riki's wife

during the silence, you managed to board up your doors and windows using planks of wood from a set of drawers you dismantled.

however, you’re not even in your house anymore.

you’re blindly walking the streets with nothing but a baseball bat and a plastic bag shoved into your pocket, stepping over broken glass, heading for the supermarket.

you thought it’d be safe; a quick in and out since it’d quietened down a little. you stared out of your window for days until you saw only a few zombies on your street. you thought that’s the safest it’d be. you could leave. the supermarket you were heading for wasn’t huge, but you’d hoped it still had some food left for you to take back home.

you we’re constantly looking over your shoulder. constantly freezing when you heard the smallest noise. constantly shaking. but eventually, the supermarket came into view. there were a few zombies scattered around the car park. just a few. you’d make it to the door in time if you made a run for it.

you walked backwards until your back hit a parked car. deep breaths. one sprint. you got this.

you took one last look over your shoulder and one last deep breath before your feet were moving. you forgot about the zombies, the blood, the death. you just ran.

but they saw you.

human.

food.

their heads turned slowly as your trainers pounded on the concrete - as your breathing became heavy and rushed. loud.

they started moving. slowly, but moving. their feet dragged heavily across the ground - some twisted in ways no human would ever be able to put weight on. but they weren’t human. you had to keep reminding yourself that.

especially when it came to killing one.

it’s not a person. it was, but not anymore. it’s a creature. a monster.

dead.

from what you saw, there was three clawing at the metal of a parked car, two by the side of the supermarket, and one around ten feet away from the door.

you didn’t dare turn around. you didn’t dare look them in their empty eyes.

you were seconds away from being grabbed by black, decaying fingers, but yours wrapped around the handle just in time for you to slip inside the supermarket.

you held the door shut for a moment and took a second to catch your breath. you turned around and scanned the aisles from the entrance.

there were shelves knocked over, blood smeared across the walls and floor, and children’s toys and some groceries still on the conveyer belt.

you stepped cautiously through the security barriers and began browsing the shelves. shit, the whole place has been trashed and abandoned.

as you walk, you can’t help but wonder how the workers felt when this whole thing started. they must’ve been terrified.

a noise from the other side of the aisle stopped you in your tracks. you slowly lifted your bat and held it up above your shoulder, ready to swing if there’s a zombie in here.

your fingers curled tightly around the wood until your knuckles turned white as you crept towards the sound. it sounded like something rustling - not groaning or shuffling. maybe it’s a person. someone here for the same reason as you.

you can’t be too careless, though, especially since you haven’t ran into a zombie yet. plus, there’s a ridiculously high chance it’s one of them.

you make it to the end of the aisle and stand with your back to the shelves. you take one final deep breath before you’re moving.

you spin around the corner, your bat raised, and begin swinging.

“not a walker! not a walker!” someone yells while stumbling backwards. all you see is a pair of hands raised in defence and your grip immediately loosens. the bat flyies out of your hands and crashes into the shelves beside him.

it’s another person. you’re not alone out here.

hold on…

holy shit, this guy isn’t just a person. he’s goddamn gorgeous.

his messy black hair falls over his forehead and slightly into his eyes and his eyes are fucking mesmerizing. they’re very cat-like and almost intense in a way that he always looks like he’s angry.

and to say there’s literal zombies walking the streets right now, he smells- oh shut up.

“holy fuck, you scared the shit out of me! i thought you were one of them!” you pant, your hands pressed over your chest since he almost gave you a heart attack.

“you thought i was a walker?” he raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. this guy.

“that’s what you’re calling those fuckers? walkers?”

“that’s what they are, no?”

you blink up at him, speechless. partly because you don’t have anything to say - you don’t have a fucking clue what they are - and partly because of the way he’s looking at you.

“you’re asking me what they are?” you almost laugh. “this is the first time i’ve left my house since this whole thing started, i don’t-“

he cuts you off with a confused expression. “hold on… you’ve never killed one before? a walker?”

you open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. instead, you shake your head no. well this is embarrassing.

“you alone?”

you nod. “came out looking for food.”

“me too,” he glances down at his backpack, half filled with canned food and some probably stale bread. “you want some help?”

“uhh sure.” you shrug one shoulder and move to stand beside him as he rummages through his bag.

there’s a moment of comfortable silence apart from the distant groaning of the walkers at the door.

you move together down the aisles. you pick up anything you think might come in handy: vegetables which aren’t rotten yet, more canned food, kitchen knives and scissors, and some toiletries.

“i’m Riki, by the way.” he says, looking down at you with his oh-so-piercing eyes.

“y/n.” you look up at him with a wonky smile.

then your smile drops completely. “behind you!”

Riki spins around at lightning speed and pulls a machete from his belt sheath. before the walker can even reach out to try grab him, he’s already stabbed the knife right through its temple.

he looks down at it’s motionless body for a moment, his breathing unsteady, to make sure it’s definitely dead. when he turns around to face you again, he sees you slapped a hand over your mouth and your face turned paler than the walkers themselves.

“you good?” he mutters while wiping the blood off his machete and onto his jeans.

when you don’t say anything, he looks up at you again. his eyes soften for a fraction of a second, understanding you’ve just witnessed your first walker being killed.

“come on, we need to keep moving.”

taglist: @binsown @testingspider @yoruse @tsumiyaa

Eventually, there comes a point where you stop asking who's right and who's wrong because the years blur the details until only the feeling remains. You no longer remember the first offense—only the certainty that if a room catches fire, you'll check whether Nishimura Riki is still inside before you leave.

After all, neither of you ever fought fair— honestly, why would you?

See, mercy is naturally reserved for people you love and indifference is for strangers. Hatred, on the other hand— real hatred—is far more intimate. It learns your habits, memorizes your weaknesses, and waits until you're already bleeding before deciding exactly where to press.

That's the part people never seem to understand.

They like to believe hatred has humble beginnings because it reassures them that it can also be undone; they tell themselves that, given enough patience, enough time, someone will eventually show forgiveness.

But leniency is reserved for those who believe the other deserves it.

You never did.

Nishimura Riki never deserved— nor earned—that leniency.

There's this thing called irony. You've had enough of it, yet it just keeps coming back anyway— unwanted, unprompted—as if it simply can't help itself. As if its sole purpose in life is to ruin yours every single time it decides to show up.

Funnily enough, today is no exception.

The automatic doors of Incheon airport slide open, spitting you and the rest of R3SET into the humid Seoul air. Cameras flash somewhere in the distance— paparazzi already swarming your arrival; Hye-ri walks on your left, Mina on your right, and Sera trails a step behind with her hood pulled low.

You're finally— finally—done with the world tour.

By now, every city has bled into the next; hotels all smelled the same, airport lounges became second homes, and every day dissolved into the same cycle of soundchecks, stages, and performances so loud you had to get your hearing checked on a regular basis. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up in the same bed twice.

But today, for the first time in months, you're home.

Which, as irony would have it, is exactly where everything is about to go wrong.

You’re clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to make sure your face is shielded from the flashes with the other yet your pathetic little instinct says it’s a good idea to reach for your phone when it buzzes in your pocket.

As you glance down to the screen— expecting a welcome-back email from your manager or something absolutely useless like that— you see instead the HYBE logo staring right back at you.

Subject: Year-End Special Collaboration Project – Confirmed Pairing

Your thumb hovers but you already know. Deep in your gut, you fucking know.

But you open it anyway.

...R3SET's Y/n will be paired with ENHYPEN's NI-KI for the 4-minute original dance performance piece. Joint choreography development begins immediately. Mandatory attendance at all scheduled practices, filming days, and rehearsals. Non-compliance will result in...

The rest blurs, it doesn't even matter.

"Fuck." The word slips out under your breath, low and venomous.

Your fingers tighten around the phone until your knuckles crack hard— nails digging crescents into your palm. You keep squeezing until the skin breaks and warm little lines of pain bloom.

Hye-ri notices, her eyes flick to your white-knuckled grip, then away, and Mina's shoulders stiffen. None of your members speak, hah, they know better. Everyone knows talking about the devil is a no-go.

See, some people pray before they sleep, some people do skincare, or meditation. You? You rehearse arguments with Nishimura Riki, you plot his downfall, and you clench your teeth so hard they might break in your mouth.

It's become routine, really, and now you can already hear his stupid voice in your head— sharp, accented, dripping with disgust. "Ugly bitch. Always ruining shit for everyone else."

The same things he's muttered under his breath every time your paths crossed at award shows. The same venom you've always returned by feeding your private hate account the most unflattering behind-the-scenes clips you could find of him.

Usually, if he dared looking smug on stage, you made sure someone clipped the moments he stumbled or looked exhausted.

Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

A staff member in a Hybe windbreaker rushes past, nearly colliding with you and your shoulder slams into his. Pain flares, but you barely register it, you're too busy being angry.

"Shit— sorry," you mutter automatically, voice flat. The staff blinks at you, startled, but you're already moving again, eyes burning holes into the floor.

Mina finally breaks the silence, voice low enough that only the group can hear. "You good?"

"No." Your laugh is bitter, barely a sound. "They paired me with that fraud, of course I'm not good."

Sera's hand brushes your arm in silent support, but she doesn't say anything. What is there to say? Erm...Good luck? Don't kill each other? The company doesn't care if you hate Riki, they want the drama and the numbers— the "tension" that fans already whisper about in forums.

You force your fingers to unclench, blood dots your palm in tiny red half-moons but you wipe it discreetly on your sweatpants.

The roar of fans and cameras grows louder as you approach the arrival gate— bright lights, screaming voices chanting your name and phones held high are waiting for you. You pull your black facemask up over your nose and mouth in one smooth motion and roll your shoulders back, lift your chin, to let the practiced smile bleed into your eyes even if it never reaches your mouth.

Hye-ri links arms with you on cue, Mina waves with both hands, bright and bubbly and you all fall into formation like muscle memory.

"Y/n unnie! Welcome back!"

"R3SET fighting!"

You bow slightly toward the crowd, eyes crinkling above the mask in the perfect illusion of gratitude. Let's just say, inside, your mind is a storm of curses in three languages.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

You can already picture the first practice: his tall frame taking up way too much space in the studio, that stupid frown, the way he'll deliberately step on your timing just to watch you fail. The way his hands will have to touch you during lifts and turns because the choreographer will demand chemistry you'll never have.

You want to break something. Preferably his ugly nose.

But the cameras are rolling, the fans are watching and on top of everything, the company email has made it very clear— this project is non-negotiable. So you keep smiling behind the mask, waving with one hand while the other stays clenched around your bottle.

'Let's see how long we last before one of us actually tries to kill the other', you think as you move toward the waiting vans.

You already know the answer.

Not long.

You might wonder what brings a woman and a man to such lengths of hatred. And the difficult part is that there's no real explanation; it's just an accumulation really— tiny cuts over years that fester into something grotesque.

One day you're both wide-eyed trainees sweating through sixteen-hour days, and the next you're fantasizing about drop-kicking Nishimura Riki off a stage mid-performance while smiling for the fans.

That's the thing, it's not dramatic movie-villain origin shit. It's the slow poison of shared survival in an industry that chews up kids and spits out Barbie dolls.

A stolen practice slot here, a whispered rumor there, a public meltdown that paints you as the problem while he plays the misunderstood genius, and a TV scandal that ruined everything. Add in sleep deprivation, pressure, and the fact that you both watched each other's dreams nearly die, and boom— they created the perfect nemesis.

By now, you've replayed every second so many times it feels like a greatest-hits album in your brain. Riki’s smug little smirk when he nailed a combo you'd been killing yourself over. The way he'd mutter "amateur" just loud enough for you to hear during evaluations. Your secret satisfaction when his group's early promotions hit minor bumps.

It's all so stupid and so fucking deep at the same time. Because that's the problem with hatred— it doesn't have to make sense to become permanent. Some people have childhood trauma... you just have Nishimura Riki.

The flashbacks hit you sometimes like a bad smell you can't escape. It always starts the same way; elimination day on I-LAND; the lights were way too bright, the cameras too close, and the air felt thick enough to choke on. You remember the way the eliminated trainees stood in that sterile line, faces blank or streaked with tears. Riki's japanese hyung Hajime —his only real anchor in that cutthroat dorm—didn't make the final cut. The announcement echoed through the hall like a death sentence and even now, years later you can still hear it.

The kid had talent, sure, but the system didn't care. It pushed and pushed and pushed until even the strongest cracked under the weight of evaluations, rankings, and endless comparisons.

You were just trying to survive too, right? Everyone was. Thats why you did what you did that day, and why you kept doing it out of pure pettiness.

The company fed you lines about "growth" and "teamwork," when talking about the trainee program, but really it was a meat grinder dressed up in sparkly dresses. Children— literal teenagers—breaking down in practice rooms at 3 am., vomiting from exhaustion, smiling for the livestreams like nothing was wrong. Friendships formed and shattered in the span of a single ranking drop.

Loyalties? Laughable.

You did what you had to do: submitted the feedback that protected your own team. Cold? Maybe. Necessary? In that hellscape, yes.

Riki, though, didn't see it that way. He exploded in the hallway afterward, voice cracking with rage, calling you out in front of everyone. That moment branded him "difficult" and nearly cost him everything. You watched his dream wobble on the edge while yours steadied and the industry kept spinning, indifferent to the bodies it left behind.

Some debuted. Some didn't.

But we’ll get to that story another time.

Back in the present, a couple days passed since you came back to Seoul— you're now sitting in a Hybe conference room turned temporary press hall, legs crossed tightly under the table so no one sees your knee bouncing like it's trying to escape your body.

It's the kickoff press conference for the year-end special collaboration, cameras are everywhere and so are reporters with microphones poised like weapons. Your members are seated a few chairs down, shooting you sympathetic glances when they think the cameras aren't looking.

Across from you, flanked by his members, sits the devil himself: Nishimura Riki.

He looks disgustingly repulsive in his all-black fit— sharp jawline, dyed blond hair styled just right, that stupid tall frame slouched like he owns the room. You want to throw your mic at his head and watch it split open.

The MC, some overly enthusiastic guy in a suit two sizes too tight, beams at the crowd. "Welcome everyone! Today we're excited to announce this groundbreaking collaboration between R3SET and Enhypen! Let's hear from the groups themselves!"

Forced applause ripples through the room and you plaster on your idol smile— eyes bright, lips curved— the works. Inside your head it's a completely different scene:

'Smile wider, you fraudulent prick. I hope your next flip lands on your neck.'

Riki mirrors your expression perfectly. To the cameras, you two look like respectful colleagues but up close? His eyes scream 'I hope you trip on stage and eat shit in front of twenty thousand people.'

The MC shoves a mic toward you first. "Y/n! How do you feel about partnering with Riki for this high-stakes piece?"

You lean forward slightly, voice honey-sweet and professional. "I'm really honored to be working with someone as talented as Riki. We're both dedicated to this, so I know we'll deliver something amazing for the fans."

Translation: 'I would rather gargle battery acid than spend one minute in a practice room with that entitled dance prodigy asshole.'

Riki's turn comes. He chuckles lightly, the sound obviously practiced, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw. "Yeah, same. Y/n has great stage presence. Looking forward to creating something cool together."

