𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

Yunjae stood in front of you, his pink bottom lip jutted out as he watched you patiently pull out a beanie to complete his look. The toddler had woken you up before the sun had even risen, mumbling about playing in the snow with Layla.

So here you were, dressing your four year old son for the cold winter weather. You gently placed the beanie over his head, making sure it covered even his little ears. Yunjae only stared at you before shifting his gaze over your shoulder, landing on the figure still buried beneath the thick blankets.

"Will dada come with?" he asked softly, biting his bottom lip the same way Jake did whenever he wasn't sure if what he was saying was right.

You glanced back at your still sleeping husband, who had come home late last night due to his packed schedule. Turning back to your son, you gently brushed the bangs peeking out from his beanie.

"When he wakes up, darling," you said softly. "Dad's very tired."

Yunjae merely nodded, solemn, as if having fun in the snow was somehow wrong without his father. You stood up with a soft grunt, extending your hand toward your toddler.

"Let's go, buddy."

Yunjae hesitated for a second before slipping his tiny hand into yours, his fingers curling around yours like he was anchoring himself. His grip was warm despite the cold creeping in from the windows.

"Okay.." he murmured, though his eyes flickered back to the bed one last time.

You noticed it, of course you did. Yunjae adored his father—everything felt a little less exciting if Jake wasn't there to witness it.

-

Outside, in front of the house, Yunjae ran around in the snow with Layla, his soft giggles echoing through the quiet neighborhood, accompanied only by the occasional whisper of the wind and the dog's panting.

You sat on the porch steps, a mug of hot chocolate clutched in your freezing hands as you watched your son fondly. When Layla suddenly tackled the toddler into the snow, you felt a presence settle beside you—your husband, dressed in nothing but a shirt and sweatpants, curling up next to you.

"It's snowing, Jake. What the hell are you wearing?" you muttered, setting your mug down before taking his hand in yours. He stayed silent, only leaning closer, curling further into you for warmth.

Jake's eyes remained on Yunjae, who was laughing as he tried to push Layla away, the dog jumped back and barked in glee. Yunjae sat up, snow dusting his beanie, his nose—identical to Jake's—red from the cold.

"Dada!"

Yunjae shot up, running straight toward his father and throwing his snow covered arms around him. Jake let out a soft groan, laughing sleepily as he hugged his son back despite the cold seeping through his clothes.

You tutted softly, brushing the snow off Yunjae's eyelashes.

"I'll make a snowman, watch me!" Yunjae beamed, pulling away before either of you could respond, already rolling a small mound of snow across the ground.

Taking the chance, Jake scooted closer, slipping his arms beneath your blanket before burying his face into the crook of your neck. You let out a small flinch at the cold but quickly relaxed, welcoming him into your warmth.

"You'll catch a cold," you whispered, your voice gentle as the two of you watched your son fondly, now focused on rolling the snow for his snowman's torso.

"'M lazy," he drawled, a quiet laugh escaping him when Layla suddenly jumped onto the snow Yunjae was rolling, the toddler squealing in surprise before bursting into giggles.

"You know," you began, gently rubbing circles over Jake's arm wrapped around you.

He hummed softly.

"I have the prettiest son, thanks to you."

Jake huffed out a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath still cold as it brushed your neck.

"Yeah?" he murmured, voice low and still a little rough from sleep. His arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you closer beneath the blanket.

"I think he gets that from you."

He shifted just enough to glance at Yunjae, a soft smile forming.

"Sure, he's got my genes," he added, voice quieter now, "but he's all you." His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your arm. "Carried him for nine months, raised him.. that's you."

He pressed a lazy kiss to your neck, lingering.

"Pretty things usually come from you anyway."

"Dada! Mama! Look!" Yunjae's voice rang out through the cold air as he waved, bouncing in place beside his snowman like he could barely contain himself. His cheeks were flushed pink, beanie slightly crooked, and his little gloved hands dusted with snow. All while Layla sat beside the snowman like she had contributed to it as well.

