moon

╰┈➤ your honeymoon in paris was something out of a storybook, a city you had dreamed of visiting for years. he spared no expense, booking a suite with a view of the eiffel tower and planning luxurious dinners at michelin-starred restaurants. each charming outing was magical, from strolling along the seine hand in hand to sipping coffee at quaint cafés. despite your lack of interest in designer brands, he couldn’t resist spoiling you, filling your wardrobe with elegant dresses, shoes, and jewelry from the most exclusive boutiques. he loved seeing you wear them, the way they highlighted your natural beauty, and though material things never mattered to you, his joy in giving made you happy to indulge him. it was during that trip that you realized how deeply he cherished you, not for how you looked or the labels you wore, but for who you were and how you made him feel.

╰┈➤ domestic life began shortly after your marriage, a chapter marked by sophistication and routine. sang-woo continued his demanding career at joy investments, managing high-profile clients, navigating the complexities of stocks and portfolios, and keeping the firm’s reputation impeccable. you, on the other hand, settled into the role of a housewife. though you had earned your degree in literature, your dream had always been to live a life of comfort, dreaming to create a warm home and eventually building a family. the estate sang-woo provided was grand yet cozy, a blend of modern luxury and understated grace, perfectly mirroring the life he anticipated for you both.

╰┈➤ despite his serious and composed demeanor in the office, sang-woo was tender and loving at home. mornings began with him pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaving for work, a soft ritual that made you smile. evenings were punctuated by tender affection, his arms wrapping around you while you cooked, his chin resting on your shoulder as he asked about your day. you became his sanctuary, the one person who could ease his troubles after the stresses of work. in your presence, he shed the weight of his career, revealing a side of himself reserved only for you. to him, you weren’t just his wife, you were his heart, his home, and the person who gave meaning to his otherwise complicated and burdensome life.

╰┈➤ yet, nothing in life was perfect. sang-woo’s devotion to his career often consumed him. he was a workaholic to his core, and while you admired his ambition, it came at a cost. late nights at the office became common, and he’d frequently stay later than expected with little warning, leaving you waiting at home, dinner cold on the table. business trips overseas became routine, and there were mornings when you woke to find his side of the bed already empty, a brief note on the nightstand apologizing for having to leave. the loneliness crept in slowly, settling akin to an unwanted guest in your posh estate.

╰┈➤ whenever you voiced your feelings, the conversations often turned heated. you told him how much you missed him, how the empty spaces in your life couldn’t be filled with flowers or jewelry, no matter how extravagant. yet, despite the arguments, his apologies always came, his voice soft and regretful, his eyes filled with guilt. he’d arrive home with bouquets of your favorite flowers or delicate pieces of jewelry that sparkled like promises, as though material gestures could mend the strain in your marriage. while you appreciated the thought, it wasn’t enough to replace his presence, the comfort of having him by your side. still, you stayed, believing in the love you shared and hoping that, someday, he’d learn to balance the life you built together with the career that often stole him away.

╰┈➤ it wasn’t long after settling into married life that you discovered you were expecting your first child. the news brought a visible change in sang-woo’s attitude and priorities. once so deeply consumed by his career, he began to shift his focus to you and your growing family. he cut back on his grueling overtime shifts, started declining overseas business trips, and even made the effort to reduce his smoking, something you had been urging him to do for years. suddenly, attending every prenatal appointment with you and ensuring you were comfortable and cared for became his top priorities. while his care was thoughtful, it sometimes bordered on overbearing, his constant checking on you, his insistence on preparing every meal himself, and his planning for the baby’s arrival left little room for you to so much as breathe. but his concern came from a place of genuine love and devotion, which made it impossible for you to be upset with him. he personally oversaw the construction of the nursery, situated just across from the master bedroom, carefully selecting every detail. though he openly expressed his desire for a son, you reassured him that you’d be happy no matter what, and deep down, you knew he would be, too.

╰┈➤ pregnancy took a toll on you physically, leaving you exhausted and often unwell, which only added to sang-woo’s worry. as your due date approached and the strain on your body grew, he made the decision to take paid leave from work to stay home with you. it was a rare and unexpected move for someone so career-driven, but to him, nothing mattered more than your health and the safety of your baby. he doted on you endlessly, even when you protested that you were fine. he rarely left your side during that final, difficult trimester.

╰┈➤ after nine long months, you gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl. the day he saw her, sang-woo’s face lit up in a way you had never seen before. you had worried he might be disappointed not to have the son he had hoped for, but all those thoughts disappeared the second he saw you holding your daughter. the exhaustion in his eyes melted away as he gently cradled her in his arms, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of becoming a father. to him, she was perfect in every way, and he promised to be the best father he could be.

╰┈➤ as time passed, sang-woo returned to work, though he made a conscious effort to balance his career with fatherhood. he rearranged his schedule to ensure he could be home in the evenings, often taking over baby duties to give you some much-needed rest. he would rock your daughter to sleep, bottle-feed her in the middle of the night, despite his initial clumsiness. seeing him so involved only deepened your love for him.

╰┈➤ for the first time in years, you saw sang-woo’s mother again. after the tension she had caused in the past, he had kept her at a distance to protect your feelings and sanity. however, for the sake of your daughter, you allowed her into your home. while her attitude toward you remained cold and judgmental, her demeanor softened the moment she held her granddaughter. she doted on the baby in a way that made the visit bearable, and despite her lingering disapproval of you, she seemed determined to be part of the child’s life.

╰┈➤ there were instances when your insecurities crept in, especially as you adjusted to motherhood. sang-woo worked with many beautiful and graceful women, and their flirtatious comments or longing gazes at him often left you feeling inadequate. but sang-woo, perceptive as ever, always reassured you. he’d tell you, in his gentle, earnest way, that no woman in the world compared to you. “they’re nothing to me,” he’d say, the two of you laying in bed, your head resting on his chest. he told you of how he would ignore their salacious advances with indifference. “you’re the only woman i see, the only one i want.” his words, paired with the devotion in his eyes, reminded you just how deeply he loved you, silencing any doubts you had.

╰┈➤ sang-woo adored your daughter, showering her with gifts and affection from the moment she was born. nothing was too extravagant when it came to her happiness, he filled her room with every toy imaginable, dressed her in designer gowns that sparkled like a princess’s, and even had a custom-built playground constructed in the backyard. though his generosity was touching, you often worried that this endless indulgence might cause her to grow up materialistic or take such luxuries for granted. when you gently brought this up to him, he would smile kindly and say, “i only want her to have the best.” despite his protests, you encouraged him to invest in her future as well, suggesting academic tutors alongside the dollhouses and dresses. he quickly agreed, hiring the finest educators to foster her growing mind, proving once again that he wanted her to have not just material wealth but a strong foundation for success.

╰┈➤ just a year after your daughter was born, you gave birth to a son, the child sang-woo had initially hoped for. this second pregnancy was far easier on you than the first, and while he didn’t need to take as much time off work, sang-woo was just as attentive and loving as ever. every evening, he would return home from the office, setting aside his briefcase to embrace you, his hand instinctively resting on your growing belly as if to remind himself of the life you carried. “i can hardly believe you’re real at times,” he would whisper, kissing your forehead with adoration. when your son finally arrived, sang-woo’s pride and joy were unmatched. though he was thrilled to finally have the boy he had dreamed of, his love for both his children could not be described in mere words, they were the light of his life.

╰┈➤ as the years passed, your life became a comfortable and fulfilling routine. mornings were spent preparing breakfast together, the sound of your children’s laughter filling the house, while evenings were reserved for family dinners and quiet moments in the living room. your daughter was preparing to start school soon, and the thought left you with mixed emotions. as a mother, it saddened you to see her take her first steps into the wider world, while sang-woo, ever the protective father, was filled with worry. “she’s still so little,” he would mutter, clearly uneasy about letting her out of his sight. meanwhile, your son, still too young for school, remained at home, following his father around the house with wide, admiring eyes.

╰┈➤ professionally, sang-woo’s career flourished. over the years, he had received numerous promotions and had become a well-respected name in his industry. he began to consider starting his own investment firm, an ambition he had steadily nurtured since his younger days. he often sought your opinion on the matter, valuing your insight as much as your adoring support. no matter where life led, you knew your place would always be by his side, as a loving wife and mother to the family you had built together. together, you and sang-woo had created a life of love and stability, one that neither of you would trade for anything.

a/n: let me know your thoughts or if you have any requests! also i promise more cho sang-woo fanfictions are coming soon, i am prioritizing requests as i write these for you all!! 🤍

You’d walked in that first day wearing your usual set, nothing special—only to lock eyes with him across the mat and feel your whole existence shift three inches left. You swore something chemical detonated in your chest. He was all muscle and deep voice and focused gaze—too built for his own good, arms like stone and veins that looked like they pulsed to the beat of whatever filthy thoughts you shouldn’t be thinking.

You came back the next week. Then the one after that. Then it became a problem.

Because Seo Changbin didn’t just exist in your peripheral anymore.

He started noticing you too.

It was subtle at first. A glance too long. A correction that required both hands. His fingers curling around your waist to fix your form—lingering just enough to make your breath catch. His knee brushing yours when he knelt beside you. The edge in his voice when he said your name. You’d tease it out more with each session: a tighter crop top, a lower squat, a stretch that had you folding forward right in his line of sight.

And today?

You wore the set that always made you feel dangerous—black ribbed leggings, high compression, no underwear. And the top, god. Low-cut. Almost unfair.

You knew he saw it the moment you walked in.

He stumbled over his own cue mid-demo.

Coughed. Regathered.

Didn’t look you in the eye when you passed him your water bottle during cooldown.

You held your plank longer than anyone. Made sure your back arched just a little when you stretched into cat-cow.

And he broke. You felt it.

His gaze burned holes into your skin from across the room.

You caught him after class—cornered him while he was wiping sweat from his face with the towel draped around his neck, all flushed cheeks and heaving chest, pretending he hadn’t just gotten half-hard from watching you do yoga.

“Changbin,” you said sweetly.

He turned, caught mid-sip from his water bottle. “Yeah?”

“I think you missed one of my poses during cooldown,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Didn’t correct my form like usual.”

His throat moved. Slowly. He was staring at your mouth.

“You didn’t need it,” he said, a little too hoarse.

“Oh,” you smiled. “But I kinda like when you touch me.”

You watched his jaw clench.

His hand tightened around the bottle.

And then—just like that—he bolted. Some half-mumbled excuse about helping Chan with a form check. You let him go. Smirking.

He was losing it.

And you were going to break him.

⸻

You didn’t see Changbin for a week after that.

Not because he disappeared—no, you still spotted him in passing, training other members, talking to Chan, running laps on the treadmill like he wasn’t dragging a whole damn forest fire behind his eyes. But he was avoiding you. And not well.

You’d walk into the studio and watch him tense. He stopped correcting your form altogether. Didn’t look at you during the warm-up, barely nodded when you asked questions. But when you caught him off guard—mid-rep, distracted—his gaze would drift. Drop.

To your thighs. Your waist. Your chest.

Your mouth.

And then he’d flinch, like he was pissed at himself for noticing, and turn away again.

So by the next session, you decided to push him just a little harder.

You started your little game during hip bridges. On your back, knees bent, slow thrusts up and down with your glutes tight, core flexed. You knew exactly what you looked like, and you weren’t the only one.

You peeked mid-set and caught him flat-out staring, towel hanging limp in his hands. His lips parted, eyes locked on the subtle curve of your inner thighs.

When your gaze met his, he didn’t even try to play it off this time.

You gave him a look—playful, biting—and rolled your hips once more, slower this time. His jaw flexed. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath and saw him adjust himself behind the clipboard he held like a shield.

You nearly lost your rhythm from how hard you wanted to laugh.

Gotcha.

After class, you lingered. You stayed longer than usual, stretched slower, until everyone else cleared out—except him. You moved into a split pose by the mirrors, your back arched, hands on your hips, breathing steady but thick with anticipation. His footsteps crept closer behind you, and you didn’t even have to look up to know he was standing there.

Watching.

“You do that shit on purpose,” his voice rumbled low, right behind you.

Your heart skipped.

“Do what?” you asked, playing innocent.

“You know exactly what,” he said, more growl than sentence now.

You rose slowly, turning to face him. Your eyes flicked down—yep, hard again. Straining under his shorts, thick and clearly not small. Your mouth went dry for a second.

“I thought instructors were supposed to keep their cool,” you teased, dragging your fingers up your side.

Changbin didn’t laugh. He didn’t move either.

Instead, he looked down at you like he was wrestling with a hundred demons. Like one word from you could snap something he’d been barely holding together.

“You think I don’t notice?” he said tightly. “You think I don’t see what you’re trying to do to me?”

“I’m not trying to do anything to you,” you said, stepping closer—until your chest almost brushed his. “But if I was…”

His breath hitched.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind.”

You watched him freeze, expression unreadable, muscles flexed like he was holding back an earthquake.

Then you brushed past him. Slowly. Casually.

Walked straight toward the exit.

And didn’t look back.

⸻

You weren’t trying to be obvious.

Okay, maybe you were.

But in your defense—how was anyone supposed to ignore someone like Changbin? The man was a walking wet dream, and worse, he was professional about it. Always respectful, always focused, never even hinting at the amount of muscle he was packing under those damn black compression shirts. He kept his distance, barely let his eyes wander, and never responded when you pushed a little too far.

Which only made you want to break him more.

You continued teasing with the workouts, of course. Suggestive stretches. Innocent questions delivered with loaded looks. Maybe a few accidental moans during squats. You thought for sure he’d snap eventually—but no. Changbin was frustratingly composed. Unshakable. Even when he adjusted your posture with those big warm hands and his breath brushed your cheek, he stayed cool.

Until that Friday evening.

The gym had just closed early for a maintenance update, and you’d lingered too long in the locker room, scrolling your phone, procrastinating your walk home. When you finally stepped out—hoodie slung low, gym bag over your shoulder—you nearly ran into him.

Changbin.

He looked surprised to see you, hand halfway in his jacket pocket, keys dangling from his fingers.

“You’re still here?” he asked, brow lifting.

“Didn’t realize it was that late,” you smiled, a little breathless. “Were you waiting for me?”

He blinked. “No. I just—”

“Because if you were,” you stepped closer, grinning, “that’s kinda hot.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t.”

You tilted your head. “Want to walk me home?”

He hesitated. For a heartbeat, you thought you’d pushed too far—but then he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. Alright.”

The walk was quiet at first. Evening breeze curling under your hoodie, city lights flickering on like a slow wave. You made small talk—asked him about his playlist, his leg day routine, whether he actually enjoyed yelling “two more reps” when he knew damn well your legs were jelly. He loosened up a little. Even laughed.

But the tension still buzzed between you—thick and electric. Every time your fingers brushed. Every time you stepped too close. Every time his gaze dropped to your lips and snapped back up like he’d caught himself mid-sin.

“So,” you said as you reached your block, “are you always this responsible?”

“What do you mean?”

You grinned. “Keeping it professional. Saying no to hot gym girls.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“I didn’t say no.”

That got your attention. “Didn’t you?”

“I’ve just been…” he trailed off, then looked at you with something unreadable. “Trying not to be stupid.”

You stepped closer. Your building loomed behind you, quiet and still, but you barely noticed it.

“I want you to be a little stupid.”

His breath hitched. His knuckles went white where they gripped his keys.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Sure I do,” you said softly, leaning in. “I’ve been asking for it since my third session.”

He looked down at you like he was about to cave. Like whatever dam he’d built inside himself was starting to crack.

But instead, he stepped back.

“Go inside,” he said roughly.

Then he turned and walked off, fists clenched at his sides, like he was the one being hunted.

And you?

You stood there grinning like a devil.

Because that crack?

It was getting wider.

—

The next session at the gym? you definitely wore that set for him.

The leggings—barely opaque, clinging to your ass like paint. The sports bra—one size too small, stretching high on your ribs and lifting your chest with every breath. Even the perfume—light, sweet, just enough to linger when you walked by.

It was his shift today, and you came for the kill.

You caught him watching you twice.

Once during warm-ups, when you sank into a wide downward dog in front of the mirrors, your back arched, ass high. He was across the room, talking to someone else—but his eyes found you. They always did. And when they did, they lingered.

The second time was during leg presses. You moaned. Quietly. Maybe too quietly to be real—but loud enough to make him glance up like he felt it in his spine. His jaw ticked. His eyes darkened. His clipboard creaked under his grip.

You smiled through every rep.