'Cool?' you think. 'I'll create a crime scene, maybe.'

The MC eats it up. "Ah, such great chemistry already! Let's do a quick joint Q&A. Reporters, go ahead."

A reporter stands. "There have been past rumors of some tension between you two from trainee days. How will you overcome that for this project?"

The room goes a little quieter— your smile doesn't falter, but your nails dig into your thigh under the table.

Riki answers first, voice calm. "Trainee days were tough for everyone. We've both grown a lot since then. Right, Y/n?"

You nod, locking eyes with him. "Absolutely. Water under the bridge, we're focused on the performance now."

Water under the bridge? More like gasoline on a bonfire.

Another reporter asks, "Riki, what's your first impression of working with Y/n?"

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "She's very... determined. Always gives 110%. I respect that."

Determined. Just a way of saying 'ruthless backstabber,' for him.

You jump in before he can enjoy his little jab. "And Riki's technique is insane. It'll be fun pushing each other, right?" Your tone is light, playful even and the audience laughs appreciatively.

The press conference drags on like a hostage situation— they make you do a short segment where you both stand up and demonstrate a basic partner hold for the cameras. His hand lands on your waist— firm and professional, but you can tell he’s dying to take it off. Your skin crawls but you place your hand on his shoulder like the choreographer instructed earlier in rehearsal. Up close, he smells like expensive cologne and it makes nausea rise so violently in your throat that you want to throw up on the spot.

"Relax your grip," he mutters under his breath, smile still plastered on for the flashing cameras. "Or are you trying to claw me in front of everyone?"

"Shut the fuck up and smile, giraffe," you whisper back, voice sugary.

His fingers press harder into your waist— just enough to bruise, not enough for anyone else to notice. You dig your nails into his shoulder in return and the cameras click wildly.

You both separate after the pose, returning to your seats— of course, your members are trying not to laugh nervously while Jake leans over to whisper something to Riki that makes his jaw clench. Good, you hope it breaks.

The MC claps. "Wonderful! Now, let's hear some fan questions!"

A staff member reads one aloud: "What's one thing you're excited to learn from each other?"

You go first this time. "I'm excited to learn Riki's precision in footwork. He's known for it."

And you're also excited to learn how far you can push him before he snaps on camera.

Riki's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Y/n's charisma in performance is next level. I'll definitely pick up some tips on audience connection."

The back-and-forth continues— every compliment laced with venom only the two of you can taste. The audience eats up the "tension" as chemistry.

Oh God, if only they knew you'd spent the van ride here mentally drafting apology tweets for the hypothetical day you actually murder him.

At one point, they project concept art for the performance on a big screen behind you— dark, intense, sensual choreography planned; close partner work, lifts and prolonged eye contact. The MC gushes about it and you nearly choke on your own spit.

Great. Just what you need—his hands all over you while yours fantasize about elbowing him in the ribs until he throws up his organs.

Riki's expression stays neutral, but you swear you see his eye twitch— he probably imagines the same thing in reverse.

Halfway through, they bring out small gifts— matching bracelets symbolizing the collaboration. You have to clasp one on his wrist while cameras zoom in; his skin is warm, you hate it— but he’s obligated to return the favor, fingers brushing yours with shameless disgust.

Then the press conference wraps with more applause and photo ops; you stand side-by-side for group shots, shoulders barely touching but close enough that you can feel his body. His hand brushes your lower back as you pose— publicly supportive, privately a threat.

"After this, I'm blocking your number again," you mutter as the cameras flash.

"Already did that months ago, ugly bitch," he whispers back cheerfully.

As the event ends and staff start herding everyone out, you catch his eye one last time across the room— needless to say, it's pure murder, zero remorse.

You smirk behind your polite nod.

Game on, Riki. Someone's going to break. You just hope it's him. (though if it's you, at least you'll take him down with you.)

The van ride back to the dorm is quiet, your members chat lightly about the schedule while you stare out the window, palm still stinging from earlier, replaying every micro-interaction. His grip. His whisper. That fucking ugly smirk.

Oh god— hatred has turned you into a creature of rage and despair, it’s starting to become pathetic.

You pull out your phone and open the secret hate account; it's time to upload that one blurry shot you sneaked during the photo op where he looks slightly constipated under the bright lights.

Petty? Yes. Therapeutic? Immensely.

For your sake— somewhere across the city, Riki's probably doing the same thing, so it’s only fair. You log into your @nishimurafraud aka “that bitch gotta go” and do your thing, quickly posting the ridiculous picture with the caption, ‘thank you to the fan who snapped this horrible shot of dickimura’.

You laugh to yourself— it’s true that it’s childish and ridiculous but no one will ever know it was you anyway.

Nishimura Riki needs to die.

Not in a cute "hahaha i hate you" way. You mean it in the bone-deep, stomach-churning, 'if I had a knife I'd turn him into human barbecue meat' kind of way.

Every time you picture his stupid face your blood pressure spikes so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. He's not even attractive to you anymore— years of hatred have warped him into this tall, lanky, smug-faced asshole who moves like he's God's gift to dance but looks like a little bitch when he's off-guard.

Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside. Perfect match.

And now —a few days after— the locked studio on the fifth floor of the Hybe building feels like a prison cell designed specifically to torture you. Soundproof walls, mirrors on every surface, no windows, and a door that clicks shut with a sound that makes your skin crawl.

Just you, him, the choreographer who already left a couple times for a "quick break" (though he’s probably hiding from the murder vibes), and four hours of mandatory choreography creation time.

You stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks all the oxygen out of the room— Riki’s scrolling on his phone like he has all the time in the world, legs spread obnoxiously wide on the floor, he’s wearing a pair of ugly oversized sweats and a chrome hearts tank.

He probably thought he looked oh so good that morning when he got dressed— fun fact, he doesn’t.

"You gonna stand up or just sit there?" you snap, not even bothering to look at him.

"Don't talk to me, just do your job and shut up." he clicks his tongue, knee bouncing, annoyed.

You let out a breathy chuckle, "I don't care about what you want, just stand up and let's get to work. Try not to be a lazy slop for once."

"Oh give me a break," he hisses the second the choreographer is gone, not even looking up. “Start alone if you’re so eager to work.”

What you’re gonna do is start throwing punches.

You laugh humourlessly. "Keep throwing your little fits and maybe they'll finally send you back to Japan, dickface."

His head snaps up, those dark eyes narrowing into slits. "At least I have talent worth exporting. What do you have? Average face, average moves, and a shit personality."

"Fuck you," you spit, stepping into the center of the room. "Let's just get this over with."

The choreographer left a rough structure: heavy partner work, intense eye contact, sharp isolations into fluid lifts. Of course. Because the company wants chemistry. What they're going to get though, is a motherfucking homicide report.

You start with the basics— mirroring footwork. Riki's annoyingly precise, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking impressed, instead, you mutter under your breath, "Stiff as a fucking board. Do you even bend or is your spine made of rebar?"

Riki stops mid-count, turning to you with a glare that makes you want to punch his teeth in. "Stop looking at me and then maybe you’ll realise how off-beat you are… no wonder they paired you with me— someone actually good."

"Good?" You step closer, hands on your hips. "You're sloppy as shit. The only reason it works is because you're young and pretty and the delusional fans like that overgrown baby face. One day that shit's gonna catch up and you'll just be another weirdo doing Tiktoks in your mom's basement."

He barks a laugh that sounds like it hurts. "Coming from you? That's rich. You're mid at best on a good day, repulsive on every other."

The insults fly faster as you run the first section again, every correction turning into verbal evisceration.

"You're rushing the transition, can't keep up, ugly ass?" he sneers during a spin combo.

"Shut up," you fire back. "Fix your damn posture before I break it for you."

By the time you reach the partner lifts, the air is drenched with venom; he has to grip your waist and lift you into a hold, his fingers dig in hard—bruising, punishing. You retaliate by digging your elbow into his shoulder as you balance.

"Watch it," he growls, voice low.

"Make me, bitch."

The lift goes up— for three seconds it's almost beautiful—technically. But then you shove off him harder than necessary on the dismount, and he pushes you back just enough that you stumble.

"You fucking—" You whirl on him, fists clenched.

"What do you want now?" His chest is heaving, face inches from yours. Up close he's even uglier— that stupid mole, the way his lip curls like he smells something rotten. You. "You know what y/n? I hope this stage is where your career dies, that'll finally shut you up. I think you’ve gotten way too comfortable.”

You shove him hard in the chest and he shoves right back. For a split second you're both seconds away from throwing actual punches— knuckles white, breathing ragged, eyes screaming murder. Your heart is pounding with rage and something sickeningly close to adrenaline.

The studio door clicks open before you can use your fists— a staff member walks in, freezing at the sight of you two practically snarling at each other.

"Everything... okay?" the staff asks hesitantly.

You step back first, forcing that professional mask on. "Perfect. Just working through some difficult transitions."

Riki wipes sweat from his brow, smiling like an angel for the staff. "Yeah. Great progress."

The staff nods awkwardly and leaves after reminding you of the schedule— the door locks again and you both exhale like you've been holding your breath for an hour.

"Stay the fuck away from me until we have to touch again," you mutter, grabbing your water bottle.

"Gladly."

The session drags like that for hours— insults layered between actual choreography notes, every touch turning into a power struggle. By the end you're both exhausted, bruised, vibrating with hatred and you leave without a word, slamming the door behind you.

Later that night, in the Enhypen dorm, Riki's sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone with a scowl that could curdle milk. Jake walks in from the kitchen, humming, clearly in a good mood. He clears his throat, trying to sound casual at first. "So... choreo with Y/n today? I caught some of the teaser clips from the press conference earlier. She looks really good..."

Riki doesn't look up immediately, but his eyebrow twitches. "You're kidding, right?"

Jake continues, slower. "I mean... no, and you're probably gonna laugh but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. I don't know, man, I might... have a bit of a crush. Like, actually considering shooting my shot after this project wraps. She seems cool."

Jungwon, from the hallway, goes, "Oh shit, here we go..."

Riki slowly lowers his phone, staring at Jake like he just confessed to arson— the silence stretches for a beat before he explodes with disbelief "There's 7 billion people on this planet and you chose her? Good job man... nah, good job."

Jake chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come on, she's not—"

Jay, overhearing from the other couch, jumps in. "She's not all that bad come on... you're lying to yourself it's dramatic."

"I'm not. She's ugly, bitchy, and dumb. What the fuck could he even see in her." Riki sits up straighter, fully committed and disgusted. "You're seriously just going to forget everything she did? All that... for a mid, ridiculous bitch?"

Sunoo intervenes, rolling his eyes, "You don't need to say all that Riki, don't call her a bitch. Honestly it's not that deep, we were young and..."

"Aaaand i don't care." Riki cuts off. "Good luck Jake, you're gonna regret this. You're gonna get herpes all over your dick— gonna start shooting your intestines straight out of your ass."

Jake is half-chuckling, half-horrified. "Dude... what the hell are you even saying."

"What im saying is, if you pursue that, I'm disowning you as a member. Find someone else. Anyone."

Jay wheezes from the couch. "Let him do whatever he wants to do. Y/n isn't even bad, she's sweet and pretty"

"You're dead wrong," Riki says, dead serious. "While you're at it Jake, do me a favor and take my place in rehearsal so I won't have to lift her disgusting ass again."

The words feel good, cathartic even, he pictures your face during that final shove in the studio and smiles spitefully at the ceiling. The satisfaction slandering your name brings him is unmatched.

Okay, you really didn’t make much of an effort these past few weeks— you’ll admit it. But, to your credit, pretending to tolerate Nishimura Riki was already taking more restraint than you possessed. The company wanted chemistry but come on— let’s be honest, subtlety had never been your strong suit when it came to him.

Back in the R3SET dorm, you’re sprawled across the couch in oversized sweats, phone glowing in your hand like a bomb that just went off. The email from Hybe sits open on the screen, the words burning into your retinas. Hye-ri pads in from the kitchen with two iced americanos, sliding one onto the coffee table before dropping down beside you.

“Oh shit, man, I’m in deep trouble,” you mutter, shoving the phone toward her.

Hye-ri leans over, reading quickly. “What happened?”

You snort despite yourself. “Company just sent me an email… apparently people all over social media are saying me and Nishimura look like we despise each other. Like… hello? Duh? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Hye-ri winces, sipping her drink. “They really need to media train you, oh my god. You need to retake the whole class.”

You chuckle coldly, “This hatred cannot be media trained out of me, Hye-ri,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious, “I’ll drag that motherfucker down, whatever it takes. No one can convince me to stop.”

“Okay but at least be slick about it, Y/n.”

“Hell no. If I start behaving normally these crazy ass fans might start—” you gag dramatically, “—shipping me with him.”

Hye-ri hesitates, then pulls out her own phone with a sympathetic grimace. “Umm… I hate to break it to you, Y/n. Don’t be mad okay? But like… they already do.”

She types quickly, and turns the screen toward you. A random tweet stares back: “Oh i know that angry enemy sex must be sooo good. #yn #niki”

Oh fuck these people, come on.

“Ew what the heck???” You recoil, shoving the phone away like it’s contagious. “Ugh I’m gonna throw up, hold my hair.”

Hye-ri laughs, rubbing your back as you dramatically fake-heave into a pillow. “It’s just delusional fans, unnie. They ship anything that breathes in the same zip code. But yeah… the company’s not wrong about the optics.…”

You sit up, running a hand through your hair. Every interaction with Riki these past weeks had been a masterclass in restraint— smiling for the cameras while imagining shoving him off a balcony— and now Hybe was sniffing around like you’d personally ruined their precious brand synergy.

“They want me to play nice,” you say bitterly, staring at the email again. “But every time I’m in the same room as him it feels like my skin’s on fire. Like my body remembers every shitty thing he’s ever said or done and just… revolts. Literally what do they want me to do for a whole month ?”

Hye-ri lets out an awkward laugh, she knows that topic is highly sensitive and she doesn’t really know how to talk about it. “Well, just don’t talk to him, try to be neutral and don’t bother arguing with him.”

It’s so hard not to argue when Nishimura Riki is another level of messy. The kind that makes your stomach turn and your skin want to peel itself off just from sharing the same air— he’s the toxic spill that contaminates everything it touches.

And since the company doesn’t give a damn about your mutual revulsion— here you are, dragged into another locked studio at 9 PM for a forced 12-hour overnight practice because the higher-ups decided “chemistry needs time” and deadlines don’t care about your desire to see him drop dead.

It’s been a week since the talk in the dorms with Hye-ri, and you tried— god you really tried to follow her advice, but it’s impossible.

The mirrors probably make it worse— every angle reflects his repulsive presence. You can’t escape him. Your skin prickles the second the door locks and it’s just the two of you under the cold lights.

Riki’s already there, scrolling on his phone with that bored expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but near you. It’s a good thing you feel the same way.

The choreographer dips out around midnight with a vague “review the footage yourselves.” Leaving you two in hell. You start the first run-through in silence; during a simple mirroring sequence, his arm brushes yours accidentally and you jerk away like he’s diseased, skin crawling violently.