You and Jake both looked up at the same time.

Jake let out a soft chuckle, tightening his arms around you. "He's loud," he murmured, though there was nothing but fondness in his voice.

"He gets that from you," you whispered back.

"Yeah?" Jake hummed sleepily, nuzzling closer into your shoulder. "Is that a compliment, baby?"

Yunjae didn't wait any longer—he was already running toward you both, nearly slipping in the snow before catching himself with a proud little gasp.

"I made it all by myself!" he announced, pointing dramatically at the lopsided snowman like it was the greatest thing in the world.

You leaned forward slightly from the porch step, brushing snow off his sleeve. "It's really good, baby."

Jake stayed seated beside you, still half-curled in his shirt and sweatpants, eyes squinting slightly at the snowman like he was critically inspecting it. "Hmm," he murmured after a beat. "Pretty solid construction. Might survive the winter."

Yunjae gasped. "Really?!"

Jake nodded once, a soft smile on his face. "Very impressive work, buddy. Good job."

That was all it took for Yunjae to light up, bouncing on on his heels in glee before suddenly freezing mid-celebration. He placed his hands over his covered stomach.

Then he looked at you with the most serious expression a four year old could muster.

"I'm hungry," he declared.

You blinked, stunned at the sudden switch. "Already?"

"I want breakfast," he added matter-of-factly, already trudging back toward the porch like the snowman had been completed and emotionally filed away.

Jake stared after him for a second, then let out a quiet laugh against your neck.

"He just abandoned his life's work."

"He's four," you said, trying not to laugh.

"Mama, I want pancakes," he added, like it was the most urgent matter in the world, sending a longing look towards your way.

You laughed softly, standing up to follow your son inside, but before Yunjae could even reach the door, Jake shifted.

In one smooth motion, he stood from the porch, stepped forward, and scooped Yunjae up under his arms.

"Dada!" Yunjae squealed instantly, legs kicking mid-air as he was lifted like it was nothing.

Jake adjusted him easily onto his hip, holding him snug against his side despite still being in his shirt and sweatpants. "No walking away mid-ceremony," he muttered, pressing a clumsy peck on his son's red cheek.

Yunjae giggled wildly, clinging to him. "Put me down!"

"Nope."

You watched them both, shaking your head with a smile as Jake carried him toward the door anyway.

"Pancakes first," Jake said, glancing at you over his shoulder.

Yunjae nodded quickly, still laughing. "Pancakes first!"

And just like that, the snowman was forgotten—standing alone in front of the house—while your little family headed inside, warm laughter trailing behind them.

You really couldn't ask for anything more.

In the shallow stretch of the ocean, Jungwon stood with Chenwon clinging desperately to his father's trunks, sobbing.

"Take me back!" the toddler wailed, crying as he kept his iron grip on his father. Jungwon only laughed, dimples appearing as he tried to peel his son away.

Chenwon only wailed louder, calling for you as he pointed in your direction in the shore, trying to drag his father along.

"Okay, okay we'll go back," Jungwon laughed, finally relenting as he took his son's arm and guided him toward the land.

Once the toddler finally stumbled out of the water, he let go of his father and staggered back, wailing in pure betrayal. Jungwon dropped onto the sand, grinning as he watched his son.

"Chennie, you scared, baby?" you asked softly, crouching to his level. Your son nodded, sniffling and beginning to calm—until Jungwon scooped up a handful of sand and rubbed it onto his arm.

Chenwon shrieked instantly, flailing as the wet grains clung to his skin. Jungwon only laughed harder, dimples deepening as he watched.

"Appa, no more!" he wailed, swinging a tiny hand at his father's direction. Jungwon dodged easily, which only made the toddler cry harder in a failed attempt at revenge.