By the time the gym started emptying out, you knew you’d won.

He looked like he was hanging by a thread.

You “forgot” your water bottle. Let the staff clear out. Hid in the dim back hallway until the door buzzed shut behind the last person.

The lights were low. The music off. The building locked.

And you knew where Changbin went after a long shift.

You padded barefoot down the hallway to the men’s locker room, bag slung over your shoulder, heart pounding with a wicked rhythm. You heard the water first—showers hissing in the tiled silence. Then the sound of movement. Low, steady breathing. Wet footsteps. A door clanking shut.

You pushed the door open like a sinner entering church. Steam rolled into your face.

The locker room door creaked shut behind you.

You paused for a second—breath steady, heartbeat not so much—and listened. The showers were still running, muffled by steam and tile. You followed the sound, bare feet padded soft against the concrete floor, body already thrumming with heat from everything that led to this.

Every stretch. Every flirt. Every smirk you threw across the gym just to see his jaw tighten. You wore that stupidly tight set on purpose. Bent over right in front of him when he was mid-set, made eye contact while you licked sweat from your upper lip like a fucking sin.

You’d been playing with fire.

And you came here to burn.

The fog hung heavy in the air, humid and warm. You stepped around the corner, and there he was—Changbin. Alone. Water streaming down his body, steam clinging to his skin, muscles taut and gleaming. Head tilted back, eyes closed, hands braced against the wall.

You took a breath and said, cool as ever, “Shame you’re wasting all that hot water alone.”

He flinched, turned, and stared. “What the—? What are you—?”

“Locker room was unlocked.” You smiled, slow and wicked. “Not my fault.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t be here.”

You stepped closer anyway. “Why not? Afraid someone might catch us?”

He was silent. Barely breathing.

You tilted your head. “Or afraid you’ll do something if we’re alone?”

His chest rose sharply. His eyes dropped to the tight gym shorts still clinging to your hips. You hadn’t changed. Hadn’t planned to.

“I’m trying to be professional,” he said, voice strained.

“And I’m trying to get fucked,” you countered. “Guess someone needs to lose.”

Something in him cracked—visibly. His hand dropped from the shower wall, and suddenly he was moving—grabbing a towel, wrapping it low around his waist, stomping past you like he needed space to breathe.

You followed.

By the time he reached the bench, you were already behind him, fingers slipping around his waist, palms dragging over his abs. He froze.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking about it,” you whispered against his shoulder blade. “You stared every damn time I bent over.”

“You did that on purpose.”

You grinned against his skin. “And now I want my reward.”

He turned fast—grabbed you by the waist and shoved you back against the row of lockers. The impact was firm, not rough, and your body sparked with electricity.

“You’re insane,” he breathed.

“Little bit.”

“You’re not even trying to deny it.”

You smirked. “Why would I? Look at you. You’re a walking wet dream.”

He let out a low, wrecked groan and kissed you. It was messy, frenzied, starved. Tongues clashing. Hands fumbling. He shoved your sports bra up, dragged your shorts and underwear down in one go.

“Fuck,” he growled when he looked down at you, already dripping. “You’re serious.”

“I’m wet just from watching you lift weights, Changbin. You have to know what you do to me.”

He shoved the towel off, and your jaw dropped at the sight of him.

“…Holy shit.”

He grinned darkly. “Problem?”

You bit your lip, eyes dragging slowly back up to his face. “Not unless you think I can’t take it.”

He growled—literally—and pushed you down onto the bench. One knee came up beside you, hands firm as he guided you back, lined himself up, and—

“Oh my God—”

He sank into you inch by inch, and you were already gasping, grabbing at his shoulders. He was so big, and it felt like you were being split in the most satisfying way.

“That good already?” he whispered in your ear, voice ragged.

“You’re—fucking huge,” you choked out, hips twitching up. “No wonder you strut around like that.”

He laughed—deep and smug—and started thrusting. Hard, sharp, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bench.

“Is this what you wanted?” he panted. “Stretching you like this in the locker room? Anyone could walk in—”

“God, yes—fuck, Changbin—just like that—”

You clung to his shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he pounded into you. Every inch of him filled you so completely, you could barely think. You loved how much effort he needed just to hold back.

“You’re taking it so well,” he groaned. “I thought I’d have to ease you in.”

“I don’t want slow,” you hissed. “I want to feel it. Every second. Every inch.”

That sent him over the edge.

He hoisted you up mid-thrust—carried you across the locker room like nothing—and sat on the bench with you straddling his lap. Your thighs burned, but you were too far gone to care.

You rode him hard. Fast. His hands gripped your ass, guiding your bounce, groaning your name into your neck while your nails clawed at his shoulders.

“I can’t—fuck—I’m close—”

“Come on, baby,” he urged. “Let me feel it. Show me how good I fuck you.”

You slammed down one last time and shattered, clenching around him with a long, high cry. He cursed loudly and followed, filling you deep with a low, primal growl that echoed off the walls.

You both stayed like that for a minute—sweaty, panting, trembling. Your forehead pressed to his. His arms wrapped tight around your back.

No words. Just breaths. Just heat.

Just muscle memory.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of you had lifted in the weight room.

Your body slumped against his, legs still wrapped lazily around his waist. His arms stayed tight around you, lips brushing your temple like he wasn’t ready to let go. Neither were you.

But slowly, eventually, reality started to creep in—sweat cooling on your skin, the faint ache settling in your thighs, the uncomfortable stickiness between your legs.

He shifted first, murmured, “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nodded, dazed, and let him help you up. Your legs buckled the second your feet touched the ground.

He chuckled softly. “Can’t walk?”

“Not when you fuck like that,” you muttered, rolling your hips as you stretched, still feeling him inside you.

He grinned and tugged you toward the showers. Steam was still curling out through the tiled corridor, water still running. He led you into the far stall and switched to a warmer stream, pulling you under it with him.

The water hit your back and you sighed, letting the heat soak into your bones. Changbin reached for the soap, lathering it between his hands before gently running them over your arms, your chest, your waist. His touch was so gentle now—so careful—like he was trying to memorize every curve he’d just ruined.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, leaning into him. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, then kissed your forehead.

It should’ve stayed sweet.

It should’ve stayed soft.

But then your eyes dropped.

And you saw it again—him. His cock, still half-hard, thick and glistening, water dripping off the veins that curved along its length. You felt your mouth water instantly.

You didn’t even think.

You dropped to your knees on the wet tile, palms flat against his thighs, and looked up at him through soaked lashes.

“Fuck—wait, are you—”

You licked up his shaft before he could finish the sentence, slow and deliberate.

His head fell back against the tile with a sharp thud. “Shit.”

You smiled around him as you took him deeper, the water streaming down your back, your lips stretched wide. He was still sensitive—his whole body twitched the second your tongue swirled over the tip.

“I—fuck—don’t think I’m gonna last if you—” he hissed when you hollowed your cheeks and bobbed faster. “You’re seriously trying to kill me.”

You pulled off with a pop, gave him a slow stroke with your hand. “You look too good when you’re wrecked.”

He didn’t give you a chance to say anything else.

Changbin hauled you to your feet, spun you around, and slammed you back against the stall wall. Your gasp echoed off the tile, legs already parting in instinct.

“I’m not done with you,” he growled against your ear. “You don’t get to drop to your knees, suck me off, and not pay for it.”

“Then fucking punish me,” you whispered.

And he did.

Bent you forward, one arm braced beside your head while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. He slid into you in one rough thrust, making you cry out against the wall, water crashing over both of you.

“God, you’re tight like this—still dripping—”

You pushed back against him shamelessly, loving the stretch, the heat, the filthy slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the empty locker room.

“You just can’t get enough of me, huh?” you panted. “Is this how you handle distractions at the gym?”

“This is exactly how I handle them,” he groaned, pounding into you harder. “Make them regret teasing me.”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked, as he fucked you through the stream—deep, filthy strokes that had your nails dragging down the tile, your moans bouncing off the walls.

“Faster,” you begged. “Harder. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He gripped your hips, slammed into you with reckless rhythm, and you swore you saw stars when you came again—loud, shattered, toes curling on the slick floor.

Changbin cursed violently and spilled inside you moments later, burying himself to the hilt as his breath shook against your shoulder.

The water kept running.

But neither of you moved. Not for a while.

When you finally turned around, panting and trembling, he looked like he’d just blacked out and come back to life.

You kissed him—softly this time, slow and thankful.

“Still trying to be professional?” you whispered against his lips.

He groaned and pressed his forehead to yours. “Fuck no. You ruined that forever”

You ended up wrapped in a towel that barely stayed up.

Changbin’s towel situation wasn’t much better, especially not with the way you kept teasing him. Every time he looked down at you, water still dripping from your hair, that smug little grin on your lips like you knew he was trying not to stare again—he had to breathe in through his nose and count to ten.

Ten wasn’t enough.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he warned as he dug through his locker for a shirt.

“Like what?” you asked innocently, propping a hip against the bench, your towel sliding dangerously high on one thigh. “I’m just standing here. You’re the one with the visual kink, Coach.”

He groaned. “Don’t call me that. Not when we just—”

“Fucked like animals?”

“—had sex, yes,” he muttered, throwing a spare shirt at your face.

You caught it, laughing. “Wow. Romantic.”

“I’m trying to keep my sanity,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “You’ve already taken the rest of my dignity.”

You pulled the oversized shirt over your head, and he swallowed hard when it hit mid-thigh.

“…You okay?” he asked after a beat, tone softening.

You turned toward him, smile fading just a little. “Yeah. I think so.”

“You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I mean… unless you plan on ghosting me now, in which case—”

“I’d rather get crushed under a barbell.”

You laughed again, but it wasn’t the same breathless sound from earlier. It was quieter. A little unsure.

He crossed the space between you slowly. “Hey,” he said gently. “This wasn’t just sex for me. I know I didn’t say it before but—look, I’ve been trying not to touch you for weeks. Every stretch, every move, every tight little outfit you wore just to mess with me…”

You grinned. “You noticed?”

He huffed. “I noticed everything. You walk into my class and suddenly I can’t remember a single routine I planned. I’ve never been that distracted in my life.”

You stepped into him again, looping your arms around his neck, your voice a soft purr. “So now that you’ve had a taste…”

“Don’t tempt me,” he whispered, hands landing on your waist, warm and steady. “I’m barely holding on as it is.”

“Then don’t hold back,” you said simply. “You’ve already ruined me, Binnie.”

The name made his eyes darken instantly.

“Say that again.”

You leaned up to whisper it, your lips brushing his ear. “Binnie.”

He groaned. “You’re evil.”

You smiled. “And you love it.”

—

The problem with sleeping with your gym instructor — was that you still had to see him every day.

And he still had to pretend he wasn’t thinking about bending you over every flat surface in the building.

Which wasn’t easy when you wore that matching black set again—the one that hugged every curve like a second skin—and then bent over during deadlifts like it was your goddamn mission to kill him.

Changbin dropped the dumbbell.

Literally.

“Focus,” his co-instructor muttered from behind him.

Impossible, he thought.

You turned to look at him with the smuggest smile, as if you knew. As if you planned it. That tight smirk, the flick of your ponytail over your shoulder, the sway of your hips back to the mat—you were driving him insane.

And it didn’t help that you texted him at night like this:

you: was thinking about earlier…

you: how you didn’t even take your time with me

you: how fast you bent me over that bench and lost your mind

you: what if i want it slower next time?

He’d read that one five times, alone in his bed, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.

And then came the photo. A mirror selfie in a robe, one hand tucked between your thighs, your eyes daring him.

you: this what you wanted to ruin?

He threw his phone.

Only to scramble and pick it up again because holy fuck he needed to respond.

binnie: come over

binnie: don’t wear anything under that robe

You didn’t.

—

Changbin opened the door like he’d been pacing behind it all night. The second you stepped in, he grabbed you—his kiss rough, desperate, like he’d been holding back way too long. You barely got a word in before your back hit the wall and his mouth was at your neck, growling low:

“You have to stop teasing me at the gym.”

You pulled his shirt over his head, your fingers grazing the ridges of his abs, then up over those delicious, broad pecs.

“Or what?” you whispered.

He squeezed your ass in both hands. “Or I’m gonna fuck you in the weight room next time. Right in front of the damn mirror so you can watch how cockdrunk you get.”

Your breath caught, your knees going weak.

“And don’t give me that look,” he muttered, dragging his mouth across your jaw. “You love making me lose control.”

You laughed, gasping as his thigh slid between yours. “Because you look so hot when you do.”

His hands were on your robe now, tugging it open, letting it pool around your ankles.

“Then lose it with me, Binnie,” you whispered. “Right now.”

He lifted you like nothing, like muscle memory, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Only now, he had you in his arms with no audience, no distractions—just you, dripping wet, moaning into his neck as he carried you to the bedroom and laid you down like you were the heaviest weight he’d ever wanted to lift.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the hallway, but you could still see the way Changbin looked at you—like he couldn’t believe you were real. His lips hovered over your inner thigh, just barely brushing your skin as he whispered something against it.

You didn’t catch it.

“What was that?” you breathed, fingers already twisted in the sheets.

He glanced up at you, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Said I’m obsessed with the way you taste.”

Your breath hitched. “Then come back up here and show me.”

“Nope,” he murmured, dipping his head again, voice muffled against your skin. “You teased me for weeks. I’m taking my time now.”

And fuck, did he ever.

It wasn’t like the first time—fast, wild, losing control.

This was slow destruction.

He devoured you. Took you apart with his mouth, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you wide open, pulling you to the edge only to let you breathe before dragging you back down into it. He watched you the whole time, eyes dark, curls damp with sweat, lips slick with you as he licked and sucked and praised.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. How the hell did I survive without this?”

You came twice on his tongue before he finally crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone.

“Changbin,” you whispered, still trembling. “I—”

“I like you.”

It fell out of him like a breath he’d been holding forever.

You blinked.

His brow furrowed, panicked. “Shit, I mean—if that’s not what this is, I get it. I just—”

You cut him off with a kiss. Gentle. Soft. Way more terrifying than any filthy thing you’d done all night.

“I like you too,” you said quietly. “Been going to that gym for months hoping you’d just look at me.”

“I always looked at you,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “I thought you were too good for me. I didn’t think I had a chance.”

You smiled, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You really think I’d wear leggings that tight for anyone?”

He laughed, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You held him close, still dizzy from the aftermath. “So… what now?”

“I take you on a proper date,” he said, suddenly determined. “No gym, no workout clothes, just you and me. Dinner. Maybe a walk. Something soft.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Soft?”

He smirked. “The date. Not what I plan to do to you after.”

Your legs clenched instinctively, and he noticed.

“God, you’re dangerous,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said, and kissed you again like it was the start of something real.

Because it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: This fic focuses on tension, longing, and the slow shift from lust to something much more intimate. Expect drawn-out build-up, emotional smut, and Changbin absolutely losing his mind over you (in and out of the gym).

If you loved it, please give it a like and comment or even reblog!!! Let me know if you want to be removed or added to the taglist!!

Rock Royalty Welcomes a New Heir: Chris Bang Becomes a Father October 13, 2000 — by Robert Yang. Move over, guitars and groupies—Bang Theory’s wild-hearted frontman Chris Bang is now a dad. The 23-year-old rockstar and his longtime partner, beloved 90s "It Girl", welcomed their first child into the world early this morning at a private hospital in Seoul. A healthy baby girl named Tigerlily was born at 5:47 AM, weighing in at 3.1 kg, just hours after Chris wrapped his set at the Soundscape festival. “He cried. Both of them did,” a nurse from the delivery room said. “He looked more nervous than on stage.” Despite being known for his stage dives, pyrotechnics, and tabloid-worthy antics, insiders say the famously untamed musician turned into “a complete marshmallow” the moment he held his daughter for the first time. “She's got his nose and her mother’s everything else,” a source close to the couple shared. The pair has yet to release an official photo, but fans are already flooding forums with love and name guesses—though Tigerlily, a bold and whimsical choice, feels perfectly on brand for the iconic couple. No word yet on whether this new chapter means a break for Bang Theory, but one thing’s certain: Chris Bang just had his loudest, most life-altering debut yet. Rockstar? Yes. But now… Dad.

-

Tigerlily came into the world on a rainy Tuesday in October. The sky cracked open like a dramatic cue, thunder shaking the windows of the hospital room while you clutched the sides of the bed, barely old enough to drink but old enough to know your life was about to change forever.