“Try not to fucking touch me,” you snap. “Are you spatially impaired or something?”

“That’s not even a thing, you idiot. And you think I wanna be touching a backstabbing bitch?” Riki’s lip tighten. “Don’t think i forgot everything you did back then.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake, just shut up for once.”

The tall man snaps, he turns to you and looks down with hatred, “No, everyone’s forgetting your little bitch act but I won’t. You sold out Hajime just to save your own ass cause you’re an egoistic idiot… Should I continue or do you actually feel guilty for once?”

The words hit like acid, your blood boils and you whip around, hatred flaring. “And your little public tantrum right after? Exploding in the hallway, screaming at me in front of everyone, nearly tanked my entire evaluation. Don’t act like you were some saint, Riki. We both know you’re the bitch here.”

He stares at you with pure loathing, “Whatever you say, one day you’re gonna have to face it y/n, let’s just finish this shit so I don’t have to look at your face anymore.”

Some time after; the micro-sabotage starts small but vicious. In the next lift sequence, he “missteps,” his foot catching your ankle just enough to make you stumble hard.

Pain shoots up your leg but you recover by raking your nails subtly down his arm as you catch yourself— leaving red lines under his sleeve. Riki hisses but keeps moving, eyes burning.

Your skin crawls every time his hands land on your waist for the holds. It feels violating, wrong. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than needed, hoping it bruises deep.

“Disgusting,” you mutter under your breath during one close turn.

You force some semblance of work conversation because the company is monitoring progress, but even that doesn’t work.

“Your count is off on the transition,” you say through gritted teeth, skin prickling as you reset positions.

“Yeah, because you’re rushing it like an amateur,” he replies.

It keeps going until you both have no saliva and inspiration left and around 5 am, during the most intense partner sequence— close holds, prolonged eye contact, bodies pressed together for balance—you both mistime the transition.

Your foot catches his, and his arm wraps around you instinctively as momentum pulls you down. You crash to the practice floor in a tangle of limbs, his body half-covering yours, chests heaving.

For a second, neither of you moves.

His face is inches from yours, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—thighs, chest, the press of his hand still on your waist.

“Get off me,” you whisper, but your voice comes out rougher than intended.

He doesn’t immediately, his eyes flick down to your mouth with disgust, then back up. “You’re the one still holding my shirt.”

You are, your fingers are fisted in the fabric. You release it like it burned you, bile rising in your throat.

You scramble up, heart pounding with rage— you both avoid eye contact, but the image of his body over yours lingers like a scar until you’re seconds away from throwing up.

Around 6 am, another company email hits and obviously yours is brutal: Y/n’s sections lack conviction. Visible panic affecting flow. Fix immediately or risk replacement.

You read it in the corner, alone, hands starting to shake as the pressure, exhaustion, and years of fighting catch up. Panic claws at your throat so you turn away, trying to breathe through it, hating that you’re cracking even a little.

Riki notices from across the room, of course, he doesn’t comfort— he stays in his corner of the room, a mocking smirk creeping onto his face despite the exhaustion. This, is his favorite sight, he thrives whenever he sees you break even a little.

So all he can do is laugh coldly, he despises you, hates how you get under his skin, hates that he can’t stop seeing images of your younger self betraying him over and over.

But what he loves though— is that you could be begging on your knees and he’d still want you dead.

You push open the studio door a couple hours later, legs like lead and eyes burning from the all-nighter; every muscle screams, your ankle still throbs from that “accidental” trip, and your brain is a delightful cocktail of rage and exhaustion.

You’re thinking about the long nap you’re gonna take as soon as you’re home, when you spot Sim Jake leaning against the wall a few meters down, looking unfairly fresh for this ungodly hour. He’s holding a small paper bag, shifting his weight like a nervous puppy.

“Hey y/n,” he says, offering a shy smile as you approach. “I… uh, grabbed some pastries earlier. Got extra ones I won’t finish. Want some?”

He holds the bag out and you blink at him, brain too fried to compute kindness immediately. Extra my ass, those look suspiciously hand-picked.

Before you can answer, the studio door swings open again— Riki steps out right behind you, tall frame radiating pure irritation— his eyes land on Jake, the pastries, and you standing there and his jaw tightens so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t crack. He huffs loudly- dramatic as ever—shoves his hands in his pockets, and stalks off down the hall without a word.

Jake watches him go, then glances back at your narrowing eyes as they stare at Riki’s retreating back.

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… about those pastries. And, um… would you maybe wanna grab lunch sometime? When we’re not both half-dead from schedules.” He glances around quickly, making sure no staff is lurking.

So it wasn’t about the pastries at all.

You raise an eyebrow, suspicion kicking in instantly. Is this a trap? Is Riki putting him up to this so he can watch you crash and burn? Some elaborate plot to humiliate you?

“Is there a catch?” you cross your arms.

He shakes his head, sincere. “No catch. Just me.”

You let out a tired but genuine little chuckle. “Mhh okay then. Okay. Lunch sounds good.”

His face lights up like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and you take a pastry from the bag— still warm—before waving him off to head toward the van waiting downstairs.

Cute. Annoyingly wholesome. The anti-Riki.

Back at the dorm you collapse onto your bed for approximately three seconds before your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Right. Food.

You drag yourself to your laptop, intending to quickly google whether that leftover kimchi jjigae in the fridge is still safe or if it’s entered its “biohazard” era and fingers moving on autopilot, you hit the search bar.

And remember what we said about irony? Well it seems that bitch is the main character in your life— it lives and thrives on your embarrassment.

Your search history pops up first on your phone, snapping you back to reality. Oh well.

nishimura riki dance technique, nishimura riki dancing fancam, nishimura riki best moves, enhypen niki choreography breakdown, nishimura riki footwork analysis

You stare, then you stare harder. Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.

You’ve forgot to mention this part of the hatred— the one where, no matter how many times you make yourself throw up, you still can’t stop yourself from analyzing the enemy— studying his technique so you can dismantle it during practice.

Riki precision really is…. insane— it hurt to admit but it’s the truth. The way he isolates his movements, the control in those lifts, the ridiculous height giving him lines you had to match or exceed… You’ve been rewatching his clips more than you care to admit, picking apart what makes him good so you could be better.

So you could beat him.

“Fucking hell,” you groan, slamming the laptop shut and face-planting into your pillow.

Stockholm syndrome probably. Yeah.

Needless to say— a few days later you find yourself sitting next to Sim Jake while he talks about different foods he misses from Australia. Interesting— but also existentially confusing, because here’s this cutie pie of a man rambling sweetly about meat pies and Vegemite like it’s the pinnacle of human cuisine— and your brain keeps short-circuiting back to someone’s dancing skills.

“—and honestly the Tim Tams are killer, but nothing beats a proper Aussie burger with beetroot,” Jake says, his knee brushing yours under the table as he leans in a little closer. “You ever tried any of that stuff? I’d love to make you my infamous version sometime.”

You blink, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Is that an invitation?”

His eyes crinkle, clearly pleased. “It’s definitely an invitation. I make a mean one.” He steals a fry from your plate, holding eye contact the whole time like it’s a dare.

And it’s nice— really nice. Jake feels nice, and safe and everything in between. A good friend.

You laugh, reaching over to snag one of his own fries in retaliation, letting your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. “Bold move. I see how it is— you lure me in with pastries and now you’re offering private cooking lessons.”

He chuckles, low and easy, shifting so his arm rests along the back of your chair. “What can I say? I like spoiling good company. And you…” His gaze flicks over your face, appreciative. “You make it easy to want to spoil.”

Oh. Oookay. Sim Jake’s got game.

Your stomach does a stupid little flip despite yourself— it’s been so long since anyone looked at you without layers of politeness or pure venom, that the attention feels almost foreign.

“Yeah? Keep talking like that and I might start thinking this lunch is less ‘casual hang’ and more ‘date,’” you tease, tilting your head as you take a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim. You don’t even mean it at first, it just slips out, friendly and teasing.

Much to your surprise Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “Would that be so bad?” he asks, voice playful but with a genuine edge underneath. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, schedules be damned.”

You feel heat creep up your neck but play it cool, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Ah… dangerous territory, Mr. Australia. I might actually say yes to that burger night you know?”

“Deal then,” he says immediately, his smile widening into something brighter and flirtier.

And who knows? This could be good, right? There’s not shame in wanting to hang out with sweet Jake and get a taste of normal life, burgers and all.

Mid-project evaluation hits like a goddamn truck— and honestly everyone expected it (everyone = you and your own brain).

The conference room feels narrower than usual, air thick with disappointment— suits from the creative team sit across the table like judges at an execution, projecting footage of your latest run-through on the big screen.

The choreography looks technically good in moments— your footwork clean, his lines ridiculous as always—but the notes flashing across the slide are brutal: Lacks cohesion. Emotional disconnect visible. Partner chemistry reads as forced tension rather than intentional fire. Fix by weekend or we reevaluate the performance slot.

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, nails digging into your thighs under the table. Of course it’s not cohesive, how the fuck do they expect magic when every touch makes your skin crawl like you’re hugging a venomous snake?

Riki sits a few seats away, face blank like he’s above it all, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw— he hates this as much as you do. Good.

The exec in the middle drones on, voice flat and disappointed. “We’re seeing potential, but the audience needs to feel something. Right now it looks like you two are tolerating each other at best.”

Tolerating? You almost laugh out loud. Try actively plotting each other’s demise between counts.

Your manager shoots you a warning glance, so you force a polite nod, but inside you’re screaming. Even in your twenties, this makes you feel like a kid getting grounded all over again—stuck in detention with the one classmate who ruined every group project. No phone, no freedom, just endless practice until you “get it right.” The infantilizing tone of it all makes your blood boil. You’re professionals… sort of— but sure, they should lock you in a room like misbehaving toddlers.

The meeting is short and soul-crushing. “We’re locking the studio for the full weekend,” one exec says flatly. “No outside schedules. Fix it.”

You don’t even look at Riki as you leave. You don’t need to— the tension follows you both like a shadow.

48 hours to manufacture chemistry out of pure hatred is a flawed way of proceeding. Give it a lifetime— and then maybe just maybe it’ll be enough.

The studio door clicks shut 7 pm that next Friday, the lock engaging like a prison cell. No choreographer. No staff. Just the two of you, mirrors on every wall as you stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks the oxygen out of the room. Riki’s already there, him and that obnoxious slouch.

There’s something you have yet to admit— it’s that you learned Nishimura Riki the way soldiers learn battlefields— every weakness mapped, every tell memorized, every micro-expression a potential opening for attack. You could recognize his silhouette before your own reflection: the tall frame, the slight tilt of his head when he’s about to strike, the way his shoulders tense right before a difficult transition. But no matter how much you study him, you could never pin point why you loathe him so much.

It’s like your ambition had slowly borrowed his face— every late-night practice, every ranking you clawed for, every mirror check— his standard was burned into your brain. This comes from the principle that, there are people you love because they understand you— and then there are people who understand you because they’ve spent years trying to defeat you.

Hatred kept you facing one another long after affection would’ve looked away.

It’s better this way.

Two ugly souls like yours could never be more than rivals.

The first run-through starts in heavy silence— you move into position and Riki does the same. No words are uttered, just eyes tracking every shift of weight, every breath, every subtle adjustment.

You’ve been hanging out a lot with Jake this past week— as often as the schedule allowed, and you’ve started to wonder if giving him a chance was a good think. Technically speaking— Jake was a total sweetheart, he carried his heart on his sleeve, offered amazing advice and had good cooking skills.

But— and here it comes— you really weren’t ready for anything serious. Common excuse really, but that wasn’t an excuse, you just really didn’t have time to waste on trying to flirt with a man. Busy life, it seemed.

Now currently in a very busy session, you watch the precise snap of Riki’s isolations, the way his long limbs cut through the air with infuriating control. Bastard. How does he make it look so effortless?

Your body mirrors him instinctively now— years of obsession making your muscles anticipate his timing even as your mind screams to disrupt it.

Riki circles you during the mirroring sequence, gaze sharp on your footwork— and damn it if you don’t feel it like a physical touch— analyzing, cataloging, judging. When your ankle wobbles slightly from exhaustion, his lip twitches.

The partner section begins a while after, his hands land on your waist for the lift, the contact burning. Your skin crawls with disgust, but your body betrays you— muscles relaxing into the hold for a split second before you catch yourself.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper viciously, bodies pressed together.

“Like what? Like I wanna throw you out the window?” he mutters back, fingers flexing on your waist. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Liar, your hands are shaking.”

“They’re not shaking, they’re restraining themselves from choking you.”

This is vile. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than necessary as he lifts, feeling the muscle tense under your grip and Riki adjusts his stance minutely, correcting for your weight without missing a beat. It’s almost like he knows exactly how you balance, how you breathe through the strain.

You dismount with a shove and and he pushes back just enough on the next turn to throw your timing. Still absolutely no words are uttered, there’s just a silent war in the mirrors— your reflection showing the way your eyes narrow when his hand lingers a fraction too long on your back during a spin.

His reflection shows the tight set of his jaw when your thigh brushes his during a close hold.

You break the moment by “accidentally” stepping on his foot hard enough to make him curse— and from there, insults get more creative and more personal.

“You’re nothing without the company propping you up,” he spits out.

“Says the overrated dance prodigy who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way,” you fire back. “Hajime would be embarrassed.”

His eyes flash dangerously. “Leave him out of your fucking mouth.”

The air crackles, you’re both breathing hard, circling each other like fighters in a ring by then. You wouldn’t be honest if you didn’t mention that every lift brings unwanted awareness: the heat of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms that you catalog despite yourself, the way your bodies slot together technically perfect even as your minds revolt.

Your stomach twists with nausea and something worse— betrayal by your own nerves firing at his proximity. You hate this, you hate how the body remembers his grip like muscle memory. You want him to be a shadow, something you never notice, someone who never crosses your mind, but life’s unfair it seems.

The next sequence brings you chest to chest. His hand slides up your back for the hold— punishing. Your body reacts again, traitorous warmth spreading despite the nausea. You hate it. You hate him, you hate him you hate him. You hate yourself more for the split-second where your fingers curl into his shirt like they belong there.

“Get your hands off me properly,” you hiss.

“Make me.”

So you shove him and he shoves right back— petty as always. For a moment it looks like you might actually come to blows— fists clenched, eyes locked in pure murderous intent. You notice the vein in his neck when he’s holding back from shoving you harder— and it’s fascinating how loathing changes a person’s body.

A particularly difficult lift leaves you pressed right against him for balance. His breath fans hot across your collarbone and your heart hammers.

For three terrifying seconds your bodies move in perfect sync, like they understand each other better than you do. Disgust floods you immediately after and you shove away harder. Riki releases you like you’re poison, but not before you feel the slight tremor in his hands.

Betrayed by your own fucking bodies.

Around 2 am., you both call for a break, collapsing on opposite sides of the studio. Your muscles burn like thousand fires. When your phone buzzes, you pick it up, expecting a check-in from Hye-ri.

It’s Jake instead.

Jake: Hey… someone sent me a tweet from your account. Look, I know we’ve only hung out a couple times but I thought things were good. This doesn’t seem like you but the screenshot looks real. I’m pretty disappointed. Maybe we should just… not do lunch anytime soon. Sorry.