"Aye, real men love sand, Chennie-ah," Jungwon teased, reaching for him—but Chenwon stepped back, glaring. Then without mercy, Jungwon grabbed another handful of wet sand and smeared it on his son's bare leg.

Chenwon's scream rang louder this time, sharp enough that a few nearby people turned, confused, at the scene.

"Sweetheart, I think he's had enough." you murmured towards your husband as you watched at your wailing son in awe. He was a perfect copy of his father—same round face, same boba eyes, even the dimples. Your genes didn't stand a chance.

So even now, as he wails at full volume, you can't find it in yourself to be upset and silence him as more people are now starting to look. Because all you see is Jungwon in him—the same eyes, the same little expressions—and your chest warms at the familiarity. It doesn't replace the love you already have for your son, it just deepens it, layering something softer, something quietly fond, over everything you already feel.

Jungwon's grin softened as he wiped his sandy hands on his trunks and reached out. "Okay," he drawled gently. "Appa's sorry, Chennie. Come here—let's head back to the hotel."

Chenwon sniffled, looking at his father reluctantly, but desperate for comfort, he ran to Jungwon's open arms and wrapped his small arms around his father's neck.

Jungwon let out a small groan as he stood, smoothing his son's hair and pressed before pressing a soft kiss to his chubby cheek. Then he turned to you, hand outstretched.

You took it, and together, you started back toward the hotel.

"You know," you whispered, glancing at your now drowsy son resting on Jungwon's shoulder, "he's going to grow up rage-baiting people just like you."

Jungwon only shrugged, smiling at you.

"He's my son. It's bound to happen, baby."

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺𝖾 : jakehoonwon let’s work this out at my place.

YOU AND YANG JUNGWON WERE ENDGAME.

If there was anything that high school proved, if not the fact that most of your friends were two-faced snakes—it was that he and you were meant for forever.

You can guess that's part of the reason why he's knocking at your door again, flowers in his left hand and his phone in his right. He's drenched in depressing October rain, wearing that ridiculously adorable pout on his face.

Obviously. He knows you, and he knows how fast you drop to your knees when you see those lips curl downwards. It’s exactly why you’re holding onto the sides of your sweater, if only to stop yourself from turning that doorknob.

“I know you’re home, Y/N. Your lights are on.”

His voice is muffled through the thin wood. You take another peek through the tiny hole of your front door—his under-eyes airbrushed with a faint red, the tip of his nose all the same.

The hallway behind him stretches wide, empty, dim with decorated with wet footprints on it’s tiles. Jungwon stands in the middle of the corridor like he owns it, as if your next-door neighbours couldn’t take a step out and catch him here, sopping wet and holding flowers like this was a romantic comedy.

It looks like he’s not leaving anytime soon.

"You shouldn't have come." You respond. His ears perk up, head tilting towards the peephole. As if he can hear the hesitation behind your voice. The hurt on his face is impossible to miss. If only you weren't fresh out of the relationship, it'd make you laugh.

“Then why aren’t you telling me to leave?” He asks, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip at an attempt to soothe his anxiety.

A water droplet rolls down his temple, to his chin, and then drips onto his already soaked t-shirt.

“I just did,” you say. “Go away.”

Yang Jungwon was always terribly persistent when it came to you. Back in college, there were days where he’d lose all sense of responsibility and ditch his much needed study hours just to see his beloved girlfriend—it’s all sunshine and rainbows when he has you laid up in his sheets, no weight on his shoulders when he has your body pressed against his.

And perhaps this spoiled you. As ill-prepared as you were, you knew that Yang Jungwon taking up a job that required him to travel half across the world, multiple times a month, would do something to your relationship.

So, when employment rolls around and you’re finally split apart by your very different job scopes—the schedules, the time, the busyness of it all… it was only a matter of inevitability.

The silence used to be comfortable. It used to be the ones where your limbs could tangle together and kisses felt more lazy than anything else. Now, it’s just stretched thin over bad cell service, laggy FaceTimes and horribly mismatched timezones.