You were twenty-two. The industry's darling, all soft glam and sharp edges, gracing every magazine cover and walking every red carpet with a gaze that dared people to look twice. Chris had just come off a whirlwind tour with The Bang Theory the rock band that had somehow become the voice of a generation overnight—gritty, golden, and chaotic in a way only the 90s could pull off.

He didn’t make it in time. Missed the delivery by two hours, stuck in a storm somewhere between the airport and the hospital. But when he burst through the hospital doors, hair damp and chest heaving, the world slowed down for just a second.

And then—Tigerlily.

Born screaming, like she already knew how loud the world could be and wasn’t afraid of it. She had your mouth and his eyes and the softest tuft of dark hair, like velvet. She stared at you both like she’d been waiting lifetimes to meet you.

She was born with the kind of name that sounded like she came from a song. And maybe she did. Bang Chan insisted on it—“She’s going to be a force,” he said. “She needs a name that doesn’t sit quietly.”

And she never did.

For the first five years of her life, her world was a tour bus. Not playgrounds or preschool, but green rooms and stadium seats. You learned how to swaddle her with one hand and fix your eyeliner with the other. She’d nap through soundchecks and dance barefoot on stage during rehearsals, curls bouncing as she clutched her little stuffed bunny.

She loved the hum of the road, the neon-lit nights, the way her dad would scoop her up mid-song and let her press her tiny hands over his guitar strings. She called every band member “uncle,” and by the time she was four, she could identify a Fender Strat by sight.

Sometimes, you worried she was missing out on normal things. But then you'd see her curled up in Chan’s lap as he strummed lullabies that weren’t written for the charts, or the way her eyes lit up when the crowd sang back to him.

She was safe. She was loved. And she was extraordinary.

And now, she stands under the golden light of a university auditorium, dressed in a powder blue gown, clutching her art degree in hands that once clung to your hair as you sang her to sleep.

You sit in the front row, surrounded by strangers, with pride ballooning so hard in your chest you think you might float right off the seat. Chris isn’t here—touring again, or producing, or lost in some other corner of the world. You’re used to it by now. So is Tigerlily.

Still, you clap until your hands sting, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

She didn’t just survive the whirlwind you brought her into—she bloomed in it. And in that moment, you realized—you didn’t just raise a daughter. You raised a woman who knew exactly who she was.

You wait just outside the auditorium, clutching a bouquet of Tiger Lilies—just like her name. The kind she used to doodle in the margins of her notebooks as a kid once she knew she is named after the flowers. The crowd spills out around you in waves: parents with cameras, graduates in gowns, professors in velvet hoods, all buzzing with joy and relief. But you only have eyes for her.

And then—there she is.

Tigerlily spots you instantly, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace she must’ve inherited from someone else entirely. Her gown flows behind her like a cape, and when she reaches you, she throws her arms around your neck without a word.

You breathe her in. She still smells like vanilla and that earthy perfume she never leaves the house without. You hold her a little tighter than you mean to.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper into her hair, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes.

She pulls back with a bright, tear-glossed smile. “Tulips,” she says, beaming. “You remembered.”

“I always remember.”

You hand her the bouquet, watching as she presses her nose into them with a soft sigh. For a second, you think you’ve made it through without a cloud. But then—

“Did Dad text you?”

The question comes gently, not accusing—just hopeful. You hesitate.

You shake your head. “No. He couldn’t make it.”

Tigerlily’s smile falters for the briefest second, but she nods like she was already bracing for it. She always was good at bracing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

You reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear the way you used to when she was five and nervous about her first ballet recital. “He’d be here if he could. You know that, right?”

She shrugs, looking down at the tulips. “I guess.”

You give her a soft nudge with your elbow. “He’s probably somewhere feeling miserable about it. You know how dramatic he gets. I’m sure he’s got his face buried in his hands, whispering lyrics about lost time into a notebook.”

That earns you a smile—small, but real.

“Anyway,” you continue, linking your arm through hers. “We have a reservation at Monarch. I even bribed them for extra truffle fries.”

“You never bribe restaurants,” she says, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Well,” you say, leading her toward the sidewalk, “you only graduate from college once. And we’re celebrating you. No distractions, no missed moments.”

Tigerlily squeezes your arm, resting her head on your shoulder as you walk.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You smile softly. “Always, my little cub.”

-

The restaurant is glowing, lit with soft amber lights that reflect off the polished windows and make everything feel a little more golden than real life. You guide Tigerlily through the front doors, her gown bunched in one hand, bouquet in the other, cheeks still rosy from all the congratulations.

“You really booked Monarch?” she whispers, wide-eyed. “You never let me eat here growing up.”

“You never had a degree before,” you murmur with a small smile. “Besides, I figured you deserved something special tonight.”

The host greets you with a polite nod and gestures toward the back corner booth, the one with the plush velvet seats and the view of the city through the tall windows. Tigerlily starts forward, then pauses.

Someone’s already there.

He’s sitting casually, fingers tapping against a water glass, hair pushed back like he just walked off a photo shoot—still effortlessly cool after all these years, even with the faint silver near his temples that he’s stopped trying to hide.

Chris.

Tigerlily stops in her tracks, staring for a beat too long.

“Dad?”

Chris stands up slowly, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Hey, little cub.”

Her bouquet hits the table with a soft thud as she launches toward him.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning as you watch her collide into his chest with all the force of a girl who may have been preparing herself for disappointment, but never quite stopped hoping.

“You told me he wasn’t coming!” she shouts over her shoulder, arms still around her dad’s neck.

You shrug, stepping further into the room. “Well, it’s called a surprise for a reason.”

Chris laughs as he holds her tighter, eyes closing for a second like he’s breathing her in. Like the years he’s missed are pressing against him all at once.

You stand quietly by the table, taking them in—the way her arms wrap around him like she did when she was small and sleepy, always reaching out for one more hug, one more story, one more night tucked between the two of you on a too-small tour bus mattress.

She always was a daddy’s girl. You murmur it to yourself, too soft for anyone to hear. “She still is.”

And for a moment, you forget all the complications. Forget the past, the missed birthdays, the growing distance. All you see is your daughter, glowing with joy, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Dinner arrives in warm, fragrant waves—plates of truffle fries, roasted duck, handmade pasta that glistens under the golden lights. The booth feels like its own little world, wrapped in velvet and candlelight and the soft murmur of clinking glasses in the background.

Chris sits across from you, Tigerlily nestled between you both like she’s still your little girl, even if she’s outgrown everything but her stubbornness. She’s glowing with the kind of joy that makes her look younger and older all at once.

“So,” Chris says, setting down his fork and looking at her with that proud, slightly overwhelmed expression he wears every time he sees her after too long. “What’s next, cub?”

Tigerlily leans back, reaching for her water glass. “I’ve got a few freelance gigs lined up. Illustration work. Book covers, a couple zines.”

Chris lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. Graduating and conquering the world.”

“I learned from the best,” she says, her eyes darting between the two of you.

You smile but stay quiet, sipping your wine and letting them talk. Chris starts telling her about the band—how The Bang Theory is planning a small reunion tour, something acoustic and intimate, “just for the old fans,” he says, though you know he still lives for the stage.

“How about you?” he asks, his eyes landing on you. “Are you working on something right now?”

You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the way his attention shifts so effortlessly from Tigerlily to you—gentle, but direct. Like he hasn’t asked in years, but he’s always been curious.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. A new book,” you add quickly, chuckling. “It's the same old thing with me.”

Chris grins, eyes crinkling in that way that used to undo you. “Of course,” he murmurs. “You’d make it sing, no matter what.”

Before you can respond, he reaches out—just casually—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, something he’s done a thousand times, but it feels different now. Familiar, yes. But also fragile. Like it belongs to another version of yourselves.

You glance down, and Tigerlily watches it all with a knowing little smile curling at the edge of her lips. She doesn’t say anything. She just picks up another fry, pops it into her mouth, and mutters around her grin, “You two are so obvious.”

You both look at her—startled, defensive, amused.

“What?” Chris says, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t say anything,” she sings, tossing you a wink. “Just... observing.”

You and Chris exchange a glance—brief but loaded.

And for a flicker of a moment, something shifts. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just... there. Still alive. Still quietly beating.

Not wanting to let it carry you on, you shift the attention back on him as curiosity taps at your shoulder.

“So,” you say, tilting your head and setting your glass down gently, “how’s Rowan?”

“Busy,” Chris answers a little too quickly and you didn't expect less since you're asking about his wife but you notice his expression shifts—just slightly. “She’s working on a TV series right now.”

“That’s wonderful,” You say as you nod, reaching for your glass of wine. “How about Riley?”

“She’s good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fourteen now. Which is… a whole thing.”

You smile softly. “Puberty, huh?”

“Puberty. Mood swings. Existential dread. She’s got this journal she guards like it's the nuclear codes. One second she’s hugging me and the next I’m the reason for global warming.”

You laugh, leaning back into the velvet booth. “Sounds like a riot.”

Chris sighs, but there’s affection beneath it. “She’s just at that age where everything feels like the end of the world, you know? I’m trying, but… I don’t think she knows where to put me right now.”

You nod gently, your fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass. “At least you didn’t have to go through that phase with Tigerlily,” you say with a teasing smile. “She skipped all the angst and went straight to being perfect.”

Tigerlily’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Chris laughs, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Mom,” Tigerlily says with a warning tone, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare bring up—”

“—the blue eyeliner phase?” you interrupt sweetly. “Or the time you tried to cut your own bangs and cried for three hours?”

Chris nearly chokes on his water, face lighting up. “Oh my god, yes!” he laughs. “I remember that! She came with a hoodie on and wouldn’t take it off for two days!”

Tigerlily groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is actual betrayal.”

You’re laughing now, shoulders shaking as you reach over to pat her hand. “You were still cute. Even when your bangs were... slanted.”

Chris grins across the table, eyes sparkling. “She’s always been cute.”

Tigerlily lifts her head, glaring at you both. “You two ganging up on me is a hate crime.”

You share a look with Chris—soft and easy and full of old inside jokes—and for just a second, the world feels like it used to: three of you on the road, laughing about eyeliner and heartache, living out of suitcases and old songs.

Tigerlily’s still grinning though, even through her mock-offense. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I forgot what it’s like when you two are in the same room.”

The plates are nearly empty now, forks slowing down as conversation takes over. Tigerlily is laughing at something Chris said about a funny episode happened at a show, and you're quietly sipping what’s left of your wine, content to just watch them exist like this—bright and close and connected.

Then Chris checks his watch with a sigh, the familiar shift in energy settling over the table. The end of the night.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says gently, looking toward Tigerlily with a reluctant smile. “Early flight to Tokyo. I'm helping this band with producing.”

Tigerlily pouts, her bottom lip pushing out the way she used to when she was five and didn’t want him to leave for tour. “Already?”

He opens his arms, and she rises without hesitation, burying herself in his chest like she’s still that little girl on the road, climbing into his bunk after shows. “Come here, little cub,” he murmurs into her hair, voice muffled but warm.

His arms wrap tight around her, his hands moving gently up and down her back in slow, comforting strokes. You watch from your seat, quiet and still, as he leans down to whisper something in her ear—something only for her. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks, and she nods without speaking.

He presses a kiss to her temple before pulling back. “I’m proud of you,” he says, with a smile that breaks a little at the edges. “Always.”

Tigerlily wipes quickly at her eyes. “Text me when you land.”

“Promise.”

Chris turns to you next, his expression softening even further. He steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. For putting this together. I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

You wave a hand, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

But when your eyes meet, there’s something there—unspoken but tangible. Like a thread still connecting you, stretching quietly between what you were and what you still might be. You’re the one to look away first, afraid if you don’t, you’ll forget yourself. Again.

He opens his arms, and this time it’s you stepping into them. The hug is brief, practiced, safe—but the warmth is real. His scent is still the same, something familiar and distant that tugs at the back of your throat.

“Take care,” you say softly, pulling back.

“You too,” he murmurs, before walking away.

You and Tigerlily step outside together just in time to see his car pull away from the curb, red taillights fading into the evening traffic. The moment stretches in silence until Tigerlily leans her head on your shoulder.

You wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s moments like this,” you murmur, “that make me wish I could’ve given you the kind of family you deserved. One that stayed whole.”

Tigerlily doesn’t move for a second. Then she lifts her head, frowning a little. “But I did get a family,” she says. “Just a different kind. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

You hold her a little tighter, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze to ground you and in that moment—standing in the glow of the city lights, hearts full of love and loss—you let yourself believe that maybe different wasn’t always a bad thing.

-

The cursor blinks accusingly at the top of your blank document, waiting for you to stop procrastinating and start delivering something brilliant. You rub at your temples and glance at the email from your agent again—third reminder this month.

Hey, just checking in again on that chapter draft. Hope everything's alright. Deadline's creeping up—let me know if you need anything!

You sigh, reply with a vague promise of "soon" and click out of the inbox. But right as you're about to close your browser, something catches your eye.

A headline.

The Bang Theory Frontman Chris Bang and Wife Rowan Announce Divorce After 15 Years of Marriage

There’s a photo of them beneath the headline—Rowan in oversized sunglasses, Chris beside her, jaw tight. They look distant. You don't even need to read the article to know that smile on his face is the one he wears when he’s pretending everything’s fine. Still, you click.

The article is full of vague statements from publicists and “sources close to the couple.” Nothing scandalous. Just the usual—“growing apart,” “amicable,” “focused on co-parenting their daughter, Riley.”

You’re halfway through skimming the quotes when your phone suddenly rings, the sharp sound startling you so much your mouse skitters across the desk.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom!” Tigerlily’s voice is bright, a little rushed, like she’s walking fast somewhere. “Hey, is it okay if I bring someone over for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” you say instinctively. “Anyone I know?”

There’s a pause. “Not yet. But you will.”

Your brow lifts. “Should I be nervous?”

Tigerlily laughs. “No. Maybe. A little. But mostly no. Love you!”

Before you can ask anything else, she hangs up. You stare at your phone for a second, then set it down beside your laptop.

The article’s still open. You look at the photo of Chris again. His expression is guarded, tired. You haven’t spoken in months—maybe longer. There’s a number in your contacts that hasn’t been used in too long. Just his name. Just “Chris,” like that’s all he’s ever needed to be.

You scroll down and hover your thumb over it. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at his name, thumb resting above “Call.” You wonder if he’s okay. If Riley’s okay. If he needs someone to talk to. If he even wants to hear your voice again.

But then your hand drops and you press the power button on your phone, letting the screen go dark. Some things are easier left in silence. You push the article aside, shut the laptop, and head for the kitchen.

There’s dinner to cook—and someone new to meet.

-

You’re just setting down the last of the cutlery when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and head for the front door, already guessing it’s Tigerlily. She never remembers to text when she’s close.

When you open the door, there she is—wearing a grin that says be cool, Mom—and beside her, a tall man with floppy brown hair, a shy smile, and arms full of flowers and wine.

“Hi, Mom,” she says sweetly. “This is Julian.”

“Hi,” he says quickly, stepping forward and offering the flowers. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I mean, you’re—I know who you are. I’ve seen your old interviews. Your film stuff. You’re even more beautiful in person.”

You blink, pleasantly amused, and take the flowers with a smile. “Oh, is that so?”

He nods, a little too eagerly.

With a small smirk, you take a step closer to him, lowering your voice just slightly. “You know… I’m not nearly as beautiful up close.”

Julian lets out a breathy little laugh, shoulders going stiff as his cheeks flush. “I—I mean, I think you definitely are. I mean, it’s not just your face. I mean, not just—” He throws a helpless glance at Tigerlily, who’s already rolling her eyes.

“Julian,” she cuts in dryly, “stop flirting with my mom.”

“I’m not—! I wasn’t—” He stammers, then finally gives up and laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Maybe just a little.”

You chuckle, stepping aside to let them in. “Well, come in, both of you. The food’s warm, the wine’s breathing, and apparently, I still have some star power.”

Tigerlily snorts as she kicks off her shoes. “You love it.”

You wink at her. “Of course I do.”

The dining table is cozy, the food still steaming in its dishes as the three of you settle in. Conversation flows easily at first—small talk, compliments about the meal, and the occasional sarcastic nudge from Tigerlily when Julian tries too hard to impress.

“So,” you begin, picking up your wine glass, eyes darting between the two of them. “Tell me—how did you two meet?”

Tigerlily doesn’t miss a beat. “At an art exhibition. He was standing in front of a piece I hated and we started arguing about it.”