You click fast on the screenshot, heart hammering, and when you open it, your mouth drops. It’s a tweet, a singular tweet… of yours???

“i’m gonna break Sim Jake’s heart and he doesn’t even know it 😈😈”

You stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

What. the. fuck?

The tweet is so obviously fake— ridiculous wording, wrong tone, obviously poorly edited. You almost start giggling maniacally, because it definitely lacks effort, but Jake, sweet gullible Jake, bought it.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper, stuck between laughing and crying. Is he really that stupid to think you’d ever be that obvious?? You might need to step up your game.

You: can’t you see it’s edited??? how stupid can you be Jake please 😭😭

Jake: no i took editing classes and that’s not edited.

You stare at the message, blinking hard.

You: tell me you’re joking please.

Jake: no, im not. Take care y/n.

The chat goes quiet and you lower your phone slowly, the pieces clicking into place with icy clarity. That wording, that timing. The way it conveniently blew up your one decent thing right in the middle of this hell.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

Would anyone be surprised? He’s the only one who’s childish enough to attempt to ruin your relationships like that. Absolute lack of skills.

Rage explodes in your chest like a grenade, because who else would be this stupid? Who else would try to ruin every attempt at happiness you made?

You stand up so fast the room spins for a second, storming across the studio toward him. He’s still sitting against the wall, looking annoyingly unbothered.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, shoving your phone in his face.

Riki glances at the screen, then back up at you with zero remorse, and no intention of hiding. “Didn’t even make anything up. Everyone knows you have a loud mouth… you would’ve said it eventually.”

Your blood boils. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I actually liked him.”

“Well i don’t really care about what you like,” he says flatly, pushing himself up to his full height. “So get over yourself.”

He towers over you, but you don’t back down an inch, tilting your chin up defiantly. “You’re so self-centered it’s insane. This had nothing to do with you, Nishimura.”

“Keep talking, Y/n. I don’t give a fuck.” Riki clenches his jaw. “If you wanna be a homie hopper go do that somewhere else, far away from my friends.”

Oh. Now he crossed a hard line. The motherfucker is gonna have to pay.

The slap happens before you can think, your palm connects hard with his cheek, the sound cracking through the empty studio like a whip. Riki’s head snaps to the side and for a second he stills, contemplating his options, his hair falling on his face.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he nods, trying to hold himself back.

Then he grabs your wrist in a vice grip, yanking you closer. It looks like you might actually stab each other— both of you burning with rage, chests heaving, bodies practically vibrating with it. His fingers are tight around your wrist, heat pouring off him and you glare up at him, breath ragged, pulse hammering in your ears.

“Don’t put your hands on me.” Riki says, fingers leaving a white mark on your skin.

“Well next time you call me that, i’ll make sure i’m putting my hands on your lifeless body instead.” you try to escape his grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“Watch it,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I actually lose it.”

“Wouldn’t you love to?” you tilt your head.

“Oh I would.”

The air shifts— you feel it deep down pressing on your ribs as your words hang between you like a challenge

“Then hit me, come on.” Your voice drops, eyes locked on his. “Hit me.”

The second you say that, something ignites in Riki’s gaze— it’s impossible to miss. And god if you don’t love the way you destabilise him.

The grip on your wrist tightens, then loosens by fractions. You’re breathing the same air, faces inches apart, and it’s so filthy— so disgusting. His eyes drop for a split second before snapping back up.

But then Riki lets go of your wrist like it burns him, shoving you back a step as disgust twists across his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the way his breath catches.

“Get out of my face,” he spits, turning away sharply.

Without hesitation, you turn on your heel and storm out of the main studio toward the attached bathroom, slamming the door behind you. The lock clicks and you twist the faucet on full blast before you start scrubbing your wrist like you can erase the ghost of his grip.

The water’s ice-cold but you don’t care. His touch is still there. Burning. Disgusting. You scrub harder, nails digging into your own skin, until your hands are raw and red.

Even then, your stomach twists. Part of you wants to throw up right into the sink— purge the memory of his body against yours, the way your wrist fit perfectly in his hand, the split second where rage had twisted into something darker and heavier.

But beneath the nausea sits an ache low in your gut, something warm and unwelcome that you refuse to name.

No. Absolutely not. I’d rather die.

Eventually you step back into the break room because the company’s made it clear: no leaving the premises. Two couches, a mini-fridge, and dim lights are the only things between you and the devil.

Riki’s already sprawled on the far couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like he can pretend you don’t exist— so you take the opposite one, kicking your shoes off and lying down with your back to him.

Neither of you naps. How could you?

The air is thick with the knowledge that the other person is right there, close enough to stab, close enough to—

You stare at the wall, eyes wide open, hyper-aware of every shift on the other couch. He’s probably plotting how to smother you with a pillow— that would be the most logical thing. Despite the fatigue clawing at you, heavy and bone-deep after the all-night practice, your body stays wired.

Adrenaline and hatred make for terrible bedfellows.

After a long silence, Riki’s voice cuts through the dark. “You know, I thought you’d finally grow up someday and accept that what you did was wrong.”

You don’t turn around. “I don’t really care what you think. I’m trying to rest, so shut up.”

“You’re not.” A pause. “You’re not gonna be able to sleep with me here.”

You huff, “And whose fault is that?”

“Mines.” His tone is almost smug. “You’re scared, right? Scared I’ll hurt you in your sleep. Well just know I wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second.”

You roll over to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Oh and what would you do? Ruin my relationships like a childish bastard? Or what?”

Riki sits up slowly, manspreading on the opposite couch with deliberate arrogance, he looks almost manly— a shame he’s such an asshole. His eyes lock onto yours across the dim room.

“Oh come on, get over it. You really thought I was gonna let you go out with my friend? You’re funny, Y/n. Really fucking funny.”

“No, I didn’t think so either,” you snap back, sitting up fully now. “But now you’re just gonna have to pay. Im not gonna let a weak boy like you step on me like that.”

“Funny.” He leans back further, maintaining eye contact like it’s a challenge. “What are you gonna do then?”

In one smooth motion you pull out your phone, digging through your photos with angry swipes and you turn the screen toward him, a petty little smile tugging at your lips. It’s a screenshot of a pretty compromising video of him to say the least…

“I got this from a telegram group chat a while back. Didn’t think I’d ever use it but oh well… You wouldn’t want this to get out, right? I mean… everyone knows you’re a disrespectful cunt but this? Oh this is awful.”

You play the first few seconds just to taunt him— it shows young Riki, stressed and exhausted, swearing at staff member during a meltdown— the audio is grainy but clear enough. Deep down you know he was just a kid under crushing pressure, but right now you’re too greedy for revenge to care for ethics.

Riki’s expression hardens instantly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would, Nishimura.”

“You’re doing all that for some dick?” He laughs, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Damn, I knew you were desperate but wow…”

“Don’t play with me. I’m seconds away from handing that video to a hate account.”

“Goddamnit Y/n, if you’re so eager to get dicked down you could’ve asked anyone else that isn’t my friend. And you sit here and act so surprised like you didn’t have it coming.”

You scoff, you’re not bruised— far from it, but he’s touched a sensitive spot. It’s not like you were ever planning to sleep with Jake, come on, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“Well good job, Nishimura.” Your thumb hovers over the screen. “You and your loud mouth have just earned yourselves another controversy.”

Riki jolts from the couch almost immediately, lunging toward you. You scramble back but he’s faster— in seconds you’re tangled aggressively on the couch as he tries to snatch the phone from your hand. You push, hit him in the chest, elbow him wherever you can reach but he desperately grabs for the device, long limbs pinning you down in the struggle.

“I’ll kill you, Y/n. I swear to god if you posted that shit—”

“I thought you didn’t care about it?” you taunt breathlessly, still fighting him. “You were so confident two seconds ago?”

He grabs your wrist hard then, you push back with everything you have until somehow you’ve got him pinned beneath you on the couch, breathing ragged.

“Do not. Touch me.”

Riki freezes— perhaps he’s an asshole, but even he knows a hard no when he hears one. His hand drops away instantly. “Delete that video,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I ruin your whole life.”

“You already ruined my life by existing, you self-centered prick.”

“Watch me ruin it more. If you post that video, Y/n…”

“Oh god, you’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, feigning indifference. You turn off your phone with a deliberate click. “Relax, will you? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Riki stares at you for a long moment, chest still rising and falling sharply, before he pushes himself up and returns to his own couch. “You better delete that shit—I swear if you—”

“Oh shut that thing up.”

The moment fades after that, leaving only heavy silence, you both try to rest again— you lie back down, pulling a thin blanket over yourself, but your eyes refuse to close. You’re too aware of his presence, too on edge.

He’s going to kidnap you in your sleep or something. Poison your water. Smother you. Anything.

But despite every instinct screaming to stay vigilant, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your mind. You breathe slowly, deliberately, trying to force your body to relax. And yet, against all reason, you become hyper-aware of his breathing across the room.

It’s steady at first, then hitches slightly every few minutes— like he’s replaying the fight, or the slap, or the way your bodies had tangled just minutes ago. You analyze it without meaning to, noting the rhythm, the occasional sharp inhale, the way it deepens when he shifts on the couch.

Somehow, despite everything, the sound of Nishimura Riki breathing becomes the only thing you hear in the dark.

You hate it. You listen anyway.

“Oh girl, Nishimura Riki wants to fuck you. Hard.” Hye-ri says from her chair, legs crossed as a makeup artist dusts highlighter across her cheekbones.

It’s been a few days since the whole weekend …thing— it’s gone excessively slow but time pays off, or whatever people say when they’re trying to sound wise. The locked studio torture finally ended, the performance notes improved just enough to satisfy the company, and now here you are— back in the comfort of your group’s dressing room at the company building, getting dolled up for tonight’s award show.

Your members are scattered around the mirrors in various states of glam, chatting and laughing like the weekend from hell never happened.

At least on the surface.

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Hye-ri, what the actual fuck?”

She grins at you through the mirror, completely unbothered, while the makeup artist dabs at the corner of her eye. “I mean, you gotta admit he looks like he wants to eat you up.”

“You’re so gross, I don’t even know why we’re friends…” you mutter, tilting your head so your own artist can blend the eyeshadow.

Even then, the memory of that charged weekend—his grip on your wrist, the way your bodies tangled on the couch, the unwanted ache that still lingers—makes heat crawl up your neck.

Disgusting.

Hye-ri laughs, “Cause we’re both freaked out, duh… but the problem with you is that you draw the line at enemies. Like come on, be young and free— what’s so wrong about a little bit of hate sex?”

Oh, so now she’s resorted to saying these freaky things in front of the staff? Oh my.

“Hye-ri what the fuck??” You whip your head toward her, much to your makeup artist’s annoyance. She gently guides your face back forward with a soft sigh.

“Just face it, Y/n,” Hye-ri continues, waving a hand dramatically. “That man wants you. Bad. But he’s just too… angry all the time. A shame.”

“No he doesn’t. Stop making stuff up.” You glare at her reflection. “And stop talking about him. I’m trying to focus.”

“Yeah yeah you’re avoiding the topic as always, but you’re right— focus on not breaking your legs with those high heels. I swear to god, this company is evil.” She turns toward the makeup artists with a sweet smile. “No offense, you’re a sweetheart.”

“None taken,” the artist replies with a chuckle, carefully applying gloss to your lips. “I know they push you guys a lot. God, I wouldn’t even know how to walk in these heels, Y/n.”

“I don’t even know how I do it either…” you sigh, staring at the deadly stilettos waiting by your chair. “I’m gonna break my legs one day.”

A while after, once the final touches are done, you slip into the high heels. In one smooth motion you stand, testing your balance— strangely enough, the confidence hits almost immediately; the heels make your legs look endless, powerful, like you could conquer the entire red carpet and still have energy left to step on someone’s neck.

Specifically a certain tall asshole’s.

You pull out your phone, snap a quick mirror pic—legs for days, sleek black dress hugging every curve, hair and makeup sharp enough to cut glass— and post it on Twitter with a caption that makes you smirk: “I step on mean boys for a living.”

A bit risky, sure. But you like the thrill of posting something just controversial enough to make people talk.

You put your phone down and turn toward the girls. “Selfie time. We look too good not to.”

Hye-ri and the other girls crowd in happily, striking poses in the mirror; you snap a few group shots— arms around each other, and save it for the staff to post on the group account later.

Eventually, you all gather your things and head out; you strut toward the waiting cars in formation, heels clicking against the floor. Inside the vehicle— you’re chatting with Sera about tonight’s award show— the KGMAs—leaning forward despite the seatbelt as the city lights streak past the tinted windows.

“I’m telling you, if we dont take anything home tonight I’m actually gonna cry. Not on camera, obviously, but later? Full breakdown. We’ve been killing it this year.”

Sera nods, adjusting the strap of her dress. “Same. You especially. That solo stage last month? Insane. They better recognize it.”

With that, your phone buzzes in your lap— you glance down and nearly laugh out loud.

@nriki.mura liked your tweet.

The notification glows mockingly for half a second before vanishing.

Oh my god. Caught him lacking.

You can practically picture it— his thumb slipping, the immediate panic, the frantic un-like. The mental image of Nishimura Riki, Mr. Untouchable himself, accidentally simping over a picture of you is almost too good.

Amused, you open your messages without hesitation.

You: You know i saw you like my tweet right?

Mina, ever the nosy one, leans over your shoulder almost automatically. “You’re talking to Nishimura?”

“Yeah,” you say, chuckling. “He accidentally liked my tweet.”

Hye-ri, from the seat across, perks up immediately. “See??? I was right. He does wanna fuck you.”

“Oh drop it, Hye-ri,” you laugh, shaking your head even as heat creeps up your neck.

Riki texts back almost immediately.

Riki: wtf are you talking about.

You: you just liked my tweet then deleted it, pathetic 😭

Riki: shut your mouth. I thought it was someone else for a second.

You: so you’d like the pic if it wasn’t me?

Riki: Everything you do is ugly because you make it ugly. You’re repulsive, so yeah i’d like if it wasn’t you.

You: Yeah i bet. Even my dancing’s ugly right? Must be why you’re always analyzing it.

Riki: what are you even talking about. Get a grip.

You: I think deep down you’re very jealous of me.

See, that’s a personal conviction you’ve had for years— Riki hides behind all that hatred but there’s a deep respect there. Something he’s never been able to accept but you’ll shove it in his face ever so often.

Riki: Youre funny.

You: yeah yeah, it was envy all along wasn’t it?

Riki: Shutup y/n

You: Shhh, answer me. You want to be me, right?

You: actually don’t answer, i already know the answer.

You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfied smirk as the van slows to a stop at the venue. Got him. Hye-ri glances at you, eyebrow raised. “That whole exchange looked tense as hell. You good?”

“Peachy,” you reply, stepping out carefully.

The heels are already murdering your feet, but you make it look effortless because that’s the job. Paparazzi flashes explode around you as you wave, smile, bow politely toward the chanting fans, all while your mind replays the text thread.

Pathetic, indeed.