“Y/N,” he’s pleading now. The ceiling light of the sterile corridor outside is reflecting off his eyes, all glassy and persuasive. There’s also something uniquely dangerous about how he chose to wear a white tee under his leather jacket. “Please. I’m begging you, I just want to talk.”

He will not get you. You will not let him in, and you will stand firm on that.

“Please, baby. Let me see you.”

Fuck.

You take a step back from the door for a few seconds. This didn’t require a lot of thinking, apparently, because your mouth soon opened before you could even make your way back to the door.

“What do you want to talk about?”

You tiptoe to get a better, clearer view of Jungwon’s face in the glass. The arm that holds the flowers is now at his side—you can see the way his shirt clings onto his chest like this, peeking through the leather. A brief thought flashes in your mind, one that says ‘he must be freezing’, and to let him inside. You almost do.

Jungwon scrunches his nose, his free hand coming to wipe at it before he clears his throat and speaks up. “It’s been days, Y/N. You haven’t returned any of my calls, my texts. I’ve been worried.”

“Is that so? I’m fine, as you can hear from my voice. Now go home, it’s cold.”

“You don’t sound fine. Please, Y/N. I don’t want us to fight anymore.”

You let a scoff slip. “You don’t look fine, either. Even.”

Your response earns the faintest huff from him—it would’ve been a laugh in any other context, but now, his head just dips, shoulders slumping a fraction as rainwater continues to drip from his hair, sliding down in uneven trails.

“Can you just open the door?” Jungwon asks, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m not here to fight.”

He looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked to the curb. There’s a look in his eye that’s the equivalent of someone getting on their knees and practically begging, and you’re half convinced that Yang Jungwon might do just that.

He definitely would, wouldn’t he?

“Jungwon,” and for some reason—your left hand is on that doorknob. Despite already resolving that you wouldn’t let him inside your home. “I don’t want to fight, either. That’s why I want you to go away.”

“Do you still love me?”

Your voice barely reached him. “Jungwon—“

“Please.”

And perhaps that's why your friends describe you as the one to die first in a horror movie, or the last to have a spine, or simply the one who can't quite loosen her grip on a love she's carried for far too long.

The door pulls towards you, slowly, not without that signature creak and soft thud against your already-chipped wall.

Yang Jungwon stands before you, towering, drenched but significantly drier than thirty minutes ago when he was first begun loitering outside your door. His hair sticks in wet clumps to his forehead, temples, anywhere that’s too long.

The faint tremor in his body makes you want to pull him inside. Wrapping a towel around him to let him dry and sending him off would probably be a very good idea—there’s nothing between you now, no girlfriend-y duties to fulfil other than making sure he doesn’t freeze to death, though you’re sure that anyone (girlfriend or not) would do the same.

Jungwon’s eyes widen when he finally sees you. You’re leaning against the door like you’re expecting him to walk inside, and he does—though he keeps his head low and his shoulders squared as it happens.

“I’ll get a towel for you. Give me a minute.” You manage, back facing him. When you finally shut the door, your body turns back around, only to watch him standing in the middle of your living room like he has no clue where to go.

“Okay.”

His voice comes out quieter than you expect—like the gloomy cold has taken it’s place in his chest. Up close, it’s worse. Or better. You’re not very sure.

You can see everything now, without the distortion of glass or distance to soften it—the way the rain has dragged his hair down into uneven, damp strands against his soft skin. A few pieces curl slightly at the ends, darker than normal, dripping slow, accidental droplets that trace down the side of his face.

One of them slips along the sharp line of his jaw. Your eyes can’t help but to follow obediently.

It disappears beneath the collar of his shirt—if it can even be called that right now. It’s barely even visible with the white fabric being completely soaked through, plastered to him like a second skin.

