard. heat rushed back to your cheeks—different from the sex heat, more nervous, more real. you bit your bottom lip, curls falling forward to curtain half your face.

“maybe i do,” you admitted small, voice cracking a little. “a little. like… not right now, not like this, but—” you shrugged one shoulder, eyes dropping to where his hoodie was still bunched up, stained and messy from both of you. “the idea doesn’t scare me as much as it should. with you.”

he didn’t say anything right away. just watched you, expression blank like always, but his grip on your hips tightened—just a fraction, enough to feel protective. his thumbs kept moving, slow circles that felt like he was thinking hard.

“yeah?” he finally murmured, voice low. “you’d really want that? me as the dad?”

you nodded slow, fingers playing with the strings of his hoodie. “you’re… calm. steady. you don’t freak out. even when my brother was on the phone yelling, you didn’t lose it. you just… handled it.” you looked up at him again, lashes fluttering. “i’d want someone like that. someone who’d stay.”

he exhaled slow through his nose, eyes searching yours for a long beat. then he leaned in, forehead resting against yours again, curls mixing with his dark hair.

“i’d stay,” he said simple, quiet, like it was fact. “no question.”

your heart squeezed—hard. you wrapped your arms around his neck tighter, pulling him closer until your chests pressed together, heartbeat thumping against his.

“but we’re still getting the plan b,” you whispered against his ear, half-laughing. “i’m not tryna have a baby in the back of your car tonight.”

he huffed again. closer to a real laugh this time—arms sliding around your waist to hold you flush. “okay.” he kissed the side of your head softly. then pulled back just enough to look at you.

“okay let’s go to the pharmacy and then get you some food.”

his lashes fluttered as he looked up at you. your arms still around him, “okay.” you didn’t want to move—didn’t want the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your palms, to end. you wanted to stay like this forever, skin to skin, messy and close. “i wanna stay like this for a minute.”

his lashes fluttered as he looked up at you—slow blink, almost surprised, but no protest. your arms stayed looped around his neck, fingers playing absent with the soft hair at his nape. “okay.”

and you did.

you let your head drop to his shoulder, cheek pressed to the worn black hoodie that smelled like him. weed, body spray, sex, and now you. your breathing slowed, matching his. the car was quiet except for the faint tick of the cooling engine and the occasional distant car passing on the main road.

his nut still leaked slow from you, warm and sticky between your thighs, dripping onto his sweatpants where they bunched at his hips, but you didn’t care. didn’t move to fix it.

you knew he’d handle it. knew he’d take care of the mess, the plan b, whatever came next, without making you feel small about it.

he eased back against the seat careful, reclining it a little more so you could settle comfortably. one arm stayed wrapped around your lower back, hand splayed wide to keep you secure.

the other reached over, cracked the driver’s side window just an inch. cool night air slipping in, carrying the faint smell of pine and distant rain.

then he cut the engine completely. silence wrapped around you both, broken only by his soft, even breathing and the occasional rustle of your curls against his neck when you shifted in your sleep.

he didn’t sleep right away. just sat there. still inside the moment with you draped over him like you belonged there. his free hand came up slow, fingers threading gentle through your curls, stroking from root to tip in lazy, soothing motions.

he watched the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the soft part of your lips, the way your body finally relaxed completely against his after everything.

minutes stretched. maybe ten, maybe twenty. he didn’t check the time. just let you rest, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare back under the crop top when you sighed in your sleep. his own breathing stayed steady, calm, even though his heart was still thumping harder than usual under your palm.

you stirred a little, moving closer without waking fully. he huffed soft again, almost a laugh.

he kissed the top of your head one more time, then let his own eyes close for a bit. not sleeping, just resting.

the pharmacy could wait another few minutes. the wings could wait. your brother’s texts, probably blowing up his phone by now could wait.

right now it was just this.

you asleep on his chest, safe in his arms, his cum still warm inside you, the night quiet around the car.

he’d wake you soon. get the plan b. get food. take you home. or back to his place if you asked.