Inside, the atmosphere buzzes— you spot Enhypen across the hallway and Jake nods awkwardly in your direction, the unresolved drama still hanging between you like an awkward third wheel.

You have to admit you didn’t really try to fix things or clarify things— if a man jumps to conclusions like this? He’s not worth the hassle.

Riki, standing beside him, glares with professional precision— polite smile for the cameras, murder in his eyes when they flick toward you. You return the energy with a sweet wave.

Eat shit, giraffe.

A little while later you’re called on stage with the girls for a quick pre-award segment. You sit gracefully on the tall stool, bare legs crossed in front of you, the dress riding up just enough to show the deadly heels. You tap your foot distractingly as you chat with the MC, answering questions about your group’s comeback with charm.

“There’s so many things happening for you guys this year! A string of collaborations, new album coming soon, are you excited?” The MC asks you.

“We’re super excited, and we’re sure the fans are gonna love it, we’ve been working hard on it. We can’t wait !” you answer with a gentle smile, looking out at the audience.

All the while, from his seat in the venue, Riki’s forced by the idol image to look at the stage. He’d rather do anything else, but it’d make him look really bad if he didn’t pay attention— unnecessary drama. So he looks, half-listens and nods, almost like he gives one too many fucks. His eyes trace the backdrop, the stage floor, anything really— to not have to look at you.

But after a while, he’s run out of things to observe, so he lets his eyes drop to your hands, the ones clasping the mic like it’s a hammer. You look graceful, a complete opposite of the girl he knows privately— you smile and nod gently, speaking with a calm and polite tone.

No curse words, no filthy mouth.

Then Riki’s attention shifts down, to where your heels are tapping on the floor, rather distractingly. Your legs are classily crossed in front of you, slightly extended, creating a vision of horror in his mind, they’re smooth, reflecting the lights of the venue— and the heels— they’re evil. High, black with a red sole, they look absolutely illegal; not to him though, he doesn’t really care.

But his eyes trail down your ankles, to the way your foot bends, taps and goes back up again. It’s hypnotic, better than having to stare at your face at least. Then your legs uncross, stretch, and Riki’s breath catches for a split second— he straightens in his seat, pinching his thigh through his slacks, and forces his gaze upwards.

Mistake, big one. Because the second he does, he’s looking at your thighs, right where the hem of your dress hikes up. And soon enough— he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, captivated by the way they lead like a path all the way down to your footwear. Ironic, right?

He keeps telling himself it’s anatomy, bone. Muscle. Fabric. Leather. Anything.

But the first mistake was looking, the second was realizing he wanted to look again.

He slips out during the commercial break almost automatically, heading straight for the bathroom, the door clicks shut behind him and he braces against the sink, stomach churning.

Riki throws up, harsh and sudden, the taste of bile burning his throat. Disgusting. He’s disgusted by the way his body reacts— knows it’s excessive, knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. He needs to throw up in hopes of getting your out of his body, his system.

He couldn’t stop looking at your stupid legs tonight. Ever since that picture you posted.

Heels are something that links to you— you’ve always worn a lot of heels—and he can’t deny that your legs do look aesthetically pleasing in them.

But he despises that he feels this way.

The bathroom mirror reflects someone he doesn’t recognize— a man repulsed not by what he’s seen, but by what he’s felt. It’s to wonder if revulsion and desire are closer relatives than anyone likes to admit.

Riki splashes water on his face, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Against his better judgment, his mind replays the image: the endless line of your legs, the sharp heel, the way you tapped your foot almost absentmindedly while talking. Clinical, he tells himself. Just observation. Professional obsession. Nothing. more.

And yet, even now, the image lingers.

Heeseung finds him a few minutes later when he returns to the seats. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Riki mutters, forcing a neutral expression. “I’m fine.”

He sits back down, but the thoughts don’t stop. He keeps wondering what it means to feel like this about a part of your body. The hatred is still there, burning strong— but somehow, despite everything, so is something else he refuses to name.

Irony has caught you in its nettles once again. A few days after the award show, you trip on the stairs at the company building, miss a step like a clumsy idiot, and sprain your ankle badly enough that the world tilts sideways. The pain shoots up your leg like fire, sharp and unforgiving. Of course. Because the universe clearly isn’t done laughing at you yet.

Physical therapy becomes your new hell. You can’t come to rehearsals anymore, which means blessed silence from Nishimura Riki for a little while— instead of dealing with his bullshit, you spend the days propped up on your dorm couch, ankle elevated, ice packs rotating, and your nose buried in self-help books.

Atomic Habits. The Body Keeps the Score.

Anything to understand why your brain keeps betraying you with unwanted thoughts about that asshole— his grip, his breathing in the dark break room, the charged way he looked at you after the slap.

Maybe you’re the one who needs fixing, you think bitterly, flipping another page. The books talk about trauma bonding and nervous system regulation, but none of them have a chapter titled “What to do when your mortal enemy makes your stomach ache in ways you refuse to name.”

Eventually the company, with its infinite lack of mercy, decides you’re “habilitated enough.” They shove you into another industry event— heels and all.

Fans lose their minds, flooding social media with concerned threads: “Y/n’s ankle is clearly injured, why is she in stilettos again???”

“Protect her at all costs!!”

“Hybe is evil, make it make sense.”

You see the posts but say nothing. Complaining would get you labeled irresponsible or difficult— so you smile through the pain, walk like everything’s fine, and silently curse the entire system. One day I’ll burn it all down. Preferably while wearing flats.

A couple of hours after that specific event, back in the dorm with your ankle throbbing, your phone lights up.

Riki: is the injury gonna impact our rehearsals

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

You: don’t worry you’ll get your 5 minutes of fame eventually just let me fucking heal my leg first

Riki: i’m just asking goddamn

You: yes it is, i can’t dance for a while

Riki: ok well i’ll talk to the choreographer to change the pairs

You: ok

There’s a pause before he sends another message.

Riki: did you leave your charger in the dance studio ?

You: no i didnt ?

Riki: oh okay

You: why the fuck are you even talking to me istg it’s all you do these days

Riki: i’m not i’m just asking stuff about work

You: well you know i never bring my charger

Riki: no i don’t

You: yes you do asshole

Riki: ok and what’s your point?

You: my point is stop talking to me

Riki: no

You: are you trying to make me mad?

Riki: no, is your leg okay?

You: and why do you care

Riki: i don’t. i’m asking if it’s gonna take long to heal because im trying to finish the dance. and why were you even in heels today, are you stupid?

You: cause company told me to.

Riki: and why didn’t you defend yourself

You: cause i can’t hello??

Riki: yes you can, you’re such a pussy sometimes, your legs’ fucked up and they got you walking in heels, and somehow that’s fine with you. It’s stupid.

You: you’re stupid

Riki: you need to stop wearing heels

In response, you snap a quick photo of the heels you’re still wearing— bare legs in the frame, nothing crazy, just skin and straps and the faint bruise blooming around your ankle. You caption it simply: “how about no?”

Riki: why are you sending me this??? wtf y/n delete that shit

You: they’re just legs chill. I know you think i’m disgusting and all but these are just motherfucking legs.

Riki: it’s not that, just delete it. it’s weird

You: nah, deal with it, throw up for all i care

Jokes on you, he did the other day. And because you love pissing him off more than is probably healthy, you send another photo. This one riskier not necessarily explicit though— leg extended, heel dangling from your feet, the angle deliberately provocative.

You: there u go, one more so you can really really throw up

He takes a bit to answer.

Riki: stop sending me that shit

You: aw, is nishimura scared of throwing up or something?

Riki: i don’t even want to. i’m gonna block you

You: don’t even want to what?

Riki: throw up

At the same moment in Riki’s dorm room— it’s quiet except for the hum of the airco. He was sprawled on his bed, phone in hand when the first picture came through. With that, something in his stomach flipped hard— he told himself it was disgust. Pure, simple disgust.

But his body betrayed him completely.

Right now? The second photo hits harder. Your bare legs, the sharp line of the heel, the way it dangles teasingly from your foot makes Riki’s mouth open, he throws the phone on the bed like its burned him, and he smacks his palms on his face, tugging at the roots of his own hair. He loathes it— loathes how quickly he is to replay it in his head, to try and remember every detail because he can’t be caught dead looking back at it.

It’s just goddamn legs. Goddamn heels.

So why is blood rushing south almost immediately? Maybe because irony is the biggest factor in this story— he’s hard within seconds. Riki doesn’t even know why. He’s not a teenager anymore, he can’t just get boners from stupid photos like that— especially not from someone he despises.

Horror slams into him like a truck. What the fuck is wrong with him? He detests it. Detests you. Detests the way his cock twitches at the sight of your stupid legs in those stupid heels.

Riki locks his bedroom door without thinking, breathing ragged. He blames it on the stress, perks of being mister worldwide famous, and grabs his phone to delete the picture— screw that, the whole chat.

He tries to look away. He really does. But against his better judgment, his eyes keep drifting back— and images burn into his retinas.

See, heels have always been your thing — long before this, you wore them constantly, strutting around like you owned every room.

Now? They’re weaponized against him.

Riki opens the chat again, scrolling through the two photos guiltily. Over and over. His hand moves almost absentmindedly to palm himself through his sweatpants, breath hitching.

This isn’t about you. It’s the heels. Just the heels.

He then pulls up pictures of other models in heels, random Instagram posts, anything to convince himself it’s not you. Riki stares at these women’s legs, analyzing their footwear like an expert.

But it doesn’t work.

His mind betrays him completely. The images shift— his brain being the most traitorous creature in the whole world, shows him your heels digging into his back, your legs wrapped around him, plays the sharp click of stilettos against the practice room floor while he fucks you senseless-

“Fuck… you,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

In seconds he’s up and running to the bathroom to throw up for the nth time this month.

Riki relieves himself, hating you more than ever. Hating himself even worse.

The company building feels eerily quiet on your break day as you hobble through the familiar halls with your sprained ankle still wrapped and aching, clutching a thin folder of paperwork you came to retrieve. The quick meeting with the exec goes smoothly enough— some signatures on scheduling adjustments, a few polite nods about “taking it easy,” and the usual nonsense about image management. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times before.

You’re almost out the side entrance, already dreaming of crashing on your dorm couch with takeout and zero responsibilities, when you bump straight into Jake.

Literally.

Your good foot catches on the edge of the hallway carpet and you stumble— Jake’s hands shoot out instinctively, steadying you by the elbows before you face-plant. For a second, both of you freeze.

“Shit— sorry,” you mutter, stepping back carefully. Your ankle throbs in protest.

Jake’s eyes drop almost automatically to your injured leg, the careful way you favor it. “Hey… you okay?” His voice stays soft, concerned, but the awkwardness between you thickens the air like smoke.

You haven’t spoken properly since the fake tweet disaster, not a single text, not a single clarification. You can’t say it wasn’t convenient, you’d hate to admit you find no interest in explaining yourself to Jake.

“Yeah. Just… clumsy,” you say, forcing a half-smile. “What are you… erm, doing here on a break day?”

“Picking up some lyric sheets for next week.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the empty hallway. After a pause, he adds quietly, “We’ve… um, never really talked about what happened. With the tweet and all.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the wall to take pressure off your ankle. Here we go. “Yeah. About that, you didn’t even let me explain, it was Riki.”

Jake blinks, tilting his head like you spoke another language. “What?”

“It was Riki,” you repeat, irritation already bubbling. “The whole thing was fake, he made it up to fuck with me.”

Jake stays silent for a long moment, processing. Then, almost gently —like he explains something to a child—he says, “Well… I think we gotta talk about this at some point, Y/n.”

“About what?”

“About your obsession with him.”

You stare at him, disbelief shooting through you “Excuse me?”

He can’t be serious right now.

“Y/n, seriously.” Jake’s voice stays calm, patient, which only pisses you off more. “Why would you even come to the conclusion that he’s the one who invented some kind of grand scheme…”

“Because he told me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t know… why would he even do that?” Jake sighs, rubbing his temple. “And if you hate him that much, why’s he all you ever talk about then?”

And there you thought Jake was sweet, turns out he’s just clueless.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff.

Right because when has it ever been his business?

“Yeah.” He meets your eyes steadily. “It’s honestly… obvious how Riki’s occupying all your emotional life. You were too caught up in your hatred that you didn’t even notice me, I’m pretty sure.”

“Um? Yes I did. I went out with you, didn’t I?” You laugh, sharp and humorless. “I thought you’d understand that with everything Riki’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m gonna hate him.”

It feels like you’re being scolded for some reason, and you don’t like that. Not one bit.

“You’re obviously hurt and you feel things deeply,” Jake continues, still in that gentle, patronizing tone. “But you gotta wake up and realize how fucked up it all is.”

You feel irritated as fuck, he’s talking to you like you’re a two year old, spelling out basic emotional logic as if you haven’t lived it for years.

The day was going smoothly and now some totally out of line weirdo is making it hard for you to be patient.

“Like, if I ask about your day, you answer in three words,” Jake continues, almost absentmindedly gesturing with his hands. “But if someone mentions him, you suddenly have a whole thesis. He’s said awful things to you and so have you. I just don’t get why you still bother.”

“Well I’m sorry that bothers you, Jakey,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. You tap his shoulder lightly, ironic and vain. “Have a great day, yeah?”

You turn to leave, but Jake’s words keep echoing as you limp down the hallway. He speaks facts, deep down, you know it— come on you’re not that dumb; but what you are though, is too proud to admit out loud.

Even after all this, part of you feels attracted to the violence. Used to it. Addicted, maybe. The constant flight mode becomes your normal— at least it feels more alive than any soft conversation with Jake ever could.

Hatred feels familiar, secure in its own twisted way. It demands nothing soft from you, no vulnerability. That’s just the way things are.

Some people like their food sweet, others don’t like it at all— and prefer eating nails.

Riki’s a master at pretending nothing’s bothering him— he wears indifference like second skin— untouchable, the golden dancer who smiles for cameras and carries the weight of millions without flinching.

He knows something’s essentially missing inside of him, knows he’s looking for something that’s not here, and that will never be. But he constantly tones that part of him down.

That’s why, tonight, in this high-end hotel suite with its dim lights and silk sheets, he tries to slip into that role again.

The girl beneath him is pretty, sweet, all soft curves and gentle laughs, she kisses him back eagerly, fingers threading through his hair as he presses her into the mattress. Her skin is soft, her dimples press against his cheeks when she kisses— and for a while it works.

His hands roam her body, lips trailing down her neck until she sighs his name like a prayer; and he tells himself this is what he wants. He deepens the kiss, hips rolling against hers, heat building in a way that should feel right.

But something shifts.

With that, sudden unease crawls up his spine like ice water, his stomach twists and the air feels wrong. Riki tries to push past it, kissing her harder, hands gripping her waist almost automatically. Focus. She’s pretty. She’s lovely even. She’s not—

It just doesn’t work.

He pulls away after a long silence, considers telling her the usual excuse of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, but when he opens his eyes it is not her face he sees.

It’s your sharp eyes glaring up at him. Your mouth twisted in that familiar sneer, your hands gripping his forearms.

Riki jumps back like he’s been burned, heart slamming against his ribs. What the fuck.