It’s clinging to the planes of his chest—the faint definition beneath is dizzying, the steady rise and fall of his breathing being the only thing you can zero in on. It leaves very little to imagination, and you hate how quickly your gaze has to flick back up to his face like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

It’s most probably because it isn’t. Reminder that you should not be staring at your ex-boyfriend’s chest like he’s still yourboyfriend.

“You were going to get me a towel,” the corner of his lips twitches into a smile. “What happened to that?”

You swallow, pushing yourself off the door a little too quickly. Jungwon’s lips are pursed together, a faint blush painted across his cheeks, and he’s staring at you like he knows he’s got you.

“You’ll be fine,” you force a mocking smile and all Jungwon can do is let out a chuckle—you’re making your way towards the kitchen, his eyes following your figure as it moves further away from his.

You make your way into the kitchen with purpose that feels rehearsed now, with a mind that’s anything but steady. Yang Jungwon hasn’t been in your home in weeks, and you’ve begun to accept the fact that he might become a stranger to this place altogether. There’s still traces of him—in the bathroom, in your bed, on your study desk. The photos of your first trip together are still framed in the hallway, too.

The overhead light flicks on, too bright and exposing when Jungwon’s still staring into you. For a second, you busy yourself with nothing—hands hovering over the counter, opening a cabinet you didn’t need to open, closing it again just as fast.

Behind you, you can feel him. You don’t have to look to know his eyes never left you.

There’s a faint sound of movement—his shoes sliding against the floor, quieter now that they’re no longer dripping as much. He doesn’t follow immediately, though. He lingers, like he’s taking in the space, re-familiarising himself with something he still knows by heart.

By the time you reach for the glass, your fingers are already shaking.

It’s right where it always is—second shelf, slightly to the left—but you still fumble with it, knocking it lightly against the others before pulling it free. The sound is small, but in the quiet, it feels like the only thing you want to focus on.

You set it down on the counter, reaching for the water dispenser until—

“Still in the same place,” Jungwon says from behind you. “You kept it. My cat mug.”

The smell of rain is penetrates your nose almost instantaneously. “I kept most things.”

You can guess what he looks like this close, if you were to turn around right now. Dripping, cold, clothes still sticking to him like half an hour in the warmth did him no favours. His swollen eyes, flushed face, and lips that say ‘please’ like they know exactly what it does to you.

Your grip tightens around the mug. You click on the warm water option, and the dispenser starts heating almost instantly. A soft mechanical hum fills the silence before the first trickle hits ceramic.

Steam curls up from the mug in thin, wavering ribbons, dissolving into the air before it can settle anywhere. You don’t move to pick it up. Your hand stays there, resting against the counter, fingers still slightly curled from how tightly you were holding on a second ago.

“I didn’t think you would.”

You keep your eyes on the mug. “It’s a mug, Jungwon. Not that serious.”

The water stops abruptly. Steam curls above it, fading into the air. You leave it there.

“Y/N L/N.”

When you turn around, Jungwon’s leaning against the counter behind you. Close enough for you to see the outline of his abdomen through the fabric of his tee, but far enough not to her the chatter of his teeth and the shiver of his breathing. You still have to tilt your head to meet his eyes properly.

“What?” you ask, but it comes out flatter than you intend, like you’re trying to hold something back from your own voice.

It’s only after a painfully long minute of forcing yourself to look him in the eye, does he speak.

“I miss you.”

The arrangement of flowers are somewhere on the coffee table. His jacket must be hanging somewhere on the coat hanger, though, the wet fabric of his shirt refuses to let your attention stray anywhere else to confirm.

Right now, Yang Jungwon’s stood in front of you, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. You’re standing only one foot apart, your back pressed against the cold edge of your kitchen counter as his on the island—the cup of water stands stagnant behind you, waiting to be picked up.

The space between you feels thinner than it did seconds ago. Warmer, too. Charged in a way that makes your pulse pick up, where your body is suddenly too aware of every inch of distance left between the two of you, and also is desperately yearning to close it.