Julian grins. “I maintain that it was a brilliant statement on digital isolation.”

“It was a pile of tangled wires and a single desk lamp,” she counters. “But apparently, that’s all it takes to find love.”

You laugh and tilt your head. “And how long have you been dating this tortured art soul?”

“Four months,” Tigerlily answers, her voice dipping into something soft, almost shy.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn to Julian with a gentle smile. “How old are you, Julian?”

Before he can even open his mouth, Tigerlily pipes up again, “He’s only a few years older than me, mom.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not his spokesperson, sweetheart?”

She flushes, biting her bottom lip as Julian chuckles beside her.

You nod, still looking at Julian. “And may I know what do you do?”

Again, Tigerlily jumps in, “He’s a data analyst.”

You slowly blink at her, lips curling into a knowing smile as you turn your attention fully on Julian. “Well, with a job like that, I’m sure Julian can answer my questions himself.”

Tigerlily lets out a sheepish laugh, covering her face with one hand. “Sorry. I just—habit, I guess. Go ahead, interrogate him. Just… please be nice.”

You laugh softly, giving her hand a quick pat. “Don’t worry, honey. I only interrogate the ones I like.”

Then you look back at Julian, folding your hands on the table like a queen giving audience.

“So, Mr. Data Analyst,” you say, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. Start with your worst trait and work your way up.”

Julian gulps dramatically, already smiling, and the table bursts into gentle laughter.

-

You’re scooping sorbet into little bowls when you feel Tigerlily’s presence beside you, her hand already reaching for the berry compote you made earlier.

“Need help?” she asks.

You nod. “You read my mind.”

The two of you move in sync, falling into an easy rhythm as she spoons sauce and you add mint leaves for garnish. After a moment, you glance toward the dining room where Julian is sipping his wine, politely waiting.

“He’s a little serious, your Julian,” you say lightly, nudging her with your elbow. “He always seems… nervous. A bit rigid.”

Tigerlily rolls her eyes. “He’s just shy, Mom.”

You smile knowingly. “He’s the complete opposite of your usual type.”

“Okay, ouch,” she retorts, though she’s clearly amused. “Maybe I’m growing up.”

You chuckle, bumping her hip playfully. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I can tell you fancy him. You’ve got that stupid little twinkle in your eyes.”

“Oh my God—” she groans, face turning red as you slide a bowl toward her and bump your hip against her again.

The soft music playing from the living room hums a dreamy melody, and without warning, you start dancing along to it, swaying your hips as you plate the last dessert.

Tigerlily watches in horror. “Please stop.”

You throw her a wink. “What? I’m not trying to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are!”

You let out a cackle, spinning once with your spoon in the air like a microphone. “You didn’t say I couldn’t entertain him.”

Tigerlily practically begs, “Mom, please, I’m trying to keep some mystery in this relationship!”

“Fine, fine,” you say, finally setting down the spoon. “I’ll stop torturing you—for now.”

You hand her the last plate, then glance at her gently. “Did you know about your dad and Rowan?”

Tigerlily nods, not surprised. “I'm honestly surprised that their marriage lasted that long.”

You hiss. “Tigerlily Bang.”

She nonchalantly shrugs in response. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You give her a look. “Have you called him?”

She hesitates. “I’m going to visit him next weekend. I’m… introducing Julian.”

You pause for a moment, then soften. “Be nice to him, okay? It probably wasn’t easy to him. Maybe just give him a call before that—ask if he’s okay.”

Tigerlily stays quiet, pressing her lips together. Then she nods, her voice soft. “Okay.”

You slide an arm around her shoulder and pull her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

Tigerlily leans into you for a moment. The kind of lean that says she’s still your little girl—even now. And then you’re back at it, nudging her with your hip again. “Now come on, sing with me. You know this part!”

“No, no, no—Mom!”

But she’s laughing as you start twirling, and eventually, she gives in, half-singing the chorus while the two of you finish plating desserts, moving in sync like the good old days.

Just as you’re setting the final plate down with a flourish, you hear someone clear their throat. You both turn.

Julian is standing at the kitchen doorway, blinking. “I—uh. Should I come back later?”

You and Tigerlily look at each other. Then you beam.

“She made me do it,” Tigerlily says instantly.

“Sure she did,” Julian grins.

-

At the end of the night, you walk them to the front door, the last of the dishes soaking in the sink and the music now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The night air is cool when you step outside, a gentle breeze brushing past as you follow Tigerlily and Julian to the car parked along the curb.

Tigerlily turns to you first, her eyes soft and glassy in the porch light. “Thanks for the lovely dinner, Mom.”

“Of course,” you say, pulling her in for a long, grounding hug. You squeeze her tighter than usual, feeling the familiar comfort of her arms wrapped around you—still your little girl, even with the grown-up job and the boyfriend waiting by the car. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You step back, brushing her hair from her face like you always do, and she gives you that shy smile she used to have when she was caught sneaking snacks before dinner. Then she walks over to the passenger side, leaving Julian standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

“Thank you again, ma’am,” he says, wringing his hands slightly.

You give him a look, amused. “Ma’am makes me feel ancient.”

He swallows. “Right. Sorry. I mean—thank you for having me.”

You step forward, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re welcome, Julian. And for what it’s worth…” You pause, smiling. “You’ve made quite an impression tonight.”

He exhales a laugh, relieved. “That’s good to hear.”

“Drive safe, okay?”

“I will,” he says, nodding a little too eagerly.

You step back as he gets into the car. Tigerlily waves at you through the window, and you wave back, your arms folding over your chest as you watch the headlights blink on. They pull away slowly, the car disappearing down the quiet street.

You stay there for a moment on the porch, your fingers brushing your elbows, listening to the stillness of the night settling in around you and even though it’s quiet, your heart feels full.

You close the door behind you and lean your back against it for a second, letting the silence of your home settle over your shoulders. You walk into the living room and glance at your phone on the coffee table. You hesitate, then reach for it.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s name in your contacts.

You check the time—too early to be asleep, too late to know what he’s up to. Probably pacing around his house with his guitar strapped to his chest, or lying on his couch with the TV on and his mind elsewhere.

Still, before you can talk yourself out of it, you press call. The line rings once. Twice. A third time. You shift your weight, ready to hit “end” when—

Click.

“Hello?”

You blink at the sound of his voice, low and familiar through the speaker. “Guess what?” you say, your tone light, almost teasing.

“What?” he asks, curious.

“Your daughter just brought her boyfriend over for dinner.”

There’s a beat of silence. “She what?”

You laugh. “His name’s Julian. Very polite. Very nervous. He looks like he’d rather face a firing squad than meet me.”

Chris groans. “Great. That’s exactly the kind of guy who’d try to steal my daughter from me.”

“She’s not being stolen, she’s dating.”

“Same thing.”

You smile to yourself, curling your legs under you on the couch. “They’re going to visit you next weekend. Be nice.”

“Define nice.”

“Chris.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “I’ll give him a chance. But I’m not promising I won’t make him sweat a little.”

You chuckle. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

A silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable—just weighted with history. You take a breath before saying, “So I uh... I saw the news.”

Another pause.

“I was going to call earlier,” you continue, gently. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to talk. Are you okay?”

Chris lets out a quiet breath. “I’m… getting through it.”

“How’s Riley handling it?”

“She’s…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “She looks okay, but I don't know.”

You hum in agreement. “Check on her once in a while to let her know you're there if she wants to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I will,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“You know,” you say with a small, lopsided smile, “at least your second marriage lasted longer than ours.”

Chris chuckles, the sound softer this time. “Low bar.”

“You set it, not me.”

There’s a quiet moment again. Then your voice softens. “I mean it, Chris. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or scream into the phone—I’m here, okay? As much as I hate it… you’re still my daughter’s father.”

He exhales slowly, and you can hear it through the phone, like something he’s been holding in is finally slipping out.

“I miss it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Miss what?”

“This,” he says simply. “Talking to you.”

You swallow. The lump in your throat arrives fast, uninvited. “I should let you rest,” you say quietly, clearing your throat before your voice can crack. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime.”

You hang up before the silence turns into something else. Something too close. Too familiar. You set the phone down and lean your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

And for a while, you just sit there bcause sometimes, missing someone is quieter than you expect.

-

Summer sunlight spills through your kitchen windows, casting warm, golden streaks on the hardwood floor as you pack the last of your sunscreen and sunglasses into a tote bag. The hum of cicadas fills the air from outside, and you can already hear Tigerlily’s voice carrying from the living room—teasing, excited, just a little chaotic, as always.

Julian stands nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He’s always been a little stiff around you, still nervous after all this time, but today… it feels different. Extra twitchy.

“Hey,” he says quietly, catching your attention just as Tigerlily calls out that she’s running to the bathroom to reapply her sunscreen.

You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

“Can I—” he clears his throat, gestures toward the back door. “Can I talk to you for a second? Just… out there?”

You eye him for a beat, curious, then nod and follow him onto the back porch. The breeze is warm, but there's a nervous chill rolling off of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flitting toward the floorboards. “I, um. I wanted to ask you something.”

You fold your arms loosely, head tilting. “Okay…”

“I know this might seem fast,” he begins, eyes finally meeting yours, “but I’m going to propose to Tigerlily today. On the boat. I’ve been planning it for a while.”

You blink. The words hang in the summer air like a firework frozen mid-explosion. Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come right away. You stare at him, heart swelling and squeezing all at once.

Julian continues quickly, hands half-raised in panic. “I know we’ve only been together for a little over a year, but I love her. She’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, and I want to build a life with her. And I—I wanted to ask your permission, before anything else.”

It is fast. But you’ve seen the way she looks at him, how he looks at her. The way they orbit each other like two stars pulled by gravity stronger than reason. You’ve watched them fall in sync like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he’s never once made you doubt his intentions.

You smile softly, eyes going a little glassy. “Well,” you begin gently, “you’ve been nothing but a wonderful boyfriend to my daughter. And you clearly adore her.” You pause, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “So yes. You have my blessing, Julian.”

His shoulders drop in visible relief and he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. Really. That means the world to me.”

Just then, the door opens behind you, and Tigerlily’s voice cuts through the moment. “What are you two doing out here?”

Julian spins on his heel a little too fast, and you clear your throat quickly, your brain scrambling for the first believable thing. “Julian was helping me, uh… figure out the sprinkler. It’s acting weird.”

She narrows her eyes. “The sprinkler?”

“Yep,” you nod, way too quickly. “Super weird. Total mystery.”

Julian gives a stiff little smile, playing along. “We, uh, think it’s the pressure valve.”

“Okay…” she says slowly, clearly not that interested. “Well, come on. Let’s go. The boat’s not going to wait for us.”

You grab your bag and follow her out the door, heart still racing a little from the moment you just shared. Julian gives you a grateful glance as he opens the car door for Tigerlily.

And as you sit in the passenger seat, watching the two of them exchange playful banter and knowing glances on the way to the dock, something in your chest softens.

Tigerlily is happy. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

-

The dock stretches out before you like a ribbon of sun-bleached wood, groaning faintly beneath your steps. The sea sparkles under the sun, dazzling and blue, dotted with boats and the occasional flash of seagulls flying over the sunny sky. Julian walks ahead, a few steps in front of you, leading the way to his family's boat.

He turns around as you reach the boat, climbing down to the edge and holding out a hand. “Here, let me help you guys on.”

Tigerlily climbs on first, holding onto the railing before turning back to you with a grin. You pause, just for a second, taking in the image of her—sunlight in her hair, smile wide and easy, laugh lines already forming around her eyes—and something about it makes your throat tighten.

Julian offers his hand to you next. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, pressing your lips together as you take his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping onto the boat. “More than okay.”

Tigerlily helps you with your bag, the two of you settling in as Julian introduces you to the rest of the guests on board. He offers his hand again as he helps you up a narrow stair to the upper deck, guiding you through the boat with gentle ease. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

You follow him with a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face as the wind picks up. The boat is beautiful—sleek, well-kept, definitely not the kind of thing you expected to find yourself on this summer.

He leads you into a cozy lounge area, where his parents are seated on a cushioned bench, sipping drinks and chatting quietly. They both rise when Julian gestures toward them.

“Mom, Dad—this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

His mother greets you first with a warm smile, her hand extended. “We’re so happy to finally meet you. Thank you for joining us today.”

You take her hand and return the smile, nodding. “Thank you for having me. It’s a beautiful boat.”

Julian’s dad nods along. “Julian’s told us a lot about you,” he says kindly. “You raised a wonderful daughter.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “She pretty much raised herself, honestly.”

You move on to another corner of the deck where a younger girl sits with headphones half off her ears.

“This is my little sister, Maude,” Julian taps her shoulder, and she pulls them off, blinking up at you with instant recognition.

“Oh my God,” she says before she even stands. “You’re her. I knew you looked familiar.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Her?”

“Her, as in you,” she insists with a grin. “You’re—wow—you’re even more beautiful in person. My girlfriend, Alexa, is going to freak.”

Before you can respond, she’s already pulling her phone out. “Lex!” she calls. “Come here—come meet Tigerlily’s mom!”

A second later, a tall girl with red curls appears from below deck, raising a brow. “What—”

“She’s right here,” Maude says, practically bouncing. “Isn’t she stunning?”

You press a hand to your chest, laughing shyly as you look away. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough of that,” you say. “You’re all going to make me too self-conscious to stay on this boat.”

Fortunately, Julian swoops in, hand landing lightly on your shoulder. “Alright, you two, quit scaring my girlfriend's mom,” he teases before turning to you. “Come on—front deck’s clearing up. Let’s relax a little.”

You nod gratefully, and he guides you to the front of the boat where cushioned seats curve around the bow. Tigerlily’s already lounging there, hair whipping in the breeze, sunglasses perched on her nose.

Julian hands her a kiss on the lips—quick, sweet—and tells her, “I’m getting us drinks. Be right back.”

He disappears down into the cabin again, and the sound of the water takes over.

Tigerlily turns to you, pulling her sunglasses up into her hair. “See?” she says. “Everyone loves having you here.”

You roll your eyes playfully, folding your legs beneath you as you settle into the cushions. “They’re being polite.”

“They’re being real,” she insists. “Especially Maude. I think she’s about to print out your Wikipedia page and frame it.”

You laugh, and she grins wide.

“And especially me,” she adds with a meaningful look. “I love having you here.”

You reach over and brush her cheek with your knuckles, your heart tugging at the corners. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The boat rocks gently as the three of you lounge on the front deck, sun cascading over everything in a golden glaze. You’re tucked in one corner with a book in hand and sunglasses shading your eyes, only half-focused on the page. From your peripheral vision, you catch glimpses of Tigerlily curled up against Julian, their conversation floating around like soft background music—something about a movie he promised to watch, something else about her weird dream last night. You smile faintly at their easy affection, eyes dropping back to your book—until a shadow lengthens beside you.

Someone joins the group. You can feel it immediately, like a ripple in the calm. Not just the presence, but the weight of a gaze on you—curious, unwavering. You glance up briefly, eyes peeking over the rim of your sunglasses.

It’s someone you haven’t seen before. A tall, lithe man with buzzcut hair and delicate, striking features that contrast sharply with the sharpness of his frame. His eyes linger on you in a way that feels oddly direct, and it’s only when he finally speaks that the spell breaks.

“Hey, who’s this?” he asks, his voice smooth, amused.

Julian blinks, glancing between you and the man. “Oh—right. Hyunjin, this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he steps closer and extends his hand. You slip your bookmark in place and close the book, slipping off your sunglasses. His hand is warm in yours, long fingers wrapping around gently—but his eyes, they hold your gaze like they’re reading something in you.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice low, and then adds with absolutely no hesitation, “You’re really beautiful.”

Tigerlily bursts into sudden laughter, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Hyunjin!” she gasps. “Are you trying to hit on my mom?”

“So what if I am?” he says, totally unbothered, still looking at you.

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks—not the sun, this time.

Julian groans good-naturedly. “Hyunjin, why did you think I’m dating the daughter, not the mom? She’s the it girl of the ’90s, man.”

Tigerlily gives Julian a glare before elbows him on the side.

“I had no idea,” Hyunjin says, his gaze not leaving yours. “I just know she’s beautiful.”

You’re not used to compliments like this anymore—not said so earnestly and with such ease. You laugh lightly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as you give a polite, slightly flustered smile. “Well, thank you.”

Tigerlily, still grinning, leans over to nudge Julian. “He missed the part where you say in the ‘90s, right? Like… a while ago.”