He’s definitely going crazy, he concludes, the room spinning slightly as panic claws at his throat.

“I— sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He stands up in one smooth motion, running a hand through his messy hair. “I need a minute.”

The girl sits up, confusion flickering across her pretty features, she looks hurt. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forces a soft smile, the one he saves for people who deserve his leniency, sweet. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Got a lot on my mind tonight. Work stuff. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m not into this.”

She watches him carefully as he walks to the mini-fridge and grabs a bottle of whiskey. He twists the cap off and takes a long swig, the burn grounding him for half a second.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly, already reaching for her clothes. “I can go if you want.”

Riki feels a pang of guilt. She’s sweet, too sweet for a walking shit-show like him. “No, you don’t have to… I’m really sorry. You’re great. This is on me.”

She dresses slowly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. Really. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

He nods, watching her leave with gentle eyes, the door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in like a wave. Riki collapses back onto the bed, bottle in hand, he stares at it for a second like he’s gonna start confessing his sins to it, then he drinks.

He drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more until the edges of the room blur and his thoughts turn hazy.

Tipsy now, he turns on the Tv for noise, he hates the silence, he needs something to focus on. A commercial flashes across the screen— some luxury brand, a model’s legs strutting in high heels. The camera zooms in and Riki instantly buries his face in the covers with a groan.

Eventually, when he’s proper drunk and the world is tilting pleasantly, he decides it’s enough, his stomach hurts.

His phone feels heavy in his hand as he tries to text Heeseung— something incoherent about needing to talk or needing someone to pick him up.

Riki recoils, embarrassed even through the alcohol haze.

He doesn’t need any fucking help.

Or does he? Maybe he does need therapy—

But his thumb slips as he tries to figure that out, and by some force of nature— he ends up calling the very ghost that haunts him instead.

You pick up after a few rings, voice dry and annoyed. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

Riki tries to click the ‘hangup button’ but his fingers are shaking with adrenaline.

Screw that, on second thought, he doesn’t really try to hang up all that hard…

He laughs instead , low and miserable, rolling onto his back until the ceiling spins. “Are you so mad at me, Y/n?”

You scoff on the other end, “When am I not? Anyway let me repeat myself— why did you call me?”

“Yeah but you’re different mad, I should’ve known…” His words slur together incoherently as he closes his eyes, the room still turning.

“Huh?” your thoughts are a mess of ‘whatthefuckishesaying’

“You don’t even fight with me anymore.” Riki’s voice comes out as a whisper, almost like he knows he’s stepping in a dangerous zone.

He hears you scoff on the other line, all superior and bitchy— and he has to fight not to laugh in your face, because honestly with that level of alcohol in his blood, it would sound much more like a happy giggle than anything else. He doesn’t want that now, does he?

“Are you… drunk?” you suddenly seem to come to your senses.

“Yeah…” He nods stupidly at the ceiling. “But you didn’t insult me today.”

It sort of reminds Riki of when he was a kid— staying underwater in his parents’ swimming pool until there was not an ounce of air left in his lungs. He would push himself deeper, lungs burning, vision spotting, just to see how long he could last before breaking the surface gasping.

That same reckless thrill sits in his chest now, however unrelated— talking to you while drunk feels like holding his breath too long. Dangerous. Addictive.

He knows he should come up for air, but he stays under, waiting for the moment you push him harder.

“Are you a masochist or something? You want me out of your life but here you are basically begging me to insult you.” you huff on the other end.

“I’m not. I kept waiting.” he shakes his head like you can see him.

“Waiting for what, you weirdo?”

Riki’s waiting for the moment you’re finally going to be done with his bullshit and hang up— because he couldn’t possibly bring himself to be the one to do it— blame it on the whiskey.

“For you to start a fight.” he answers solemnly.

“Oh god, you’re so weird. You’re drunk, you’re not even making any sense… just hang up and go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t ignore me. Don’t ignore what I said.” Riki’s voice goes lower, a little firmer maybe.

“I didn’t even see you today, what the fuck are you even talking about?” he can hear you anxiously slap your thigh in annoyance.

“I don’t like it when you ignore me. You piss me off, I piss you off and—”

“Stop conjugating verbs, Nishimura. I don’t have time for your bullshit.” you cut him off, proper angry.

“You know, normal people don’t live like this.” He rolls over clumsily, nearly dropping the phone; he’s not even making any sense, just casually assembling random thoughts that have been in his head and mashing them together in hopes you’ll understand his point.

“Good job genius, thanks for pointing that out. Now call Heeseung or Jay, I’m gonna block you. Or don’t call anyone, I don’t give a fuck if you choke in your sleep or something.”

That’s it, that’s the moment you’re finally done with his bullshit and you’re about to hang up and he’s… confused?

“Don’t block me Y/n wait—” Riki groans, not even realising how pitiful he sounds.

“Literally what the fuck is wrong with you.” you snap. “Why are you being like this, you sound so pathetic.”

After a beat, his mind drifts to different topics he’d like to address, but the only thing he can think of is that little stunt you pulled. “The post you made. Was it about me?” he asks, naively.

You almost laugh, incredulous and also very much embarrassed for him, “What are you even talking about?”

“The one with the heels.”

“No it wasn’t.” you say immediately, hating that he thought it was about him (although it clearly was).

“It waaaas,” he sing-songs, burying his face in his pillow. He’s half trying to hide how affected he was, and half trying to tease you.

“You’re so self-centered it’s insane, it wasn’t even about you.” you chuckle mockingly, “God Nishimura you’re being my little bitch right now, you know that?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m… mean to you. So you step on mean boys. So it was about me,” Riki goes on, persuaded.

“Well do you want me to step on you or something? Cause it sounds like you’re begging for it.”

That’s it. A couple words— he doesn’t even count how many— and he’s sent back to the state he was in a couple days back.

It’s all so pathetic, and he’s drunk out of his mind, but at the same time it’s you. It’s your fault, you’re doing this to him, you’re making his blood spike like a pervert, you’re dissecting him unknowingly, revealing things he didn’t even know about himself.

Notwithstanding, it’s impossible that it could be you, it has to be something else.

It’s like teenagers when they suddenly discover they have a penis and they wanna jump everything and anything; that’s probably what’s happening. He’s discovered he may or may not have a tendency to… enjoy women wearing heels, and he’s totally projecting.

“Fuck.” Riki throws his head back, palming his forehead. “Don’t say that.”

But his tone of voice only pumps you meaner, “Get off my phone then if you’re not happy. What’s your problem anyway? Can’t handle a little bit of alcohol? You’re a pussy.”

“See? I like you better when you’re like this. Mean.” he breathes out.

“Well get help.”

“I know I should.”

“Yeah you should. Now bye, I’m blocking you.” You hang up without a second thought and it’s over just as fast as it started.

Riki stares at the ceiling, phone still pressed to his ear even after the line goes dead. What the fuck are you doing with his head?

Eventually he grabs his phone again, thumbs clumsy as he opens his notes app— his writing is messy, drunk letters stumbling across the screen.

She blocks peple (people) when it starts to get a little bit intse (intense).

He stares at the words for a long time, the screen blurring. Even drunk, even miserable, he cannot stop cataloging you. Cannot stop thinking about you. And cannot stop adding to the list of things he’s noticed about you.

The hatred burns hotter though. Always has.

Kwn is an amazing artist you know? Especially in that one video clip where she kisses Kehlani near the car and all— that’s just a fact. You love her tracks, her voice, everything. But right now? You beyond hate her.

The past week’s been a blur of physical therapy, awkward silences, and the lingering ghost of Riki’s drunk phone call. He never mentioned it afterward and neither did you; it just sits between you like an unexploded grenade— ignored, but always there. A moment of vulnerability that echoes with a lot of ‘what ifs’.

What if he was under the influence all the time? Would he be softer, funnier with his words? More honest?

Your ankle’s better now, enough for light practice, but the company wastes no time dragging you back into the studio. No mercy. No rest. Just endless work.

That’s why now, you stand in the practice room, mirrors reflecting your slightly stiff posture, the choreographer flipping through self-tapes on his tablet with a deep frown. Riki leans against the wall a few feet away, fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants between his spread legs, looking as unbothered as ever.

The choreographer sighs heavily. “It looks stiff. The company’s not gonna like this at all.” He rubs his temples. “Come on Y/n, you’re usually excellent. I’ve worked with you for years and I’ve never seen you so out of it.” He turns to Riki. “And you, Riki— what’s going on?”

What’s going on, is that a leech is sucking out every ounce of talent out of you and leaving a distracted woman hollowed out by rage.

That’d be the appropriate answer but instead you say force a neutral expression. “It’s just stress.” and you make the mistake of adding, “It’s the song. It’s probably too fast.”

The choreographer looks at his tablet for a beat, thumb hovering over it, then nods slowly. “Well, how about we try something else, yeah? This choreo’s pretty simple. Get a good view, learn it, and I want you guys to prepare it for the end of the evening. I’ll come back when you’re done. Just work through it. This one’s slower and it’ll get you in the right headspace.”

He hands you the tablet but Riki snatches it from your hands almost immediately— ever the childish one. He’s a little bit too confident for someone who called you begging you for insults…

You doubt he even remembers it, but you want to rub it in his face. Instead— because workspace doesn’t allow it— you stay professional, snatching it right back and pressing play.

The opening notes fill the room. ‘Touch Myself’ by Kwn. You let it play for a bit, the rnb beat mellow and nice but when she starts singing it’s a whole different story.

See, the thing is, the lyrics are extremely explicit, pornographic arguably— or maybe you’re just being dramatic but that’s what being too close to Nishimura Riki does to one.

You glance up at the choreographer, wondering if he even speaks enough English to understand “I touch myself just thinking about you.”

Probably not.

Riki’s English is trash, but he knows that much and you see it in the way his jaw tighten.

The other man leaves with a casual wave, dismissing your obvious discomfort and the door clicks shut behind him.

You hate Kwn and her stupid song.

You stand up immediately, crossing your arms, “I’m not doing that.”

“Erm, yes you are,” Riki says flatly, like he’s talking to a toddler.

“Fuck no.”

At that, he rubs his temple, letting out a long exhale.

“They should terminate your contract. Can’t even get over yourself for the sake of your job...” he lets out a small huff, looking down at you like you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

“Have you seen the choreo? Are you really agreeing to this?” you tilt your chin towards the tablet. “That shit is vile. I’m not doing that.”

“Well it’s not like we have a choice. Trust me I’d rather be eating nails right now, Y/n. So get over yourself and just learn the goddamn thing.” he snaps.

You sit back down with a huff and get a good look at the choreo on the tablet. It’s heavily sensual—nothing insane certainly, but paired with the nature of the lyrics… damn. Slow body rolls, close proximity, lingering touches, prolonged eye contact. The kind of performance that sells sex and tension— definitely not something you’d like to be doing with that smug prick. But either way you need to get over yourself, it’s not like you have a choice…

So after a while of sitting there, hearing his annoying breathing, you finally get the hang of it, it’s not really complicated, just an easy routine; the complicated part is the tension you need to bring to it, something you don’t have. Or rather, not in the adequate form.

You stand up and move to the center with him, the mirrors reflecting you both as you start running it. You rehearse a few steps, tablet in hand, trying to figure out the footwork while he watches through the reflection.

“Your other foot, dumbass.” he goes, pointing at your left foot.

You listen, because unfortunately, he is right— it was the left foot; and you move along, following the movements of his body in the glass.

The tension simmers immediately— albeit it not being the required one, it’s still tension right? Every brush of his hand on your waist feels deliberate, every step brings you closer and the lyrics pulse through the speakers like a taunt.

Every now and then, you deliberately sabotage the whole thing, pushing a little on the left until he fumbles it, stepping on his foot while maintaining a neutral stance.

The thing is, and you’ve admitted it— you don’t just hate Riki. You need him to hate you back. It’s that or you’d rather die.

So you push and push, until his pupils drown in anger and he’s seconds away from pinning you to the nearest wall— devoid of any good intentions.

During the chorus is the part when you have to look at each other the most, it’s prolonged eye contact.

You unconsciously lipsync the words “I touch myself just thinking about you” as you focus on the dance and miss a count, distracted by the little something in his eyes.

You’re stupid.

Riki looks right back, eyes dropping your lips as you mouth those filthy words— and he messes up his part a little bit.

“Stop fucking looking at me. Just dance,” he says defensively, voice low.

“Am I supposed to just look at the goddamn ceiling?” you spit back, rolling your eyes.

Riki stops dancing all of a sudden, gets closer, towering over you. “Well I don’t care. Just don’t look at me.”

You follow, the song still playing but you’re both unmoving, “Why does that bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t. You’re just annoying.” His dyed blond hair falls on his forehead, sweaty and so awfully disgustingly delicious you want to die.

Wait what?

“It clearly does if you’re bringing it up.” you distract yourself with counter attacks, it’s easier this way.

“Just stop arguing and listen to me before I—”

“Before you what? Huh?” You get closer, menacing even though hes taller.

He snickers, looking down at you like you’re a crumb under his shoe. “Who do you even think you are, acting like that? You know it’d take me two seconds to make you trip and faceplant right?”

He’s so infuriatingly mocking it sends a chill down your spine, it’s not even the words, it’s the tone itself— like he could push you right now and feel nothing but contempt.

That’s the way things have always been, so why does it feel so confusing?

“Stop talking to me like that.” you glare at him, titling your chin like you can somehow surpass him in height.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do?” he’s so smug it drips with it.

“I swear, Nishimura, I’ll punch you right now.”

Riki looks down at you, a small cruel smirk tugging at at the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, brat. All yours. Hit me.”

The words shouldn’t sound like this, they shouldn’t sound so dirty. But it’s like lately, all he says has a subtle undertone to it— and why is his voice so goddamn low and velvety?

“Well thanks for the consent, motherfucker.” You push him back hard so he can’t crowd you. “Now get back.”

He grabs your wrist in turn, pushing you close to him menacingly. “I said hit me, not push me. Are you scared of me or something?”

You chuckle, defiant. “Scared? Oh give me a break.”

Riki grabs your fist; you’re surprised he isn’t even flinching at the contact. He tightens your fingers deliberately until you’re ready for a punch, and then holds it over his own cheek.

“Come on. Do it.”

His fingers burn around yours. He’s dying for it, he needs the fight, needs the violence. He craves the collision— the crack of bone, the bloom of pain, the certainty that comes with a hit landed cleanly. Anger is familiar territory— violence is the only conversation he’s ever known how to finish.

“Don’t touch me.” you say, in vain, because it comes out as a breathy plaint.

“We’re way past that.”

“You’re so disgusting. You get off on doing disgusting things like that, don’t you? Fucking pervert.” your eyes are bored in his now, more honest that your bodies have ever been.

Then Riki does something so out of character— yet so him, and your lungs suddenly become a mere accessory rather than organs.

He grabs your throat suddenly, long fingers wrapping around it, squeezing not too tight but firm enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. The pressure is controlled, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your neck where your heartbeat flutters wildly. His grip’s warm, steady, dangerous and you can feel the restrained power in his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating how much tighter he could go.

It sends a rush of heat through you despite everything.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, triggered.