It would be nice to smell his cologne after weeks of trying to forget it. Every time you thought you did, it would waft around your apartment like a little ghost.

“Won—“

Up close, everything about him feels amplified. The damp fabric of his shirt has started to dry unevenly, clinging in some places, loosening in others, but still outlining him in a way that makes it hard not to notice. The subtle definition beneath, the steady expansion of his chest with each breath, the way his shoulders remain just slightly tense like he’s holding himself back from closing the rest of the distance all at once.

You know he wants to. There’s that half of you that wishes he just would.

“Please,” Jungwon murmurs. “Tell me you miss me too.”

His right arm reaches out—you don’t stop it. His thumb brushes the side of your hip, and you don’t stop it either. You don’t even think about pulling yourself away from the feeling of him on you again.

Jungwon knows what he’s doing.

His other arm follows suite, before they wrap around your waist completely—his large hands always had no issues doing this, pulling you in without any real effort—or perhaps you were always just drawn to him, like a magnet, unable to ever really stay away.

He exhales softly as he feels your warm body press against him. The sound brushes against your skin, and it reminds you of how wrong yet right this feels; your arms do what they’ve always known, wrapping around his torso like pushing him away was never an option.

He’s cold, and still, you melt anyway.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“You’ve already said that.”

His large hands are splayed across your back—his calloused fingertips from the dedication to the gym, his larger-than-before shoulders that stretch across your smaller frame—it’s just as overwhelming as the first day you met.

Your warmth hits him like a wave, and for a moment, his hands freeze. Your fingers come up to the blades of his shoulders, running against the tiny dips and rises of his muscles; tonight feels like anything but reality, and instead, it’s two months ago when things were still fine and Jungwon was still yours.

He swears he still is, and you try to forget it. Too much time apart does things to you that you’d rather shove down and erase completely—but when your ex-lover is cold, shivering, clinging to your body like it’s the only heat that could get his blood moving—it bubbles right back up. It simmers, boils over and spills.

“You’re freezing, Won,” you mumble, “I really think you should—“

And maybe you have familiarity to blame, or comfort or naivety, because you lean into Yang Jungwon’s touch just as easily as you pushed it away. His hands are coming up your waist, stopping right at your neck—and what else can you do in this moment other than stare into those big, pretty irises of his?

Jungwon’s hand settles firmly at the side of your neck, his palm warm despite the lingering chill in his skin. His fingers curve just enough for you to feel the faint pressure when you swallow, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch—and the moment he realises your breath is shaking, the glint in his eye makes you shiver.

His thumb drags slowly along the line of your jaw, then back again, slow, like he’s retracing something long committed to memory.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, breath ghosting against your lips as your foreheads touch. “Please, Y/N. Don’t shut me out again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

For a moment, all you can focus on is how close he is—the warmth of his breath, the way his hand holds you just firmly enough to keep you there, the faint tension in his fingers like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

There’s nothing except for the low hum of the city, and your hearts echoing in tandem as his body presses closer against yours. The rain is merciless tonight, unrelenting, pounding against the glass doors of your balcony like it wanted to be let inside—for now, the warm yellow of your hallway lamp bathes you and Jungwon in that comfortable hue, a stark contrast to the blue cold outside.

His hands feel frozen against your skin.

“You’re always leaving, Jungwon,” you mutter, refusing to meet his eyes despite the distance. “Even when you’re in front of me, you’re gone. I never have all of you.”

He swallows thickly, eyes still locked on yours. Your irises peek through your lashes, blinking slowly up at his.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is the part where you fall to your knees for Yang Jungwon—the part which you tried endlessly to avoid up until today. It’s when the line between logic and everything else blurs, and all you can see is him.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Jungwon mutters, thumb caressing the patch of skin under your jawline. You lean into it like it means something. “We’ll talk about this. I can’t lose you—“

“Jungwon,” you interrupt, your touch firm over his knuckles, offering little resistance to the way he holds your jaw like this was all normal. “What good would it do us?”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

His hand stills under yours, your fingers resting over his knuckles as if you could stop him, or maybe stop yourself. His gaze doesn’t leave your face, not even when you’re actively avoiding his.