Hyunjin just shrugs, his tone almost challenging. “Like I care about that.”

Tigerlily blinks at him. Then turns to you. You raise your brows, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. You try to return to your book, but the page blurs a little. Not from the sun, not from the wind—but because there’s something about the way Hyunjin is still watching you like there’s more to read in you than the pages you’re holding.

The boat stops once it's far enough from the shore and the splashing sound coming from the side of the boat startles you. You fumble to check only to find Julian’s sister, Maude, has jumped into the sea.

You decide to sit at the edge of the boat, legs curled beneath you, a cold drink in one hand and the sun warming your shoulders as Tigerlily, Julian and Alexa are also jumping into the water, splashing around like kids, their laughter echoing over the waves. You watch them with a fond smile, chin resting on your palm, feeling oddly full just witnessing your daughter so happy. Then, you hear it.

Click. Click.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, and there he is—Hyunjin—standing a few feet away with a camera in hand, lowering it with a guilty smile when he notices you’ve caught him.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “I just… couldn’t help it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, half-amused, half-incredulous. “Were you just taking pictures of me?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was. You're beautiful—it’s hard not to.”

That makes you let out a breathy, surprised laugh, half-shy, half-entertained. You shake your head, glancing back out to the sea like it’ll cool your blush. “You’re something else.”

“Hyunjin,” he says, finally coming closer and offering his hand again, this time more properly. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier.”

You take his hand again, noting how warm and familiar it already feels in yours. “Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I take it you and Julian go way back?”

He leans casually against the rail beside you, his sunglasses hanging off the collar of his shirt. “High school. He was exactly the same back then. Sweet. Smart. Terrible at talking to girls.”

You grin. “So you’re saying he’s always been this… nervous?”

“Like a scared puppy,” Hyunjin confirms, laughing. “But the kind that would take a bullet for the people he loves. You don’t have to worry about Tigerlily. He worships her.”

You nod softly at that, touched. “That’s very reassuring. Thank you.”

Hyunjin looks at you for a beat, then tilts his head. “Aren’t you curious to know about me?”

You laugh. “Are you offering up a full character profile?”

“Only the interesting parts,” he says with a wink. “Let’s see… I’m a pottery artist. I throw clay for a living. Julian actually met Tigerlily at one of my exhibits, so I’ll take partial credit for their love story.”

“Wow,” you smile. “Multitalented and a matchmaker.”

“And single,” he adds, eyes sparkling. “Also, apparently… recently discovering I might have a thing for older women.”

You laugh—a real one this time, unfiltered and light—and toss your head back slightly. “Oh, is that so?”

Hyunjin leans a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of making it hard not to.”

Your gaze flickers to his—those sharp eyes softened by sunlight and mischief—and you find yourself laughing again, caught completely off guard by how amused, how seen you feel in that moment.

It’s been a long time since someone made you feel this way. Curious. Flattered. Just a little bit reckless. And the fact that it’s someone like him only makes it worse—and better.

-

The sun is hanging low over the horizon, spilling its golden light across the calm sea, and you’re in the kitchen galley, shoulder to shoulder with Julian’s mother as you help prepare dinner for everyone. The boat gently sways beneath your feet, and the sounds of laughter and soft music drift in from the deck. There’s something peaceful about it—this simple, domestic moment, so different from the chaos your life once knew.

Fresh from her shower, Tigerlily joins you, her cheeks still flushed from the sun and her hair damp around her shoulders. “Smells good in here,” she says, bumping her hip against yours as she grabs a stack of plates and starts setting the table on the back deck.

You're watching her, quietly smiling, when Julian appears beside her, freshly changed into dry clothes. He takes her hand gently and calls, “Hyunjin, hey—would you mind taking a few photos of us with the sunset?”

You glance over, your heart skipping a beat. So this is it.

Hyunjin, camera in hand, gives a playful salute and positions them with their backs to the sunset. “Alright, stand right there. A little closer. Julian, put your hand around her waist… yeah, perfect. Lils, look out at the ocean.”

Tigerlily does as she’s told, oblivious and relaxed.

Julian’s other hand slips into the pocket of his pants. You freeze where you stand, breath catching in your throat. Julian slowly pulls out a small velvet box.

“Okay, now, Lils,” Hyunjin calls gently, “turn around and look at Julian.”

She spins playfully, half-laughing—until her eyes land on him. She goes still. Her breath stutters.

Everyone else falls quiet.

Julian is on one knee, holding the box open, his face awash in the soft, fading sunlight. You grip the edge of the table, your heart racing in your chest.

“I knew from the moment I saw you at that gallery that I wanted to know everything about you,” Julian begins, voice a little shaky but clear. “I love how your laugh comes out before your jokes do. I love that you always steal fries off my plate even though you say you’re not hungry. I love that when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I need to be anyone else.”

Tigerlily blinks, tears welling fast in her eyes.

“You make everything feel like home,” Julian continues, his own eyes glassy. “And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. Will you marry me?”

It hits you like a wave—pride, joy, a strange ache in your chest like you were the one being asked, you were the girl in love with the sea glowing behind her.

Tigerlily gasps, a hand over her mouth, and then—she nods. “Yes,” she chokes out. “Yes, Julian.”

Cheers erupt around the boat. Julian slips the ring onto her finger, his hands trembling, and then stands to kiss her, slow and reverent, with the ocean breeze dancing through their hair.

You blink back tears, feeling them slip down anyway—and then a gentle arm wraps around your shoulders. Julian’s mother. She gives you a knowing squeeze, her own eyes shiny with emotion. “It’s something else, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying harder. “It really is.”

And as Tigerlily and Julian hold each other beneath the peach-streaked sky, their silhouettes backlit by the fading sun, you can’t help but whisper under your breath, “My little girl’s getting married.”

You’re still trying to collect yourself, when you hear the hurried footsteps—barefoot and light—and then suddenly, she’s there.

Tigerlily throws herself into your arms, nearly knocking the wind out of you. She’s laughing, breathless, trembling with joy as she hugs you tight.

“Mom!” she exclaims, pulling away just enough to hold her hand out in front of you. “Look!”

The ring glints under the fading sunlight, elegant and simple, but it might as well be the crown jewel by the way she’s staring at it, eyes wide, still dazed. “I’m getting married,” she says in a whisper, like she doesn’t believe the words even as she speaks them. “I’m actually getting married.”

You nod, slow and soft, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat. “You are,” you manage, voice thick with emotion. “You really are.”

And then you pull her back into your arms, wrapping her up like you did when she was small, when she’d scrape her knee or have a bad dream or just need her mom.

“Are you happy, little cub?” you murmur against her hair.

She pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, cheeks still wet from tears but her smile—oh, her smile is luminous. “Yes,” she says, with a kind of certainty that steadies your heartbeat. “I’m so, so happy.”

You nod again, brushing her hair gently back from her face, your fingers lingering at her temple.

“If you’re happy,” you whisper, “then I’m happy.”

You lean in, kiss her softly on the temple, and for a moment, the world falls still. It’s just the two of you—mother and daughter, hearts full, tears barely held back, connected by something deeper than words.

Then Julian approaches, his steps quiet but purposeful, and you break the hug to turn to him. His face is still flushed from the proposal, his eyes a little watery, but he smiles at you—nervous again, like always. You step into his arms and hug him too, firm and warm.

“Congratulations,” you whisper. “Take good care of her, will you?”

“I will,” he says, voice a little shaky. “I promise.”

When you pull back, Tigerlily is beaming at both of you, and then she takes Julian’s hand, and just like that—the celebration continues.

Dinner is served on the upper deck under a string of fairy lights. Music plays, laughter rings out across the boat, and champagne glasses clink in celebration. Everyone is radiant—Maude and Alexa dancing barefoot, Julian’s parents looking proud, Hyunjin snapping candids in the golden hour light, and you—

You sit back for a moment, just watching. Watching your daughter. Your daughter, laughing with her fiancé, cheeks flushed with happiness, her whole future ahead of her.

A mix of emotions rolls through you—pride, awe, disbelief, joy, and that familiar ache that comes with letting go. You think of all the versions of Tigerlily you’ve loved: the little girl with scraped knees and messy braids, the teen who rolled her eyes but still hugged you goodnight, the woman now, who wears engagement rings and about to be someone's wife.

And something blooms in your chest, wide and full. Not just joy—but peace. Profound, bone-deep peace. In this moment, you feel it completely. You are happy.

-

The house feels impossibly still after a day so full of life. You move through the quiet halls, still smelling faintly of salt and sunblock, your bag abandoned by the front door. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to guide your way to the bedroom. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chris.

You hesitate before picking up. It’s late. But you know him—you know that if he’s calling at this hour, it’s not casual. You slide your finger across the screen and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then— “She’s getting married.”

His voice is low, worn out. Not angry. Not sad. Just… broken.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your breath catching slightly. “She called you?”

“Just hung up,” he says. “She was so excited. Said it like she couldn’t believe it herself.”

You smile faintly. “She was glowing all day, Chris. You should've seen it.”

Chris lets out a laugh—quiet, hollow. “I remember when she used to light up like that just from sitting on my shoulders.”

There’s a long pause, one of those where neither of you needs to speak to understand the ache the other is carrying. “I know it’s stupid,” he finally says, “but it feels like I’m being cheated on. Like—she was mine. My baby. My little cub. And now some guy gets to come in and just—just take over. Call her his family.”

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together. “It’s not stupid.”

“I used to be her whole world,” he says, his voice cracking. “Now I’m... a scheduled phone call. A guest at her wedding.”

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your heart heavy with a quiet ache. “You’ll always be her dad, Chris. Nothing will ever take that from you.”

He sighs, and you can hear the way he’s holding back more. Memories. Emotions. Regrets.

“I missed so much already,” he mutters. “Her graduation. Her first heartbreak. All those stupid in-between things. I thought maybe I’d have more time.”

“You’ll have different moments now,” you say gently. “Maybe not the same ones. But new ones. Important ones.”

Chris goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if he’s still on the line. Then, softly, he asks, “Did you cry?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Of course I did.”

“I wish I could’ve seen her,” he says. “Wish I could’ve been there. With you. For her.”

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat. “She looked so much like you when she said yes,” you whisper.

That gets him. You hear the hitch in his breath. The rest of the night is spent like that—Chris talking, remembering, grieving something that was never really lost, just changed. And you listen, the way only someone who’s loved him deeply once can. You let him be selfish, fragile, ridiculous—because this isn’t about being rational.

This is about love.

And when he finally falls silent, you whisper, “We did good, you know. Raising her.”

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, “Yeah. We really did.”

You set your phone down gently on the nightstand, the screen going black like the closing of a curtain. The house is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—thicker somehow, like it’s holding something inside of it. You lean back against the pillows, exhaling slowly as your eyes drift up to the ceiling.

It’s not just you.

That’s the thought that settles over you like a blanket. You’re not the only one caught in this strange in-between—between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go. Chris, too, is reeling. Grasping. Feeling like he’s losing something he thought he had more time with. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing that.

Because tonight, watching Tigerlily say yes with the sunset blazing behind her, part of you had felt like you were standing still while the rest of the world moved on without asking. Like everything was changing too fast, too soon.

But now, lying here in the soft hum of the night, you realize that maybe change doesn’t have to be something to fear. Maybe it’s just a new season arriving—quiet, inevitable, and hopefully, kind.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a photo of Tigerlily on your dresser. She’s younger in this one, her cheeks round, her smile toothy. You remember taking it. You remember everything. You smile faintly. Maybe this is what growing up looks like—not just for her, but for you, too.

And maybe it’s all changing for the better.

-

It’s a slow Saturday afternoon when you hear the familiar creak of your front door opening and Tigerlily’s voice calling out, “Mom?”

You glance up from your notebook, pen still in hand, and before you can answer, she’s already walking into the kitchen like she owns the place—as she always has—plopping her purse on the counter and reaching straight for the cookie jar.

“You want something?” you ask without looking up, grinning as you hear her bite into a cookie.

“Yeah,” she says around a mouthful, “I want you to come out with me tonight.”

That gets your attention. You raise an eyebrow as you swivel in your chair, playful curiosity in your voice. “Wow, inviting your mom out on a Saturday night? What, Julian couldn’t make it?”

From the kitchen, she groans. “He’s been swamped at work this week. He said he might fall asleep standing if he tries to go out tonight.”

You smile as you stand and stretch. “So I’m the backup plan.”

“No,” she says pointedly, another bite of cookie halfway to her mouth, “you’re the main event. I wanted to spend time with you. Before I become someone’s wife.”

You’re halfway to the kitchen when she says that, and your steps falter just a little—just enough to register the weight of her words. You reach her side and pluck a cookie from the jar, mirroring her stance, leaning against the counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask softly, a teasing edge to your voice.

Tigerlily doesn’t answer—not with words. She just gives you a knowing look, the kind of look that says everything without saying much at all. And you know. You know what she means.

That she won’t always be yours first.

So you gently pat the top of her head, a silent acknowledgment of what’s changing—of what will never change, too.

And then you take a bite of your cookie, brushing the moment aside with practiced ease. “So where are you taking me, future wife?”

She perks up, cookie forgotten. “There’s this art exhibition downtown—Julian got me the invite—and I thought maybe after, we could get drinks or something. Just us.”

You nod, finishing your cookie. “Alright then. Let me go throw on something cool and age-appropriate.”

“Please do,” she says with a smirk. “Because you’re about to be seen with a young woman.”

You flick a crumb at her, already walking away. “Then I better wear heels. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m your mother or something.”

The city hums quietly around you as Tigerlily drives, her fingers drumming lightly against the wheel to the rhythm of the song on the radio. The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across her face—her cheekbones highlighted, her eyes focused, her lips painted a shade that suits her too well.

You’re watching her in silence, your elbow propped on the car door, cheek resting against your hand. It hits you all at once—how grown she is. Not just older, but grown. A woman. Not just your daughter, but someone’s partner. Someone who knows what she wants, who walks into rooms with her head high and her heart wide open.

She catches your stare during a red light and raises a brow. “Do I have something on my face?”

You blink yourself back into the moment and smile softly. “No. I just… I like your lipstick.”

She grins. “It’s in my bag if you want to use it.”

You reach down and grab her purse from the floor, fishing through it. Lipstick, sunglasses, tissues, receipts, mints—and a folded, glossy brochure catches your eye.

You pull it out, unfolding it. “Is this the exhibition we’re going to?”

Tigerlily glances over. “Yeah. Julian’s firm helped sponsor it.”

You scan the list of artists until a familiar name stops you cold. Hwang Hyunjin.

Your brow arches. “Wait. Is this… the Hyunjin I met on the boat?”

Tigerlily’s grin is instant, wicked, and wide.

“Yes,” she says, dragging out the word. “That Hyunjin.”

You slide her a look.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, “you totally forgot he was an artist, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence, setting the brochure in your lap. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t know he was showing here.”

She laughs, delighted, tapping the wheel. “You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You do. You got all flustered the second he called you beautiful.”

You roll your eyes. “Tigerlily.”

“Mom.”

You look out the window, but you’re smiling now, the kind that tugs at the corner of your lips despite yourself. And she sees it.

“Oh my god, you do like him.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “He’s like, what, twelve?”

She snorts. “He’s as old as Julian.”

You glance back at her. “That’s not better.”

“That’s hot,” she says instead. “You’ve still got it.”

You shoot her a look. “Please stop.”

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous—this wasn’t a date, it was an art exhibition with your daughter. But ever since spotting his name on that brochure, there’s been a flutter of something low in your stomach, delicate and unshakable.

You walk beside Tigerlily into the exhibition, all clean lines and soft lighting. Art lines the walls—paintings, sculptures, ceramics—and you try to keep your eyes on them, but you can feel it. His gaze.

And when you look up—there he is. Hyunjin, standing near a tall display of pottery, dressed in relaxed black slacks and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His buzzcut somehow makes his cheekbones look sharper, but it’s the way his eyes immediately find you that makes your breath hitch.

Tigerlily grabs your hand and tugs you toward him. “Let’s go say hi to your potter boy.”

You gently swat her arm but don’t argue.

Hyunjin straightens as the two of you approach, a soft, knowing smile spreading across his face. His eyes flick between Tigerlily and you, but linger on you—open, unbothered, like he has no intention of pretending otherwise. “Hi,” he says simply, like the word is meant only for you.

Tigerlily grins. “Congratulations, Hyunjin. This whole thing is incredible. The colors, the forms—like, it’s weirdly emotional. I didn’t expect to feel something over clay.”