His shoulders broaden as he squares himself, every tendon in his forearms standing out beneath taut skin.

Riki’s so close now, nose brushing yours, eyes burning with pure fury, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying from how exhilarating it feels.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.” You push his buttons on purpose, loving the way his anger tastes— like something filthy and sour on your tongue.

“Fuck you, Y/n.”

There’s a thin line between hatred and desire—and only then, you’re starting to feel it dissolve until you can no longer tell whether the pounding in your chest is fury or fascination, whether you want to shove him away or pull him closer just to understand why he gets beneath your skin like that.

“Mm, fuck me?” You tilt your head, defiant, lips inches from his.

Riki loses it. Air sticks in his lungs and his eyes flutter shut for a split second— he’s forgotten how to breathe now, the words ricochet through him, splintering whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to.

His jaw tightens so hard it aches, a muscle feathering beneath his skin as he swallows back something he can’t afford to say.

“Don’t say shit like that.” he goes instead, but it comes out breathy.

“Why? Scared?” You get closer, pushing every button you can reach.

Because close just isn’t close enough— and flustered isn’t nearly flustered enough. Because you want him reeling, struggling to even function, you want him to be putty in your hands— just out of pure spite.

Riki’s stuck between two different worlds— he wants to push you off, watch you fall and trip but at the same time he wants to fuck the attitude right out of you— teach you a lesson.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he feels it somewhere low, warmth spreading. He’s too far gone.

Your mouths hover dangerously close, so much so that you can feel his breath, hot and ragged against your lips. His hand tightens slightly on your throat, not hurting, just holding. Claiming almost, in all its irony.

But the choreographer’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway, and you’re both forced to pull away instantly, breathless, chests heaving.

The moment’s over and the bodies are done speaking.

Riki turns sharply and stalks toward the bathroom, fists tight at his sides while you scratch your arm anxiously, nails digging into skin as if you can claw the tension out of your body.

Three days after the practice room incident, Hybe decides to play nice— characteristically… They organize a mandatory “team bonding” dinner for everyone involved in the collaboration project—R3SET, Enhypen, choreographers, and a few other staffs.

The official reason is to “build chemistry” and “celebrate the upcoming performance.”

The real reason, you suspect, is damage control after too many rumors about visible tension between you and Riki.

The company hates bad optics.

“Touch myself” hasn’t really resulted in anything good, apart from fuelling your self hatred.

The choreographer wasn’t exceptionally happy, and so were you— for fucks sake, because of him, you’d been forced to confront that you were an entirely too deprived woman.

It’s true, that’s the only viable answer, you haven’t done anything with anyone in years, and so it’s only natural that any physical touch sends you into a whole different headspace— even if it’s not one you’d desire. Desperate times.

So, the dinner is held at a private restaurant downtown, dim lighting, long wooden tables, expensive hanwoo beef, and enough soju to drown in. You show up with your members, ankle mostly healed but still a little stiff, wearing simple black pants and a sophisticated top. You tell yourself it’ll be just fine, Riki’s most likely forgotten about it already.

But the second you walk in, your eyes find him across the room. You end up near the middle of the long table, directly across from him.

He looks annoying in all black, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, his eyes flick to you every few minutes— totally unreadable. You don’t look away, god you never do.

Jake sits a few seats down, trying to make polite conversation with Sera— you wouldn’t fail to mention you’re still slightly annoyed at him, but that feels like background noise compared to the live wire stretching across the table.

Rage is merely just rage when it’s not directed at Nishimura Riki.

Hye-ri leans toward you at one point, whispering, “He keeps staring. You good?”

“I’m fabulous,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of beef harder than necessary.

Riki’s voice cuts through the chatter a moment later, directed at no one in particular but clearly meant for you. “Some people should probably stay off their feet more. Wouldn’t want another dramatic injury right before the performance.”

You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “Some people should probably mind their own fucking business.”

The table quiets a little. Jake shifts uncomfortably and Sunoo coughs into his drink amused.

Riki leans back in his chair, lips curving into that infuriating half-smirk. “Just looking out for the team. Wouldn’t want you to trip on stage because you’re too stubborn to rest properly.”

“Touching,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t know you cared so much about my well-being, Nishimura.”

“I don’t.” His eyes lock onto yours. “I care about the performance not sucking because of you.”

The air crackles and Hye-ri kicks you under the table. Of course you kick her back.

The rest of dinner is a masterclass in passive-aggressive warfare; every time someone mentions the collaboration, Riki finds a way to slip in a subtle jab. Every time, you fire back sharper until by dessert, the tension feels thick enough to choke on.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe, splashing some water on your neck— soothing the physical reaction he’s inflicted upon you. When you come out, Riki is leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting.

“Running away already?” he asks, voice low.

“Fuck off.”

He steps closer, crowding you against the wall without actually touching you. “You’ve been quiet lately. No insults. No nothing. Almost like you’re avoiding me.”

You lift your chin, refusing to back down. “What? You’re gonna beg me for insults again?”

Riki’s jaw tightens and for a second, something dangerous flickers in his eyes, you’re not sure he knows exactly what you’re referring to though. “You wish.”

Then he walks away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your hands clenched into fists.

That night, you dream— you dream like you haven’t dreamt in months. See, you had the habit of dreaming about totally incoherent things, your older brother getting kidnapped by aliens, your step mom catching a cold and growing wings… and that dream doesn’t differ, it’s totally incongruous.

In it, the studio’s empty, mirrors stretching endlessly in every direction, the lights are low and warm. You’re dancing, but it’s no longer really choreography.

Riki’s hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him— there’s no hatred in the movement this time— only hunger. You shove him, but he spins you around and presses you against the mirror, cold glass against your front, his body hot and solid behind you.

“You talk so much shit,” he whispers against your ear, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “But look at you now.”

You gasp as his fingers find bare skin. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Riki’s voice is rough, dangerous. “You want that?”

In the dream you hate him and want him in equal measure. You push back against him, grinding, feeling how hard he is, his hand wraps around your throat from behind— not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you arch. His other hand slips between your legs, teasing, stroking, making you moan despite yourself.

“You’re so fucking wet for someone who hates me,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I hate you,” you breathe, but your hips roll back against his hand anyway.

He laughs, low and dark, pressing you harder into the mirror. “Liar.”

The dream shifts and suddenly he has you on the floor, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you— deep, angry, perfect. Every snap of his hips feels like punishment and reward at once. You scratch down his back, drawing blood and he bites your neck hard enough to leave marks. The mirrors reflect a hundred versions of you two like fucking animals— sweat-slick, desperate, beautiful in the worst way.

“I hate you,” you moan as he fucks you harder.

Riki’s eyes are wild. “Then prove it.”

You wake up gasping, sheets tangled around your legs, heart hammering, and a slick heat between your thighs that makes you want to scream. You sit up in the dark, pressing your palms to your burning face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The body has always been a terrible liar.

The mind can sharpen hatred into something clean— something so easy to hold. It can rehearse every reason to leave, every wound, every insult, every unforgivable thing. It can swear that this person disgusts you— that you’d sooner bite your own tongue than admit they’re the only thing you want to loose yourself into.

And then your pulse betrays you. Your breath catches when they get too close to the real thing, your pupils widen before your pride has the chance to object. Every nerve ending reaches for what your conscience insists it should reject. The body doesn’t understand morality; it understands chemistry and biology; doesn’t distinguish between danger and desire nearly as well as you’d like to believe.

Maybe that’s why hatred and longing have always lived so close together. Both consume. Both obsess. The difference is thinner than anyone admits— a line so delicate that all it takes is one glance, one accidental touch, one moment of vulnerability, and suddenly you no longer know whether your racing heart is preparing you to fight them or kiss them.

That’s why, after that dream, you avoid him like the plague. The following weeks are a careful dance of deliberate distance; you show up to group meetings late and leave early. You switch practice times when possible, you bury yourself in solo schedules, self-help books (that don’t help with anything actually) and long conversations with Hye-ri that always circle back to the same frustrating question: why does suffering attract you more than living a gentle life?

You delete the drunk call from your call log like it never happened, you tell yourself the dream meant nothing. Just stress. Just exhaustion. Just your body playing cruel tricks.

But the avoidance only makes it worse, every time you catch a glimpse of him in the hallway, your stomach flips. Every time his name comes up in conversation, your jaw tightens.

But today he’s inevitable. Duty calls. And so here you are, stuck in the dance studio again with him.

The choreographer wanted you both to review the latest self-tapes alone— auto-evaluation before the final run throughs. No dancing today, just critique; so you came straight from another schedule, still wearing the black heels from the event and the black skirt they’d told you to wear—because you just couldn’t be bothered to change.

Now they click sharply against the floor as you pace, hands on your hips, eyes glued to the small television screen playing the footage.

Riki stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with that same unreadable expression. He’s wearing a goddamn chrome hearts tank top, one that highlights the muscles in his back, makes him look unfairly lean and does a poor job at keeping you focused.

The footage plays— and technically, it’s flawless. The lines are clean, the timing’s sharp. But the chemistry is nonexistent. You both look like you’d rather murder each other than touch, naturally.

You point at the screen. “Your shoulder drops there. Sloppy.”

Riki scoffs. “My shoulder is fine. You’re the one rushing the transition.”

You whirl on him. “At least I commit. You move like you’re scared to touch me. Afraid I’ll stab you in the back or something?”

He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I am. We both know what you’re capable of when you want something.”

The jab lands harder than you expect, you feel heat rise in your cheeks. “Fuck you. At least I don’t throw tantrums like a spoiled kid every time things don’t go my way.”

That one hits and Riki’s expression darkens. In response, he pushes you with his arm— not hard, but enough to make you stumble back. Your injured leg buckles slightly, still weak from the sprain. Pain shoots up your ankle and you lose balance, arms flailing.

Riki moves instinctively— ironic isn’t it?— his hands catch you—one on your waist, the other gripping your arm— steadying you before you fall. It’s almost laughable… the force that sent you stumbling is the same one that keeps you upright.

For a moment, everything stops, his touch’s firm but careful. Not the bruising grip from before. Not the angry shove. Just… support. His fingers press lightly against your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your top. It feels almost like pity. Like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to break yet.

The silence stretches until your eyes meet his. His breath is close and for once, thereis no venom in his gaze— just surprise.

You shake him off almost immediately, stepping back like his touch burned you. “Don’t touch me.”

Riki’s hands drop and the mask of indifference slides back into place. “Whatever. Don’t fall and blame me later.”

“Youre the one who just pushed me.” you mutter under your breath, boiling.

The footage loops again and again, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The real performance is happening right here— two people circling each other with words like weapons.

Eventually the tape ends and you exhale sharply. “We’re done. I’m leaving.”

You grab your badge, and purse, turn toward the door in one smooth motion, heels clicking. But when you push the handle, it doesn’t budge. You try again. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” You rattle the door harder. “Did you lock it?”

Riki raises an eyebrow. “Why would I lock it?”

You try again, panic starting to creep in. “Open the damn door, Riki.”

He sighs, walks over, tries the handle and it doesn’t move. “It’s stuck.”

You reach for your phone, heart hammering and you text Hye-ri a hundred times in rapid succession.

Door won’t open. Studio 4. Come get me. Help. HELP. Help. HELPPP. SOS.

But no reply comes, so you call her, it goes straight to voicemail. You text Heeseung next— because what wouldn’t you do for an escape? Still nothing.

"Aren't you gonna do anything??" you turn to Riki.

"My phone's dead" he shrugs.

“I’m gonna call the police, I swear to god,” you mutter, pacing.

Riki rolls his eyes, tapping his foot on the floor repeatedly— the sound grating on your nerves.

“Can you stop tapping on the floor before I eviscerate you?” you snap.

“Get over yourself”

You try the doorknob again, naively. Of course it’s not gonna budge, why would it ? The universe wants you in a secluded room with Nishimura Riki— probably natural selection or something…

You rattle the handle a little harder anyway, as if stubbornness alone might intimidate the lock into cooperating. It doesn’t. It only rewards your efforts with another dull metallic clunk that echoes through the room like it’s laughing at you.

“Why aren’t you charging your goddamn phone anyway? To call people. At least be fucking useful.” you turn to him.

“Cause you’re already doing that, Y/n.” Riki says matter-of-factly.

He leans against the wall, watching you with that infuriating calm— and sweat beads on your skin as you fight the punch that you want to give him.

“Oh god, I hate you,” you finally hiss, stepping closer.

Something in him shifts, not visibly— but you catch it because you’re looking; his shoulders loosen by a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatens to betray him. Your words don’t land like an insult; they settle somewhere far more dangerous.

Hatred’s always been your most honest language with himx Every glare, every cutting remark, every venom-laced sentence means you’ve looked at him long enough to feel something. It means he’s gotten under your skin again. That he’s occupied another corner of your mind he had no business claiming.

To anyone else, your words would sound like rejection.

To Riki, they sound like proof.

Proof that he still affects you.

Proof that indifference’s never been an option.

He lets the silence stretch, savoring the confession hidden beneath the hostility before his gaze locks onto yours, dark with unmistakable satisfaction

“Say that again.”

You step even closer, heels making you taller but still smaller than him. “I. Hate. You.”

His gaze flickers over your expression for a second longer than it should, like he’s memorizing the contradiction in front of him: someone who claims to despise him yet keeps moving closer, someone who throws daggers with their words but refuses to walk away.

Riki looks down and you catch him staring at your legs almost instantly. “Stop looking at my fucking legs, you perv.”

“Well then stop wearing heels in a practice room maybe?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be after this, dipshit.” you roll your eyes, suddenly feeling small under his scrutiny.

“Then put them back on after this, like a normal person.”

“We just came in here to review the footage. Stop acting like I’m dancing in heels or something. Or maybe—who knows— maybe I just like pissing you off.”

“It doesn’t piss me off. It’s just annoying as hell. You make a lot of noise. Walking around like you wanna get my attention or something.”

“Get your attention? Please. You’re ridiculous. You know why I put them on? Because deep down my biggest wish is to step on you with them till you choke and die or something.”

Riki’s breath catches, you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows and he takes a careful step back. The topic of heels is a no-go.

“Stop saying nonsense and just go work on getting someone to open the door.” He sounds slightly breathless.

“I’m trying, fucker.”

“Well try harder, bitch.”

“Keep calling me that name and I’ll really step on you. And I won’t be gentle.” you raise your chin, defiant.

“Oh, cause you think I want you gentle?”

Heat floods your face and chest. Then something dark and dangerous twists in your stomach— equal parts fury and unwanted thrill.

You step closer instead of recoiling, eyes narrowing, lips parting on a sharp, incredulous exhale. The implication hangs between you like smoke—thick, filthy, impossible to ignore. Your mind flashes with vivid, unwanted images: his hands rough, your nails digging in, bodies colliding with nothing soft or kind between you.

The thought disgusts you but it also makes your thighs press together instinctively. How much of a contradiction could you be?

“You’re so perverted it’s disgusting.” you resort to insults, because that’s all you know.

“Perverted? You’re the one who came in here wearing these.”

“They’re just heels. You’re a weirdo. You think I put them on for you or something? Don’t you remember when you called me drunk the other night? You seemed to like them just then.”