There’s something in his expression now—more careful than before, fully aware of the fact that you’re no longer his. You could really kick his ass out if you wanted to.

He’s thinking carefully for once. Instead of just reaching for you, the way he always does.

“If it doesn’t…” he starts, voice lower, rougher than before, “if it doesn’t fix anything—”

He exhales softly, the sound brushing your lips again, closer; his thumb shifts under your jaw, tilting your face up just enough that running from him becomes impossible—it’s not like you’ve been putting in much effort to do that, anyway.

“Then let me have you like this,” he finishes. “One last time.”

His nose bumps against yours in that old, messy fashion that you’ve never nailed. Kissing Jungwon always involves not knowing how fast, how deep to go, because it always ends up in something more intimate than it starts out. For the first thirty seconds, your ex lover lets himself feel—feel what he’s lost for weeks, reminding, retracing.

Forty seconds, and he has his hands wandering all over your warm body like they have no idea where to stay.

Fifty, and they’re running down your back and slipping under that thin, too-tight baby tee that you always wear to bed—fifty-six, and his tongue is somewhere tangled with yours.

“S-shit—you taste so fucking sweet.” he mumbles against your lips before letting you press your body further against his—there’s multiple sirens going off in your head by this point, in which you deliberately ignore, as one does when they have someone like him against them.

Jungwon’s a mess by the time your legs hook around his waist. His hands do the work, looping around your thighs and lifting you up with no real effort: just a small huff from all your weight pressing against his chest, and a (very pathetic) moan that strangles itself out of his throat when you grind against his crotch.

“You missed me?” He smiles against your lips, and it’s an understatement when you say he’s just hungry for you. Doesn’t even give you an opportunity to answer, instead, going for the exposed patch of skin on your neck, laying so beautifully for him.

“W-Won,” you whimper when he sets you on top of your cold, sterile kitchen island—there were months prior to this where you made pasta together on this same surface. “Please—“

“It’s okay,” he says. “I got you.”

It’s not like you’ve never had sex before.

It’s just… you don’t really have sex with ex- boyfriends. Normally. Even so, given that fact, it doesn’t stop you from rutting against Yang Jungwon like your life depends on it, nor does it stop him from undoing the drawstring of your shorts and pulling it riiight down.

“See,” he kisses his teeth, a cocky smile growing on his face—it sends blood right up to your face, watching him watch you, feeling him feel his way into your panties. “All that talk about pushing me away. So pointless.”

His hand slips beneath the band, thick fingers running down your slit, between your folds before coming back up and applying that sickening pressure to your clit. “She miss me, too?”

You’re soaked through by the time Yang Jungwon gets his middle finger at your entrance—teasing, letting only the tip graze your insides. Your jaw’s locked, hung open from trying to draw even breaths into your lungs. “Wooonnn… please. Don’t fucking tease—“

“Aw,” he pouts, eyes flicking back down to where his large hand stretches the fabric of your panties thin. He’s refused to slip them off. Soaking the back of his hand in slick, he wonders—if only for a moment—how it would feel if it was his cock instead. “Don’t get needy on me now.”

You gasp when he pushes past that tight ring of muscle—his finger swallowed whole by your dripping cunt. It curls almost instinctively, intensively, because what kind of man would Yang Jungwon be if he didn’t memorise this?

“Right here,” he mumbles, head hanging low, observing the way the slippery slide of your walls let him pump his fingers so effortlessly. “Feels good, baby? Wanna tell me how much you missed it?”

“Shut.. s-shut up, fuck—“

You choke on a moan—your body’s going into a lock. From sitting upright on your elbows to back arching off the marble, your head’s thrown back when Jungwon adds another finger ‘just for fun’.