Hyunjin nods, appreciative. “Thank you,” he says, and then, softer, to you, “I’m glad you came.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around your clutch. “It’s beautiful. Everything.”

Tigerlily glances between the two of you, and you catch the flicker of realization in her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Hyunjin, then you. A smile curves her lips, but she doesn’t say anything—just lightly touches your arm.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” she says, far too casually. “You two go ahead and talk about... I'll just go.”

Before you can say anything, she’s already turning away, leaving you alone with Hyunjin in the middle of his world.

Hyunjin smiles, as if this was always meant to happen. “Would you like a tour?” he asks. “I’ll show you my favorites.”

You nod, trying to collect yourself as he leads you across the room to a display of delicate, curved vases and explains a bit about it.

“Have you ever worked with clay?” he asks, that slight tilt to his voice—casual, but laced with suggestion.

You shake your head. “I don’t know the first thing about pottery. But it’s… really beautiful.”

“I could teach you,” he says.

You laugh, a little flustered. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“For you, I’d make time.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. No hesitation. No games. And that’s what throws you.

You look at him, really look—and he’s looking at you like you’re the centerpiece of the exhibition, like he curated the entire room just to bring you here. It’s intense, that kind of attention. Unapologetic.

“I doubt I’d be any good at it,” you say, trying to deflect.

“Come to my studio,” he says. “Let’s find out.”

His voice is low, but not pressing. Just enough to leave space—for you to lean in or walk away. But his eyes… his eyes are burning. Admiring. Wanting. A quiet pull you can’t quite escape.

You break the gaze, looking down at the smooth glaze of the pot nearest you, your fingers brushing lightly over its curve. Hyunjin’s smile deepens, and you don’t have to look at him to know. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And somehow, you don’t hate it.

-

After the exhibition, you and Tigerlily settle into a cozy booth at a bar just down the street from the gallery. The music is mellow, the lights low and golden, and the clinking of glasses and quiet hum of conversation wrap around you like a blanket. You each have a drink in hand—something fruity and pink in Tigerlily’s, something simpler in yours.

You sip, exhale, and lean back. “Well… that was unexpectedly interesting.”

Tigerlily’s lips curve around the rim of her glass. “You mean the exhibition?” she teases.

You lift an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

She laughs, a full, unfiltered sound. “I saw you and Hyunjin, you know. Sneaking off for your little pottery tour.”

You feign a gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “What are you saying, Tigerlily? You want a new dad?”

She chokes on her drink, coughing through her laughter. “Oh my God, please don’t ever say that again.”

You grin as you stir your drink with the little straw. “Just checking.”

But then, her tone shifts—still playful, but more earnest now. “I’m serious, though. I think it’s a good time for you to start dating again.”

You glance at her sideways, teasing, “Oh? So you’ve finally given up on the dream of me and your dad running off into the sunset?”

Tigerlily chuckles, soft and knowing. “I mean… yeah. I used to hope, but now? I just want you to be happy. However that looks.”

Something in you stirs. It’s not sadness—not quite—but something tender. Moved. You coo, placing your hand over hers on the table. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

She gives you a sheepish smile, then rolls her eyes as she groans, “Even if that happiness means Hyunjin becomes my stepdad. Ew.”

You burst into laughter. “He’s not—Tigerlily!”

“I’m just saying,” she lifts her hands in defense, eyes wide, “if it ever comes to that, I’ll be supportive. Slightly traumatized, but supportive.”

You laugh until your chest aches, then sigh as you cradle your glass between your hands. “I don’t know… dating at my age, it feels kind of—”

Tigerlily gasps. “Don’t even start with that age talk.”

You shrug, playful but honest. “It just seems a little late to open up my heart again.”

She leans forward, voice soft but firm. “Then don’t open it wide. Just crack the window a little. Let some air in. You never know what might fly through.”

You look at her, this remarkable woman you raised, and something about her words nestles itself right under your ribs. “I’m not saying it has to be Hyunjin,” she adds, sly smile returning. “But… you could do worse.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that lifts your lips is genuine. “You’re kind of sweet when you’re not being annoying.”

She raises her glass. “To annoying daughters who want their moms to be ridiculously happy.”

You clink glasses with her, the sound small but meaningful and for the first time in a long while, the idea of something new—something a little wild, a little uncertain—doesn’t scare you. Not when you’ve come this far. Not when your daughter is rooting for your heart.

-

So here you are, standing in front of the brick building tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the late afternoon sun casting warm shadows across its facade. The metal plaque reads Studio Hwang in a clean, simple font. You pause at the door, your hand hovering just before the handle.

This doesn't mean you're going to open your heart.

You're not here to be charmed or swept off your feet or written into some kind of romantic plot twist. No. You’re here because—well, because you were curious. And maybe a little flattered. And maybe, maybe, you wanted to try something new.

You exhale through your nose, give a small nod to yourself. Who knows, you think, maybe I’ll like it. So you push the door open.

Inside, the soft hum of conversation mingles with the earthy scent of clay and dust. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, warming the space in golden hues. Shelves are lined with ceramic pieces—some smooth and glazed, others raw and half-finished, waiting to become something more.

You spot Hyunjin almost immediately. He’s across the room, mid-conversation with someone—maybe a buyer, maybe a fellow artist, you’re not sure. He’s gesturing toward a set of tall vases, his tone focused, expressive. He hasn’t seen you yet.

For a moment, you hesitate. Your instinct tells you to step back outside, to give yourself an out before this becomes something real.

But then Hyunjin turns. He catches sight of you—and his entire face lights up. His smile is instant, genuine, radiant in a way that makes you forget you were just about to retreat.

“I’m happy to see you,” he says, stepping away from his conversation without hesitation. “You came.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, glancing briefly toward the person he was speaking with, your hand still loosely gripping the strap of your bag. “I can come back later, if you’re busy.”

But Hyunjin’s reaction is immediate. He takes a small step toward you, shaking his head with a pleading softness in his eyes. “No. Don’t go.”

You blink, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I was just finishing up anyway,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile, one that almost feels like a quiet apology for making you feel like you weren’t welcome here. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Stay—please.”

And it’s the way he looks at you. Open. Warm. Like your presence just made his whole day better. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather have you be.

You feel your hesitation melt, bit by bit. Your grip on your bag loosens. Your heart softens in a way you didn’t expect. So you nod. Quietly, simply, you say, “Okay.”

As you wait, you take slow steps around the studio, letting your eyes wander over the carefully displayed pieces—bowls, vases, sculptures that seem to carry a sense of motion even in their stillness. Each one is uniquely imperfect, textured with fingerprints, small ridges, grooves. They're beautiful in the way something made by hand always is—full of soul, full of intention. But as much as you're trying to focus on the art, your attention keeps drifting. To him.

Hyunjin stands a few feet away, still finishing his conversation, and you can’t help but look. The way he’s dressed is simple—just a white tank top tucked into jeans, the fabric hugging his frame in all the right places, and an apron dusted with clay tied around his waist. His buzzed hair is wrapped under a bandana. He gestures with his hands as he talks, his words low and animated, his passion palpable.

There’s something magnetic about it—the way his brows pull together when he's describing a shape, the way his hands mimic the curves of the piece, like he’s still molding it in the air. You find yourself watching too closely. Admiring too much.

God, he's attractive. Really, really attractive.

You realize you’ve been staring, your thoughts trailing somewhere they shouldn’t, and you quickly look away, pretending to examine a nearby vase like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.

Your pulse does this little skip in your chest and you remind yourself again: You're just here to learn pottery.

The soft click of the studio door signals that Hyunjin’s guest has just left, and suddenly, it's just the two of you. The room feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting. You run your fingertips along the rim of a ceramic bowl, pretending to study it as you hear the sound of his footsteps getting closer. Your heart does a little flutter as you straighten your posture, but you don’t dare turn around until you hear his voice.

“So…” he says, his tone lighter now, a little teasing, “ready for your first pottery lesson?”

You finally turn to face him, and he's looking at you with a smile that makes you feel warm all over. His apron is still dusted with clay, his arms streaked with it, and there’s a tiny smudge on his cheek you have to force yourself not to reach for.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving a small laugh. “I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to break anything.”

He grins, dimples and all. “Don’t worry. The only rule here is to enjoy yourself.”

The way he says it—calm, easy, inviting—makes you relax a little. You nod, your lips curling into a smile. “Okay. Teach me, then.”

Hyunjin reaches for an apron hanging on a hook, shaking the dust from it before offering it to you with a quiet smile. “Here,” he says, “can’t have you ruining that pretty outfit.”

You chuckle softly as you slide your arms through the apron, smoothing it down the front. Before you can reach behind to tie it, he’s already stepping closer—close enough that the heat of his body brushes your back.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

His fingers gather the straps at your waist, slow and deliberate, and as he knots them behind you, you feel the firm brush of his knuckles against the small of your back. Your breath hitches—just slightly—and you’re thankful he can’t see your face just yet. But then… he moves higher.

Without a word, his hand lifts to your hair, gathering it gently, fingertips brushing your nape as he lifts it away from your neck. “Can’t let it get messy either,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave as he twists your hair and pins it up with a clip from the table. “There. Perfect.”

Hyunjin doesn’t step away. He lingers, his hands falling slowly, deliberately, to rest lightly on your shoulders as he leans in—just enough for you to feel the soft, warm brush of his breath against your neck. You close your eyes for a moment, heat rising in your cheeks, heart fluttering like it’s never been touched before.

“You smell really good,” he says, low and sincere, as if it’s a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You swallow, pulse quickening. “I—um… thank you.”

When you finally turn your head slightly to glance back at him, his eyes are already on you—dark, unreadable, but soft. And the look he gives you makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth curling up like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Let’s make something beautiful,” he says.

And you’re not entirely sure if he’s still talking about pottery.

-

Hyunjin leads you to the table, where a solid mound of clay sits waiting. He picks up a thin, taut wire with wooden handles on each end and holds it out for you. “This is a cut-off wire,” he explains gently, “you use it to portion the clay before you bring it to the wheel.”

You take the handles in your hands, unsure, and glance at him. He steps behind you again, not too close this time—but close enough that you can feel the presence of him, the quiet patience he carries.

“Pull it tight,” he says, “and glide it through like you’re slicing butter.”

You do as he says, but your motion is a little hesitant, uneven. He doesn’t correct you right away. Instead, his hands come up to rest over yours, steadying them, guiding the motion with a softness that makes your breath catch.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice brushing your ear.

Together, you slice through the clay. When it’s done, he lets go—slowly—and steps around to lift the cut piece with ease. He smiles.

“Perfect,” he says. “See? Not so hard.”

You follow him as he carries the clay over to the wheel, your heart still fluttering from the brief contact. He pats the stool next to the wheel.

“Come sit. Let’s get your hands dirty.”

You do, smoothing the apron over your lap as you settle in.

He slaps the clay down at the center of the wheel with a satisfying thud, then sits beside you, adjusting the pedal with his foot. “We’re going to start by centering the clay. That’s the most important part.”

You look down at your hands, already dusted with faint clay residue. “What if I mess it up?”

Hyunjin leans in with a smile that borders on a smirk, eyes flicking up to yours. “That’s part of the fun.”

His hands take yours again, guiding them toward the spinning mound of clay. The wheel starts turning, slow and steady, and he wraps his fingers around yours as the clay begins to take shape beneath your touch.

The sensation is strange—cool, smooth, pliant—but with him guiding you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… grounding. Intimate. “Just feel it,” he says quietly. “Don’t overthink.”

You nod, even though your heart is racing—not from nerves over the clay, but from the way his voice settles into your spine. The way his hands feel sure and gentle over yours. The way his focus is split between the clay and you.

Then, Hyunjin moves to the wheel across from you, his own piece of clay already set and spinning. “Watch me first,” he says, looking up with a soft grin. “Then you can try.”

You nod, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you lean forward slightly, eyes on him. On the way his hands wet with slip move gracefully over the surface of the clay. His fingers are long, precise—expert—and there’s a natural rhythm in the way they press and pull, coaxing form from the formless.

Your gaze drops to his forearms, where veins run along the skin like rivers, his muscles subtly flexing as he controls the wheel. The way his biceps shift beneath the snug fit of his tank has your breath hitching just slightly, and then your eyes move up again—past the bandana holding his hair back, past the little smudge of clay near his jaw—to his face.

Hyunjin is all focus. Calm, unbothered, completely at home in the motion of his craft. And for a moment, you forget where you are.

You’re watching him—not just the process, but him—and your thoughts go quiet. All you hear is the hum of the wheel, the soft squish of clay, and your own heartbeat tapping against your ribs.

Then, as if he senses it, his eyes lift. He catches you staring. You look away fast, cheeks warming, pretending to busy yourself with your own shapeless lump of clay. But across the room, you hear his soft laugh. Low, amused, unbothered.

“I can feel you watching me,” he says, not looking up this time as he dips his fingers in water and smooths a new edge into his piece.

You glance up at him again, trying to sound casual. “I’m just observing. You said to watch.”

“Right,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye now. “Strictly academic.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads on your lips. He doesn't push, just continues shaping his work with that same focused grace—while every now and then, you catch his gaze flicking back to you. And each time it does, it lingers just a little longer.

Not long after, you find yourself sinking into it, the stillness not awkward but comforting. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket, where nothing needs to be said. Your hands move gently over the clay, smoothing it, shaping it—not entirely sure what you're making, but enjoying the process anyway. It’s oddly therapeutic, the coolness of the clay, the give and resistance of it, the freedom to make anything. You let your fingers trail along its form, until—

The wheel spins too fast beneath your hand, wobbling wildly, and your once-decent shape collapses inward with a wet slap. You sigh, pulling your hands back, covered in clay and frustration.

Hyunjin looks up from his own wheel. He sees your frown, your ruined creation, and he doesn’t laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he wipes his hands with a rag and rises, walking over with an amused curl to his lips and that glint in his eyes. “You panicked,” he says softly, voice dipped in warm amusement.

“I messed it up,” you mutter, eyeing the deformed lump.

“You can still fix it,” he simply resolves.

Before you can ask how, he’s already behind you. Not too close—but close enough that you can feel his presence, the gentle press of warmth radiating from his chest. Then, with zero hesitation, he reaches around you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he guides your hands back to the clay.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your neck.

You try not to shiver as he continues, “Just feel it. Let your hands listen to what it wants to be.”

His hands gently cup yours, steering them over the clay as the wheel spins again—slower this time. Controlled. Intimate. His fingers never leave yours, and every time he leans in to speak, his lips come dangerously close to your ear. “You’re doing good,” he whispers. “See? Told you we could fix it.”

You manage a breathy chuckle, though your focus is split—half on the clay, half on how close he is. How his chest nearly grazes your back, how his voice sinks into your skin, how his fingers linger just a little too long with each adjustment.

“Feels a little like cheating,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh behind you. “I like helping.” His voice dips a little lower. “Besides… if it means I get to be this close to you, I’m not complaining.”

You glance back at him—only to find his face already angled toward yours, eyes heavy-lidded with that teasing smile. Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. You pull in a breath, trying to center yourself again—on the clay, the motion, the wheel beneath your hands, not on the way Hyunjin’s breath felt brushing your skin just moments ago.

“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s just finish this.”

And you do. You put all of your focus into the shape, your hands moving more confidently now. Every curve, every pressure, you begin to feel the rhythm. Hyunjin stays close but doesn't interfere anymore—just lets you work, watching with quiet eyes and the occasional, almost imperceptible smile. A few times, he gently murmurs encouragements, soft like a breeze: “Just like that… slower on the edge… good, yeah, that’s it.”

And slowly, it comes together. A little uneven, maybe. Not perfectly symmetrical. But it has a charm—your charm, your hands in the shape of it.

When you lift your hands and look at what you've made, you let out a quiet breath. “It’s… kind of a plate?” you say, unsure.

Hyunjin chuckles, stepping in. “It is a plate,” he says warmly, reaching for the cut-off wire. He carefully loops it beneath the clay, slicing it from the wheel with practiced ease, and lifts it with gentle hands like it’s a masterpiece.

He turns to you with a smile so genuine it makes your chest swell. “You did a really good job,” he says.

You smile back, your cheeks still warm. “Only because you practically made it with me.”

“I was just your guide.” He winks. “You’re the artist.”

You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you stand a little taller. Like maybe you are capable of making something beautiful—even if it’s just a slightly lopsided plate in a small studio, with a man who’s slowly but surely making a mark on your heart.