Riki freezes. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you don’t remember?” You lean into it, savoring the upper hand and sprinkling a little bit of lies. “Nishimura, you called me. Said a bunch of shit. Got really vulnerable. Told me exactly how the heels made you feel, pathetic, really.”

“I didn’t say all that, Y/n. Stop.”

Air’s gone rancid, thick with the stink of want, choking you both, but you only step closer, voice low and taunting. “You did though. You probably wish you could touch them, stop being such a pussy and admit it.”

Riki’s eyes flash and that shakes off the last thread of self control and inhibition, “Yeah? And what if I did?” His voice drops dangerously. “What if I grabbed your thighs and spread them right there? Would you still act like you hate me then?”

What. the. fuck.

There’s the moment, where the truth comes out. Where the line shatters. Where hatred and desire melt together and become one.

There’s no fury like trying to contain such levels of want. Like trying to contain something that was never meant to be contained.

Because the hardest battle was never between you and him, no it was between what you felt and what you were willing to admit.

The space between you vanishes, your back hits the wall. His hand braces beside your head and you tilt your head back until the tip of your nose touches his, heart thundering. “Fuck… I hate you.”

You’re like prey and predator— except you’re the embodiment of both. And in the end, how do you run from something that exists inside you? How do you fight an instinct that is just as much a part of you as the fear trying to resist it?

You’re the one who bares your teeth, the one who strikes first, the one who convinces yourself that staying sharp means staying safe. But you’re also the one who freezes when he gets too close, the one who feels every shift in the air between you, the one whose body reacts before your pride has the chance to intervene.

A contradiction wearing the shape of a person.

You want to win, but you also want to be understood. You want to push him away, but some reckless part of you keeps stepping closer. You hate the power he has over you, yet you keep giving him opportunities to use it.

“I hate you more.” Riki says, comforting the both of you into thinking this is still strictly hatred. “Hate you so bad it hurts.”

Thats when it happens. Between a hitch of breath and a gasp, you loose it.

The kiss is sudden, angry, desperate. Mouths crashing together like a collision— teeth and tongue and pure adrenaline. It’s hate and want— months of a cutthroat chase. Two bodies finally allowing theirselves to feel something other than destruction.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping hard, you bite his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth and presses you harder against the wall.

Your fingers fist in his shirt as Riki’s thigh presses between yours. The kiss is messy, violent, it’s a murder of pride— until there’s nowhere left to hide because he’s all over your body, gripping, binding.

He bites on your lower lip and you bite back just as hard, sinking your teeth into his lip until you taste the sharp metallic tang of blood. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and in response he shoves you back against the mirror with enough force to make the glass rattle.

Your back hits the cool surface first. Then the rest of you— shoulders, hips, thighs. The mirror is cold while he’s burning hot. The contrast makes you gasp into his mouth and he takes advantage immediately, tongue sliding deep, claiming, devouring.

One of his hands fists in your hair, yanking your head back so he can kiss you harder, deeper, filthier. You tug right back, fingers twisting in his strands, pulling until he hisses in pain and pleasure.

You’re both predators now. No prey. No bunnies. Just two starving animals finally allowed to tear into each other.

Riki’s thigh presses between your legs, grinding up hard against your core— you roll your hips down to meet him, desperate and violent, chasing friction through your clothes. Every roll of your hips makes the mirror shake behind you and his cock’s already so hard, straining against his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh. You can feel how much he hates how badly he wants this.

“Fuck you,” he snarls against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip in retaliation. “You’re such a brat.”

You moan into his mouth, the sound muffled and broken. He wraps one large hand around your throat and squeezes— not enough to hurt, but enough to make your head spin. The pressure’s perfect, making you clench around nothing, drunk on the pain. Your pulse flutters wildly under his palm and he squeezes a little tighter until you moan louder, the sound vibrating against his fingers.

“There it is…” Riki pants, lips brushing yours, voice dark “See? Your body doesn’t lie. It fucking loves me.”

His cock presses against your clit through the fabric, a delicious friction that makes your head foggy, hands clawing at him for more, more, more and everything. His free hand goes to your ass, digging in and pushing you closer to him, hardness rubbing right where you need him the most. And in second— his mouth’s on your neck, canines poking at your tender skin until you’re moaning, hips moving like they have a mind of their own.

“Look at you— moaning like a desperate little slut just from this.” you feel Riki’s smirk even if you can’t see it.

You try to snap back, but he bites down again and your words dissolve into another broken moan. He laughs, low and mean, grinding harder between your legs.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your jaw. “All that hate and your pussy’s still soaking for me.”

The fucker doesn’t even bother taking your clothes off properly. In one rough motion he yanks your skirt up around your waist, the fabric bunching messily and his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Then, he rips them clean off with a sharp tear that echoes in the studio, and throws them somewhere. The cool air hits your soaked cunt and you shiver.

He looks down, cock twitching in his pants as he witnesses the sheer amount of wetness coating thighs and pussy. “Fuck” he breathes out, fingers hooking to collect your arousal and toy with it. “Look at that…”

Riki brings his soaked fingers to your mouth and pushes them pas your lips without a second thought. When he feels you suck your juices off of them, his hips jerk, bulge pressing right against your dripping cunt, the front of his pants covered in your arousal.

“Messy girl.” he forces your mouth closed by pressing your cheeks together, “Swallow”

You do— because there’s nothing more exhilarating and humbling that getting a direct taste of what you used to call “hatred.”

“Fuck you— just fuck me already, get this over with.” you say, chin held high like he didn’t just humiliate you.

He smiles tauntingly, frees himself from his pants with impatient hands, cock hard, flushed and leaking. And dammit— you’d never admit it to his face, but he’s big, thick and dripping at the tip. You stare at it for a split second, wondering if it’ll hurt. But you don’t couldn’t care less about the hurt, as long as it makes you feel something.

“You want it?” Riki rasps, lining himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your soaked folds. You nod, because it’s obvious you do, and he retaliates, “Then beg for it properly, you brat. Or i’ll leave you here dripping and desperate like the pathetic liar you are.”

The words burn through you— your pride screams at you to shove him away, to spit in his face, to keep hating him like you always have. But your body is a merciless traitor— clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs, aching so badly it hurts. You’re trembling with rage and need, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

“There it is. See? You’re not that useless.” He nips at your neck, all condescending.

In one brutal thrust he buries himself inside you to the hilt, stretching you open so suddenly and so deep that your head falls back against the mirror with a broken cry. The burn is delicious. He’s thick, hot, and so fucking hard it feels like he’s splitting you apart in the best worst way.

You both groan at the same time. He’s so deep it hurts, you can feel him everywhere, invading your body like a sickness. Your walls clench around him like a vice, wet and greedy and Riki’s head drops to your shoulder with a guttural curse.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy’s choking me. Greedy little cunt— hates me but still sucks me in like it was made for me.”

He starts fucking you hard right away. No warmup. No leniency.

Each thrust slams you back against the mirror, the glass rattling dangerously with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the studio, wet and obscene and your heels scrape against the back of his thighs as he drives into you deeper, harder, faster.

But Riki’s eyes keep dropping.

To your legs.

To those fucking heels.

His hand slides down your thigh, gripping the back of your knee and hiking it higher around his waist. His fingers trace the sharp edge of it, thumb pressing into the arch of your foot through the strap.

“These goddamn heels,” he utters against your neck, voice rough and filthy as he pounds into you. “You know what they do to me. You fucking know.”

You hook your leg to his waist, heel digging into the back of his thigh.

“Shit —look at you,” he pants, eyes dark as he fucks you stupid. He can finally admit just how much he loves your legs, anything that’s yours really.

You claw at his back, nails digging through his shirt and hhe yanks your hair, forcing your head back so he can bite down on your exposed throat.

“Say it,” he demands, pounding into you relentlessly. “Say you fucking need this.”

You moan loudly, eyes fluttering. “Fuck… you—”

Riki laughs darkly and slams in harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That’s what I thought. Bratty little whore. Can’t even lie properly when I’m balls deep inside you.”

He edges you mercilessly, every time you get close, thighs shaking, walls fluttering around him, he slows down or pulls almost all the way out, leaving you clenching desperately around nothing. You whine, hips chasing him, pride crumbling under the overwhelming need.

“Beg for it,” he taunts, voice rough as gravel. “I know you can do that, can’t you?”

You shake your head, teeth gritted, stubborn to the end even as tears of frustration prick your eyes. “Fuck… you…”

Riki pulls out completely this time, leaving you empty and throbbing. You moan in frustration and snap, before he can say another word, you grab his cock— hot, slick with your arousal—and shove it back inside you yourself, forcing him deep in one rough motion.

Riki groans loudly, forehead dropping to yours and you kiss him viciously, biting his lip again as you roll your hips, taking control for one glorious second.

The pace turns frantic after that— he fucks you like he wants to break you. You meet every thrust with equal violence, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

He wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing just right as he drives into you harder.

“You gonna cum for me?” he says against your mouth. You let out a pathetic moan at that, “Yeah I know… you’re taking it so well for such a bad girl.”

This time Riki doesn’t stop. The orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, your whole body seizes, walls clamping down around him like a vice as pleasure rips through you in violent waves. You cry out, nails raking down his back, thighs shaking uncontrollably. It feels endless— white-hot, devastating.

The best thing you’ve ever tasted— no matter how hard it is to admit.

Riki follows right after you, burying himself deep with a broken groan. His hips stutter, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, cum painting your walls messily— he keeps thrusting through it, riding out every last twitch, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in harsh pants.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the studio are your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the mirror behind you. His cum drips from where you’re connected, painting your thighs in the proof of his need.

Then silence.

Heavy, stunned, devastating silence.

After that day, everything changes—and somehow stays exactly the same. Finding out Heeseung was the one who locked you both in the rehearsal room to mend for yourselves is nothing short of a surprise. But you couldn’t care less— youre way past that, way past pretending you weren’t thriving when the attention Riki gave you was —albeit still embedded within the rage— pleasurable.

You grow addicted to it, almost like an addict coming back to a terrible drug. You’d go to rehab eventually, when there’s finally enough of you left to want saving.

But not today. Today, you let yourself sink deeper— you relish in the ruins of your past, the violence that consumes you.

You know exactly what it does to you— you know how it hollows you out, how it leaves your hands shaking long after the high has worn off, yet you return anyway, chasing the familiar ache because it’s easier than learning how to live without it.

Healing can wait. Right now, there’s still comfort in the catastrophe.

You and Riki continue to ruin each other.

You spread rumors, run your mouth to whomever wants to hear it— rant about how awful he is. He leaks old trainee footage that makes you look difficult; you sabotage a schedule overlap. He makes sure a stylist “accidentally” gives you the wrong outfit for a performance. The company watches, the fans speculate. The hatred becomes public performance and private war.

But the sex never stops.

He strokes himself many times in the following weeks; in the shower, in his bed at night. Even through the thick, choking layer of disgust that never fully leaves him, he cannot stop wanting you. He comes hard every time, hating himself more with every stroke, but he keeps doing it anyway.

Touching happens anytime you can get away with it. In the locked studio again, late at night. He fucks you bent over the piano,

“Fight me while I fuck you,” he groans against your ear, one hand fisted in your hair. “I love it when you’re angry.” You scratch his arms bloody and he only rails you harder.

In the back of a company van after a late schedule, windows fogged up, his hand clamped over your mouth while he rails you from behind; you bite his fingers until they bleed and he calls you his little pain slut.

You don’t even take it personally— you’ve learned to live with the idea that the insults are a mere reflections of your self hatreds. When Riki calls you names, he’s only damning himself for falling into temptation, for needing you the way he does. You let him. Because you hate yourself just as much.

In an empty waiting room during an award show, your dress hiked up, his pants barely undone; he makes you ride him while still wearing your stage heels, the sharp points digging into his thighs as you bounce on his cock. “Look at you,” he pants— although he’ll never tell you just how devastatingly beautiful he finds you, he makes allusions to it, letting you unveil it bit by bit. “Faster, you can do it can’t you?”

Encounters multiply, Riki chokes you until you see stars— it’s a language you master by now. You slap him across the face and he laughs, blood on his lip, before flipping you over and spanking you raw; and every single time you come out bruised, wrecked and markd. He edges you for hours until you’re crying and begging and you end up riding his face until he can’t breathe, grinding down on his tongue like you want to smother him.

It’s violent, ugly; there’s nothing worth wanting about it. Nothing tender. Nothing enviable. Just two people mistaking collision for connection, trying to quiet feelings they’ve never learned to hold without destroying each other.

Your bodies are perfectly aligned. They crave each other with a violence that borders on worship. But your minds? Your souls? They cannot stand each other.

The incompatibility reveals itself slowly, then all at once. The fights grow uglier. The sex grows rougher. The silences between grow heavier.

You start avoiding each other’s eyes even when you’re buried inside one another; the hatred no longer fuels the fire—it poisons it. You hurt each other too deeply, too often, too deliberately— until there’s no coming back from some wounds.

No amount of orgasms can erase the years of betrayal.

One night, after another brutal fuck in a hotel room, you lie beside him in silence. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat and his cum is still leaking slowly down your thighs, warm and sticky, a filthy reminder of how deep he’d been inside you just minutes ago. The room smells like sex— musky, salty, desperate. The only light comes from the city glowing through the half-open curtains, casting long shadows across the bed.

You’re both on your backs, shoulders barely touching, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers— your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Your body still hums with the aftershocks— thighs sore, throat raw from his hands, lips swollen from biting and being bitten.

The ache between your legs is deep and satisfying in the worst way.

Riki’s breathing is just as ragged— his hand twitches once like he wants to reach for you, then stills. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches, until finally, you speak, voice hoarse and bitter.

“…This is so fucking stupid.”

Riki lets out a low, humorless laugh that sounds more like a exhale of pain. “Yeah. It is.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the dim light. His jaw’s tight. A fresh bite mark blooms red on his collarbone— your doing. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, then immediate disgust at yourself. He’s not yours, you shouldn’t make him look like he is.

“I don’t know why we keep doing this” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Theres no point.”

Riki doesn’t answer right away. He runs a hand over his face, then lets it drop heavily onto the mattress between you.

“Things don’t always have to have a point” he says eventually, voice rough. “we can do things that aren’t… good. Who cares.”

You swallow hard. “I do,” you admit quietly. “I let you fuck me like you want to break me.”

Riki turns his head toward you, his eyes are dark, unreadable. “You do the same thing to me. You know that right? You can say whatever you want but we’ve always been equals.”

A long silence falls again.

You feel the familiar ache in your chest— the one that has nothing to do with the rough sex and everything to do with the fact that this, whatever this is, can never be anything more.

“We’re going to destroy each other,” you say softly, almost sadly.

Riki’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t reach for you and you don’t reach for him. You both lie there, bodies still tangled, hearts completely separate, knowing full well that you’ll do it all over again the next time the opportunity arises.

Because that’s just what you do. Because the heart isn’t a courtroom; it doesn’t grant leniency, it only delivers its verdict. And the verdict, in the end, is simple: some people are destined to destroy. You and Riki were never going to be the exception— you were always going to be the cautionary tale.