-

The clay’s still under your nails a little, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. A trace of the afternoon etched into your skin. You wash your hand in the nearest sink and feel a little more relaxed as you're toweling your damp hands.

Not long after, Hyunjin walks in, balancing two cups of coffee with ease, still in his paint-smeared apron and bandana, looking effortlessly undone in the most deliberate way.

“Made us coffee,” he says, handing you one of the mugs. Your fingers brush for a second as you take it, and it sends a small jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking a sip and leaning against the big wooden table beside him. The studio is quiet now, just the soft hum of life outside the windows and the lingering scent of clay and coffee between you.

You admire the wall-to-wall shelf of pottery on the other side of the studio, each piece unique, imperfectly perfect in their own way. “You’ve made all of these?” you ask.

He nods, glancing at them over his cup. “Each one’s like a memory.”

You smile at that, letting the silence wrap around you both for a beat. Then, from beside you, he says casually, “So… I might’ve done a little internet stalking about you.”

You glance at him, brow arching. “Oh?”

He smiles into his cup, lowering it slowly. “I was curious.”

“And what did you find out, detective?”

He turns his head to look at you, something playful and soft behind his eyes. “That you were… different.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “Different how?”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Fiery. Effervescent. A little wild, in the best way.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Are you disappointed now?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on yours. “Not even close.” His voice is low, steady. “I like who you are now.”

Your heart flips, unprepared for the way he says it—so matter-of-factly, like it's the easiest truth he's ever spoken. Then he adds, almost as if speaking to the room, “But I think that part of you is still in there. Just… quieter now. I wonder if I'll ever meet her.”

You look down into your coffee, lips curling slightly before glancing back at him. “Or maybe you should’ve been born sooner,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

But Hyunjin just smiles, slow and knowing, as he turns to face you more fully. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “If I was born sooner… you wouldn’t have noticed me. I’d be nobody.”

Your smile falters, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer. “You would’ve looked right through me. But now…” His eyes lock on yours again, this time deeper, weightier. “Now you see me.”

Your breath hitches, the space between you shrinking, thick with something electric.

“I think,” he murmurs, voice low, “we met at the right time.”

You swallow, caught off guard—not just by his words, but by the way he says them. The way he makes you feel. And you realize, maybe it’s not about being ready to open your heart. Maybe it’s about someone walking in and making it feel safe enough to try.

And then, he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the brown of his eyes, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple from earlier.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice low, husky with hesitation… and intent.

You nod before you can think better of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep it cool,” he murmurs, his hand brushing the edge of the table near yours. “Trying not to be… too much.”

Your lips twitch, heart hammering. “You think this is you trying to be subtle?”

Hyunjin lets out a quiet laugh, one that curls around your ribs and settles in your belly. “I guess I’m not very good at subtle when it comes to you.”

And then, slowly, he reaches out—his hand gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw before falling away. The touch is light, but it lingers in your skin like fire.

“You make it really hard,” he says, barely above a whisper, “not to want... more.”

“More?” you echo softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

His eyes don’t leave yours. “More moments like this. More of your time. More of you.”

The silence stretches for a beat—your heart racing, cheeks burning—but you don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. Because in this moment, with the earthy scent of clay still hanging in the air and the fading sunlight washing golden across the floor, it feels terrifyingly easy to let yourself lean in—just a little closer.

And Hyunjin sees it. He sees the way your eyes flick to his lips for half a second too long. So he closes the space between you, just barely, until his face hovers inches from yours. Not touching, not yet. Waiting. Letting you decide.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “and I will.”

But you don’t, you don’t say a word. Instead, you meet his eyes—warm, steady, searching—and you let yourself lean in just enough to close the last inches between you.

And then, finally, his lips meet yours.

It’s soft at first—so gentle, as if he’s afraid to break something delicate. His lips move against yours with reverence, like he’s been waiting a long time for this moment, and now that he has it, he’s not going to rush. He kisses you like it means something. Your hand finds the front of his apron, clutching the edge of the fabric just to ground yourself, to make sure this is real. And when you respond—when your lips press back into his, just a little more certain, a little more open—he sighs softly into the kiss, like relief, like gravity finally pulling him where he belongs.

His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, and the other finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer—not demanding, but asking. You let him. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, the quiet hum of something new and terrifyingly beautiful blooming between you.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only just—his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed, breath mingling with yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, “since the first time I saw you.”

You smile, breathless, your heart blooming in your chest like something brand new. “And here I thought you were just being polite.”

Hyunjin huffs a quiet laugh, his nose brushing yours. “Not even a little bit.”

And for a while, you stay like that—close, quiet, wrapped in something warm and soft and maybe even a little magical—before the moment gives way to the next.

Because this doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the very beginning.

-

✨ Chapter I of Evermore is available on my Patreon ✨

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Changbin trusted you and Chan more than anything or anyone else. You three had discussed it for a few weeks by now, a stoned three way. One where Changbin would be submissive, rather than you. He would let both you and Chris take care of him, a birthday present of sorts.

He found himself sandwiched between the two of the people he loves the most. You laying on his right, your pretty tits on full display while you brushed his hair out of his face, whispering sweet words into his ear. While Chris was laying on his left, Chris' cock straining in his boxers while he sucked on Changbin's nipples.

"My sweet Binnie," you muse, kissing his temple, "isn't Channie sweet? Playing with you so nicely."

Changbin is nodding fervently while his eyes just start feeling heavier and heavier and his thoughts are swirling. A familiar warm feeling being felt from every pore of his skin. There's no doubt Changbin is hard, so hard he thinks his cock may explode, twitching against his stomach with every kiss Chris gives his chest.

"Chris," you snap him from his trance, the man on the other side of him lifting his head up to look at you, "I think our baby is feeling floaty right now, aren't you?" you look to Changbin for a response.

He nods, "feeling floaty."

"Aw, good," you coo, "now the real fun begins, baby."

Chris is quick to help Changbin up while you pull your flimsy shorts off, settling down on your back, opening up your legs and watching as Changbin's eyes bug out of his head, seeing your pretty cunt all spread out for him. "C'mon Binnie, fuck my cunt," you instruct the man hovering over you.

Changbin is in no state to deny your wishes, sinking his fat cock into your warm walls, head lolling back when he bottoms out inside you. "That's it Binnie," you coo, pulling him in for a kiss.

He's yelping against your lips when Chris gently pulls at the butt plug that was put in his ass earlier, a groan following his outburst of noise. "Sweet boy," Chris is whispering to Changbin, "you ready for me t'be inside?"

"Please," Changbin is quick to whimper.

You watch Changbin's face, observing the way his mouth falls open and how his brows knit together when Chris starts pushing his cock into Changbin's hole. How the softest and sweetest whimpers leave his mouth as Chan slowly fills him up while his own cock is still buried inside your own cunt.

"Not gonna last," Changbin announces once Chris bottoms out inside him.

"That's okay baby," you insist, a blissful grin spreading across your face.

When Chris moves you feel it as it moves Changbin's cock further into you. The three of you figure out a rhythm, one that has all of your heads falling back while whines fall from all of your lips.

You were fully immersed in the Muppets Christmas Carol, sitting between your two best friends when your eyes were drawn to the window by a fluttering movement. And when you realized what it was that you had seen, you couldn’t stop the gasp that tore itself out of your throat. Snow. The first in what felt like ages. You threw yourself off the couch and ran to the door, giggling as you went. 

You had already pulled on your coat by the time Chan and Changbin had scrambled off the couch, both of them staring at you. “Ma’am, do you mind explaining yourself? We were about to see the Ghost of Christmas Present, which is arguably the best part of this movie, and then you were gone!” Chan huffed, putting his hands on his hips and raising an eyebrow at you. 

You rolled your eyes and dropped to the floor to pull on your snow boots, “Guys, it’s snowing! We have to go out before it stops!” You exclaimed, grinning at them.

“Alright, angel, I’m in. Whatever you want,” Changbin shrugged, winking at you before turning to the row of coats hanging by the door and pulling his off the hook.

But Chan’s huff stopped you both, eyebrows furrowed. “It's getting dark, we can't go out tonight. We’ll have to wait till morning.” 

You frowned at him as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Just for a little bit? I promise we’ll come in before it gets too dark and cold, but we can’t just wait till morning! It’ll be done snowing by then. Come on Channie, please?” You pouted up at him.

“Yeah come on Channie, please?” Changbin pouted, the same sad expression on your face mirrored on his.

Chan looked between the two of you for a minute before rolling his eyes and snatching his coat off the hanger. You and Changbin both giggled in excitement, finishing putting on your layers as quickly as possible so Chan couldn’t change his mind. 

Changbin reached out to you to help you off the floor, both of you about to dart out into the cold when a hand caught yours; Chan had a soft smile on his face and took a step forward, making you both nearly nose to nose. The butterflies in your stomach floated up into your chest and got caught in your throat; seeing him so close always did that to you. His dimples deepened for a second before he looked over your shoulder, presumably at Changbin, and rolled his eyes. The moment was gone, but you still felt the sparkles of electricity bouncing around you as he wrapped another scarf around your neck and pulled you outside.

The snow wasn't coming down too hard, but you didn’t care. The setting sun lit up the clouds from the inside, bathing everything in a muted glow that felt like something out of a movie. It was like your own personal snow globe, and you couldn’t think of anyone you’d rather be with. 

The three of you wandered around, not seeing a single other person as you walked. Changbin had steered you off the beaten path and into a large clearing you’d never seen before. The entire expanse was covered in a perfect, even layer of snow. The three of you all exchanged looks and less than 10 seconds later, you simultaneously decided to run out into the field and start throwing it at each other. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you had laughed so hard or had so much fun. You felt like a kid again, playing outside with your two best friends; Chan’s nose was tinged pink and his grin absolutely infectious, and Changbin was giggling maniacally as he ran around, snowflakes clinging to the curly hairs sticking out from underneath his beanie. 

“Hey, that's not fair!” Changbin shouted as you and Chan teamed up to take him down, tackling him into the snow after he had managed to shove a handful of snow down your back and land a snowball to the side of Chan’s face.

“All is fair in love and war, Binnie,” you laughed, collapsing onto your knees next to him, slightly breathless.

“And you definitely started it so don’t even complain about what’s fair, Bin,” Chan chastised playfully, slumping over onto your back, chin resting on the top of your hat covered head. “We should get going though, it’s gonna be dark soon.” 

You agreed, Chan helping you up before you both dragged a whining Changbin off the ground and out of the field. The trek back was quiet, but comfortable. The darkening sky had shifted into a dreamy muted purple. Walking in the lavender haze sent a bittersweet pang through your chest; you wished the three of you could stay in this moment forever. You would never get sick of the feeling of their hands in yours, but they weren’t yours. And you would never risk the friendship between the three of you to choose between them. Instead, you tried to remember every detail about that day, burning the memory of it into your mind. 

“What’s going on angel?” Changbin asked, squeezing your hand softly as he pulled you to a stop, both he and Chan looking concerned. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

You shook your head, smiling at them softly, “No, Binnie. I’m perfect, just trying to make sure I always remember today. I can’t remember ever being so happy.” You saw both Chan and Changbin get shy, turning away from you to hide their smiles, making you chuckle.

Chan cleared his throat, “Alright, no more distractions ma’am. Time to head home to thaw you out,” he said, grabbing your hand in his again and pulling you behind him. 

Changbin quickly grabbed your free hand, matching the swift pace Chan set, “He’s right you know, we don’t need you to turn into a snow angel, now do we?”

By the time the three of you made it inside, your teeth were chattering and you could barely feel your fingers or toes. “Bin, wanna make our girl some hot cocoa to defrost? Miss ma’am here has been trying to get her shoes untied for the last 5 minutes,” he joked.

You stuck your tongue out at him as Changbin laughed, disappearing into the kitchen. “Are you just gonna be a meanie or are you gonna help me out, Christopher Bang?”

“No,” he whined, “not the full name!” You rolled your eyes and held your boot-clad foot up to him with a raised eyebrow. A smile broke on his face and he grabbed your boot and yanked it right off you, the other following immediately after. “Anything else, ma’am?”

You giggled and shook your head, pulling him into the living room into the spot next to you on the couch. You busied yourself with setting up the Muppets Christmas Carol from where you had previously abandoned it as Changbin shuffled in. 

“Angel, this one's for you,” he beamed, placing the cup in your hands. He gave the other mug to Chan before sinking into your other side, sandwiching you between them. You let the two of them warm you up as you finished the movie, stealing glances at both of them out of the corner of your eye. Their eyes were sparkling with joy as they watched, making your heart feel like it was being wrapped in cotton candy. 

As the credits began, you heard Chan sigh, making you look at him in concern. “What’s up Channie.” He made eye contact with Changbin over your shoulder, mouth opening and closing as his eyes flicked between the two of you. 

But it was Changbin’s voice that cut through the silence, “We should date.”

“What?” you nearly screamed, whipping around to look at him. “We can’t–I mean–I can’t–our friendship–and—”

“What Changbin meant to say,” Chan scoffed, grabbing your hand, “was that we’ve talked about it and we think that all three of us should be together. Like officially.”

“Yeah, I mean. We all hang out all the time anyway, so we should just add kissing and real dates and commitment to it. Because I’ve had a crush on both of you for… ever.” Changbin admitted, tucking his chin into his chest with a sheepish smile.

“Me too, I–I don’t want to be with anyone else,” Chan stuttered, “U-unless you don’t feel the—”

“I definitely feel the same,” you whispered, goosebumps breaking out across your arms as your heart started fluttering in your chest.

“Well then ma’am, what do you say? Can we be your boyfriends?” Chan teased, whispering in your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t leave us hanging, angel,” Changbin cooed, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

You couldn’t find the words to answer them, simply squeezing their hands and nodding, earning a squeal of happiness from Changbin that dissolved into giggles from the three of you and a flurry of kisses against your cheek from Chan.

“I guess it’s time for our first official fight as your boyfriends, angel…” Changbin sighed after he stopped giggling, making you frown and cup his face.

“Why? What’re we fighting about Binnie? What’s wrong?” You asked.

good boy changbin who invites you over for the first time to meet his family and follows you straight into the bathroom before dinner so he can drop to his knees to get a face full of your cunt. what’s a little appetizer before dinner is served? your perfect pussy is his favorite meal anyway, and ever since the first time he had it, he’s been obsessed. you can’t even lock the door before he’s bunching your dress up, pulling your cute cotton panties to the side, and lapping at your clit. you’re lucky you’ve trained him well and that he knows exactly how to have you cumming quickly on his tongue.

good boy changbin who might just be a little bit of a pervert when it comes to you. you think it’s cute when he asks for your panties. used, he’ll say, please yeobo? tease him for being a sleazy little perv and his cock will chub up right there. he’ll beat his fat cock raw with your worn panties held up to his nose, or with the gusset sucked into his mouth, or maybe he’ll wrap the fabric around his cock while he works it instead. as long as he’s surrounded by you in some way, he’ll be cumming so hard his toes curl in no time. he’ll return your panties washed and wrinkle free the next time he sees you, paired with that shy, downturned smile you love so damn much.

good boy changbin who takes you out on the lake in his brand new boat and fingers you in the captain’s seat until you’re squirting. tucks you tight to his body and pistons two thick fingers into your sopping cunt until your legs are clamping shut around his wrist. “please? please, yeobo pleasepleaseplease. you have to, you have to baby, please? i feel it, it’s right there!” and of course the desperation from your sweet boy has you cumming in a heartbeat. your warm juices splash all over his forearm and the wheel of the boat. you could tell him to lick it all up and he would without question.

good boy changbin who sneaks you off during a golf tournament at the country club to fuck you in the pool house. you look so pretty in your pleated skirt that he couldn’t help himself. he’d have fucked you in the golf cart if no one else was around, but the stuffy pool house will just have to do. his neat, crisp white slacks are scrubbed dirty at the knees from where he’s fucking you into the bubbly pink pool floaty. his collared shirt is pulled askew by your roaming hands, and his curly hair is equally as disheveled. if the pool boy walks in on accident, changbin finds him later and hands him so much money that he’ll never need another tip again.

“I’ll go for a dip,” he placed his shades on the little side table between you, “Then let’s eat. I’m starving.”

The response on the tip of your tongue was way too X-rated for 2 in the afternoon, so you nodded with a warm smile instead and watched him disappear into the sea.

When Chris suggested balling out on a beach weekend to get over the thesis defense PTSD, you didn’t even think twice. Hell yeah to a much-deserved vacation with your best friend, daydrinking until you got shitfaced over pretty cocktails at the beach club. 

If you claimed the prospect of seeing him half naked had nothing to do with how much you were looking forward to this trip, instant VIP space in hell for you.

For years, it was like there was this unspoken rule between you that prevented doing something utterly stupid, and you pretty much friendzoned each other as if it was government mandated. He was kind, not to mention so pleasing to look at—of course you would develop a stupid crush much like everyone who sighed after him when he walked by, but nothing to make a big deal out of. It was eventually going to go away. It had to. No crush lasted that long.

Growing up together has its cons. You can’t really notice what’s right in front of your nose because you’re not programmed to perceive it a certain way. 

But something began to crack inside you when Chris started becoming a man. All of a sudden, he wasn’t the cute dork you knew anymore. 

His features sharpened along with his jawline. His voice got deeper along with his gaze, and you realized the things you wanted to do with his sculpted body had long crossed the border of wholesome cuddling. He felt too firm under your touch to be a mere pillow anyway. Your banters turned into relentless flirting that always ended with smug grins, but it still didn’t go past that.

Growing up together has its cons. You can’t really notice what’s right in front of your nose because you’re not programmed to perceive it a certain way. As an object of desire, to be precise. 

That afternoon on the beach, however, Chris was literally forcing his way into your tunnel vision. When he got out of the water, he somehow managed to bend time, and everything turned into slow motion. 

Your brainrot got way out of hand.

His curls were still somewhat visible despite his wet hair, and his shorts sticking to his thick thighs were not leaving anything to the imagination. Your eyes were following each drop trickling down his chiseled torso, and you were a minor breeze away from jumping him to lick all the salt off his skin. When he raised his arms to wash his hair under the cold shower, the muscles on his back strained so hard that you were visibly dripping between your legs.

Good god, this fucking scratch post.

After all those years you’d known Chris, one thing was still a medical mystery. You had no idea how a person could look extremely hot doing the most benign things. Walking, drinking water, breathing… 

“Are you still firm on sunbathing, or can we take shelter in a cabana?” he woke you up from your violent delusions while drying himself with a towel.

“I could use some shade,” you pressed your legs together and pretended his god-like figure had absolutely no effect on you, “Wanna hit the bar first?”

“I’d kill for a Sex on the Beach right now.”

Sure. Why suggest any other drink when the corniest fucking innuendo existed, right?!

You and me both, brother, you wanted to say but opted for biting your tongue, silently picking up your things and heading to the palm-decorated area behind you.

“Can we have two Sex on the Be—”

“Nuh uh, make it a pitcher please,” you hijacked his order, “The gentleman here doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Because it was firmly established that you weren’t going to be able to survive the day if you weren’t at least moderately buzzed around this menace. While waiting for your drinks, Chris looked you up and down for no reason at all and furrowed his brows when he took notice of something.

“You came to the beach wearing fucking lipgloss?”

“It’s called a balm, you peasant,” you corrected him, “To prevent my lips from getting chapped.”

“So not to make them look more kissable or anything,” he leaned against the counter with a shit-eating grin.

See, it was things like this that made your palms itch, making you feel like you were being put to some test. This motherfucker thought he was oh so irresistible, which he was to be frank, but he had no idea the kind of hell you could drag him through if you snapped. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to shoo the urges trying to override your sanity.

“You’re making fun of my skincare products, but you’re wearing fucking cologne,” you scoffed.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! You smell like candy.”

“OR maybe my pheromones just smell sweet to you.”

You wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his face so hard, but unfortunately for you, it was at moments like this that your lizard brain was telling you to get on your knees and suck him dry.

“Pheromones do not release themselves, you know?” you shrugged and placed your elbows on the bar counter, “Maybe something triggered it.”

He chuckled, very much entertained, but didn’t answer. As you were hyperfocused on the mixology show in front of you, you could feel Chris’ eyes practically parkouring all over your body, and it was tickling something inside you. When your order was fulfilled, he picked up the tray and headed to the nearest cabana. While you were busy pouring generous amounts of the orangy drink over ice, he took his sweet time fishing for something from his bag and eventually handed you a bottle of sunscreen.

“Cream me, will you?”

Okay, that’s enough!

Not if he creamed himself first. That word choice was fucking deliberate, and if he thought you weren’t going to retaliate anymore just because you were playing nice all this time…

You took a big sip from your drink staring at him, then snatched the bottle from his hand. He sat at the very edge of the mattress and downed his entire glass in one go as if he were merely drinking water. You weren’t sure what exactly was the cause of the excessive thirst—his earlier hardcore swimming session, or… 

You positioned yourself right behind him comfortably, perfectly aligning your body against his, and let your legs dangle from either side of him. While the point was to fluster him, you were hit with a sudden realization.

You had never been this close to him before.

To make matters worse, Chris had just gotten out of the cool sea water and taken an even colder shower, but his body was on fire like he’d been sitting under the sun for hours, emitting all the heatwave back at you. In all senses of the word. 

You knew you were too close, but so did he. When you didn’t do anything, he briefly looked to his left side, not turning around all the way back, but it was enough for you to see the playful smile on his lips. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself of what your task was supposed to be, then sprayed several splashes of the coconutty liquid on his back. 

He hissed loudly when you established that first skin-to-skin contact.

“Cold?”

“Yeah,” he uttered a little too breathily, “but I like it.”

Well, if he liked this, then…

You pressed your palms on his shoulders and started running your hands down his arms. Much more slowly than you should have. The sunscreen was almost like a massage oil substitute for the way you were moving. When the pressure of your touch increased, his eyes closed and his breathing slowed down, his body unintentionally leaning into you.

“Tanned skin suits you so much,” you confessed in a whisper with no ulterior motive for once, “I really like it.”

Chris always sucked at taking compliments, but you could tell how much he was enjoying it from the muffled chuckle he let out.

“A little bit down.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to give instructions when you’re getting creamed, Christopher.”

You removed your hands from his arms and placed two fingers on his nape, sliding it down his spine and watching how you were breaking goosebumps on his skin. And that was the moment your intrusive thoughts took complete control. 

When you reached right between his shoulder blades, your feathery touches mutated into a scratch. You sized him up, waiting for a sign of discomfort, but all you saw was the way he bit his lips. 

He loved this.

Your breathing on his back pleasantly tickling him, you kept drawing slow, random lines without a particular destination in mind, culminating into an accidental discovery. The dent right under his left shoulder blade. He sharply inhaled.

Very interesting.

“You’re sensitive here, huh?” you quietly observed.

“M-Maybe.”

“What happens if I kiss you there?”

“Don’t—!”

Before he could finish his warning, you kissed that spot, and he let slip a full on dragged out moan. The real heat of his skin was nothing short of hellfire. The shape of your moist lips started appearing all over his back, spiking an urge to go full territorial and cover him with kiss marks. His soft but still ecstatic whines were so cute, but you wanted to hear it louder. He shuddered when you pressed your breasts against his bare back. 

You let your instincts take the wheel, wrapping one arm around his waist, then sliding your hand inside his still-damp shorts. 

“W-What are you doing?”

“Helping myself,” you quietly responded while kissing his back.

Never in a million years would you be able to guess you would one day feel Chris under your palm. Throbbing. Leaking. For you. He was mouthwateringly hard, and with every lazy stroke, he was letting go a bit more. He threw his head back and rested his nape on your right shoulder. You kissed his fully exposed neck. You kissed his shoulders. He was melting into a puddle already, and if you kept this up, he wasn’t going to be able to recover from the embarrassment of the mess he was about to cause.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” you smiled against his neck.

“Enjoying?” he creased his brows, “Do you not realize how hard I am right now?”

“Very,” you observed in a serious tone, “Am I hurting you?”

“You’re going to if you don’t do something about it.”

All of a sudden, you pulled your hand back, and Chris crashed into reality headfirst. He let out such a disappointed groan, but it quickly turned into a much bigger anticipation when he watched you close the drapes and turn around again.

“Like what?” you asked while taking careful steps towards him.

He lost the ability to speak. 

You gently pushed on his chest to signal him to move backwards. He wasn’t able to take his eyes off of you, just watching you crawl towards him like a crouching tiger until his back hit the wooden surface behind him.

“Like sitting on it maybe?” you straddled him with unrushed movements.

Feeling your heat on his cock even through those layers of fabric almost fried his brain. He was looking up at you with huge eyes and parted lips, incredulous that you were actually on his lap. As you were grinding on him torturously slowly, he was gawking at your breasts, not being able to figure out how he could touch you everywhere all at once.

“Wanna feel them?”

If he didn’t nod way too enthusiastically for his own good, maybe it wouldn’t occur to you to block his attempt to cop a feel at the last second.

“You didn’t say please,” you tsked in disapproval, “Not very gentlemanly of you.”

Chris closed his eyes and bit into his smile, fully aware how his go-to line to tease you had backfired on him. If only he knew for how long you were collecting things to throw back at his face…

“Please.”

“Please what?”

He was getting visibly embarrassed no matter how much he was trying to play it cool. You didn’t think this could get any more entertaining than it already was, but oh well… 

“Can I please touch?”

“Touch where?”

When he attempted to touch you, you stopped him from his wrists. Or more like he let you stop him considering his inhumane strength. You lifted his arms, pushed them back, and leaned into his face.

“Touch where?”

“Your–Your tits.”

As a response, you placed his hands on your breasts and squeezed them on his behalf, causing him to gulp so thickly and twitch under you. You honestly weren’t expecting such strong reactions from him, making this moment all the more satisfying for you. When you threw your arms around his neck, he took that as an opening to free your breasts and immediately started sucking on the sensitive flesh. 

If this was how he made out with your nipples, ain’t no telling what he would do on your clit.

He could feel how you were reacting to him now, softly moaning and clenching on top of him, but it wasn’t enough. How could it ever be enough? He looked up at you once again and pulled you close to kiss you, but…

“Be patient,” you stopped him. Again.

His face fell, but it wasn’t necessarily because you didn’t grant permission. It was a certain word you used that got him almost mad.

“Isn’t ten fucking years enough patience for you?”

The smug smile you were wearing all this time erased itself.

Growing up together has its cons. You can’t really notice what’s right in front of your nose because you’re not programmed to perceive it a certain way. As an object of desire, to be precise. And when you realize you do, you have to put a leash on it so as not to lose the one thing that matters the most to you.

Sometimes for ten years.

“I can finally touch you,” Chris kissed your collarbones, and the desperation in his voice was growing stronger, “I’m about to fucking lose it, please.” 

It almost made you cave.

The smile that reappeared on your lips was simply diabolical. If only he could shut himself up, you wouldn’t be teasing him so much, but he was giving you weapon after weapon. It wasn’t your fault—he put it in your head.

“Sorry,” you kissed his nose and uttered regretfully, “I don’t remember cumming.”

It suddenly turned into a staredown. Without looking away, he slid your bikini to the side and pressed his fingers on your clit, immediately deliquescing whatever amount of stubbornness you still put up. 

“You’re wet,” he spoke from between your breasts, still drawing delicious circles, “Admit it. This is because you watched me shower, right?”

“W-What shower?”

“Come on, baby girl. I saw you staring,” his grin made a comeback, “I think it’s only polite if I clean up after myself, don’t you reckon?”

The way he was beyond himself just pleasuring you, completely lost in ecstasy was one of the sexiest things you’d ever witnessed. Nevertheless, you were still wondering how much further you could push it without giving him what he was deeply craving.

“No.”

“Let me eat it.”

“But no.”

“Let me!”

His frustration had no business being this cute. Ever so merciful, you finally decided to do him a favor since he insisted.

“I should cream your face, too, right?” you brushed your thumbs on his cheeks, “For good measure.”

The maniacal glint in his eyes was almost dangerous. He slid down in his place to make you sit on his face, not even letting you strip, and he hooked his fingers in your bottoms to expose you. When he finally started dragging his tongue all over your cunt, it was with so much appetite that you almost let a scream slip for how intense the feeling was. 

He was getting the sloppy kiss you denied him from your pussy. 

His hands were all over your body, groping whatever piece of flesh he could reach, and every command he received, he fulfilled it to perfection. To tease faster. To suck harder. To moan louder. This much obedience was the last thing you expected from him. 

“Chris, I’m g— Fuck, too much!”

He didn’t care. You promised to cream his face for good measure, so every drop he could get, he was going to, especially when you were cumming that hard in his mouth. He timed your contractions to decide when you were finally coming down, then climbed back up to pull you on his lap again.

You finally kissed him.

When your lips touched his after two forevers, he heaved a deep and content sigh in your mouth. You could taste the Sex on the Beach on his tongue. And the sea. And yourself. 

And pure lust. 

Growing up together has its cons. You can’t really notice what’s right in front of your nose because you’re not programmed to perceive it as an object of desire, but once you do, there is absolutely nothing you can do to take it back.

You dragged down the waist of his shorts to free him and were instantly hit with the fact that touching it and seeing it with your own eyes were entirely different experiences. He looked concerningly scrumptious, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine the type of pleasure he was capable of providing you. You aligned his girth with your entrance, and the groans he let out as he was sinking into you were alarming, to say the least.

“Holy shit, that’s… TIGHT!” 

“Shh, people are going to hear you,” you covered his mouth, but couldn’t help laughing at his overenthusiasm either.

“Look at my forehead,” he removed your hand, “Does it say I give a fuck?” 

“No?”

“It’s because I don’t,” he groped your sides once he bottomed out, “Now let’s fuck, baby.”

Yes, you had imagined this very moment in your most inappropriate thoughts, maybe even in excruciating detail when you were touching yourself, and the context was always more or less the same. Chris, the number one frequenter of your wet dreams, spewing profanities at your face while defiling you to his heart’s content.

That afternoon on that beach, however, it was your favorite person in the whole wide world, hugging your waist, looking deep into your eyes to keep track of exactly how he was making you feel so that he could move better for you. Every time he extracted a muffled moan out of you, every time he made you curse, every time you squeezed your eyes and sank your fingertips deeper into his skin for how good you were feeling, his own pleasure quadrupled.

Even though you were fucking as hard as you always thought you would, you had never pictured it to be this… visceral.

“Our first time,” he smiled against your neck and swelled your heart in your chest five times its size, “Finally.”

“Stop being so adorable!”

“Why?” he looked at you with his usual smug smile again, “Does it make you wanna fuck me harder?”

“It kinda does, yeah.”

He latched himself on your lips and kept kissing you for god knows how long. Feeling him this close and his refusal to be away from you simultaneously made you wetter and induced an intense desire to cry.

Out of happiness.

“Fuck me harder,” he spoke into your mouth, “Scratch me again.”

“OR,” you echoed his much earlier remark, “maybe I deny you until you snap.”

“You realize I fucking bench your weight, right?”

In the blink of an eye, you found yourself on your back. You instinctively started laughing for you were caught completely off guard, but it instantaneously disappeared when you realized how much his gaze had darkened.

“I said scratch,” he firmly commanded this time while placing one leg on his shoulder, “Like I said. Cream me.”

You were loving this shade on him.

His thrusts suddenly turned much sharper, and you couldn’t remember the last time you were fucked this good. Completely carnally with kisses turning into bites and touches shapeshifting into needy gropes all over. You were so wet with how aroused you were that you could feel yourself dripping down your ass, and when you finally started dragging your nails down Chris’ back, precisely when you reached that spot, his orgasm hit him so hard that he had to slam his lips on yours to silence himself.

You never realized how much more beautiful he could get with afterglow, resting his head on your chest. 

“So I’m thinking having two separate rooms is not exactly frugal,” he finally looked up at you, “We can share mine.”

“Why yours?”

“It has a hot tub.”

“Isn’t sleeping on the couch gonna be uncomfortable for you?”

In all fairness, you had deserved to get tickled to death for that snark, and no amount of ‘I’m sorry’s were enough to save your ass.

“If you wanna play it that way, then we’re not leaving this cabana,” he trapped you under his frame.

“It’s gonna get cold,” you started playing with his hair, reciprocating his mischievous grin, “There are no blankets here.”

“I’m gonna give you three guesses for how we’ll keep warm all night,” he kissed your hand, “If you can’t get it right, I’m eating your pussy until you cry.”

“Hugging.”

“No.”

“Cuddling.”

“No.”

“Fucking?”

His eyes glinted the same way they did when you suggested creaming his face for good measure, and he started slithering down between your legs.

“No.” 

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