His middle and ring finger curl inside of you. The squelching sounds is too much to bear; heat is crawling up your neck like it wants you to drown in it, and as a response, your hands come up to hide the humiliation written all over your face.

“Getting shy on me?” Jungwon mutters, before his free hand darts to pry your wrists away from your cheeks. His fingertips are brushing against that spongy, tingly bundle of nerves inside your core—everything in the room seems reduced to the electrifying feeling that’s buzzing inside your veins, surging, making your head spin.

“Yeah,” his stupidly long fingers are starting to make you see a new universe now, “forgot how fast you cum on my fingers. So cute.”

“F-fuckfuckfuck,” you squeal—your body feels like it’s locking up. The only thing your mind lets you repeat over and over is Jungwon, Jungwon, Jungwon; Jungwon in that shirt that’s still wet, Jungwon that knows your body so well, Jungwon that’s making sure you cum on his fingers or face at least once before he does anything with himself.

You see it in the way his cock presses against the edge of the counter, and the pained expression on his face like he’s just about ready to come undone. It’s always like that with him, always ready to give you everything he can offer if it meant you felt good.

“Fuck, almost forgot how pretty you look like this,” Jungwon mutters under his breath, though you barely catch it with the angels singing in your ears. Your head thighs are spread shamelessly on the cold marble, juices dripping down your inner thigh and spilling over onto the shiny surface—in his eyes, it almost glistens. “Always so damn nasty for me. Look at you.”

The remark would’ve been embarrassing in any other context. It’s too bad that Yang Jungwon knows exactly how to push your buttons, knows precisely what words to spit out of that nasty mouth to get you salivating. It’s dehumanising, really. Animalistic, the way he has your mind reduced to just slush—and though he can get soooo mean, it just doesn’t matter when it gets you cumming all over his fingers by the end of the night.

Most of the night is spent in a haze. Your vision is blurry, but you most definitely remember some parts in passing. You remember sliding down to your knees and almost choking on how big Jungwon was, and how he made you sit on his face by the second hour—though, to be fair, that was a prerequisite.

You definitely remember how he peeled his shirt off, and how he picked you up again like you were nothing, and how he tossed you onto the bed like it didn’t physically hurt to be apart from him for that split second.

You remember how he laughed at you, only to lean in close and press a searing kiss to the exposed skin of your neck—trailing down, wet and hot, until his teeth could pinch the hem of your soaked panties.

You remember how he pulled them off, sliding them down your legs with nothing but a sinful smirk, pink lace caught between his pearly whites like it didn’t get your stomach churning all over again; pupils blown, face flushed red, heart beating in a frenzy when he uses his tongue to drop them onto the floor.

And you can’t, and will never forget the way he’s spreading your reddened thighs with his palms, fucking into you like this is truly the last time he’ll ever see your face.

Every thrust of his hips against yours knocks the wind out of your lungs. You feel him so impossibly deep that your throat feels clogged—the stretch makes your mind go numb, and God, how could you forget how big Yang Jungwon is when he’s bruising your poor cunt like this?

“Good fucking girl,” and his lips are pressed up against yours like it has nowhere else to go. “Made for me, I swear—so fucking perfect.”

His length pumps in and out of you with no real effort, all sloppy and squelching like there wasn’t anyone else in this neighbourhood to be considerate of. The backboard’s hitting the wall, chipping at the paint, and for a brief moment you let yourself roll your eyes at the thought of painting it over—just when you thought you’d never have to again.

“F-fuhhh…” you drawl, hands coming up around his neck at some attempt at stabilizing yourself. Every hit has your toes curling and your body rocking, nails digging into the flesh of his clean, well-sculpted back. “S-shit, Jungwon—feels so deep—“

“Yeah?” he laughs, low and short-lived before he feels you squeeezing on him. “Fuck, you’re so cute. Acting like you haven’t taken me everywhere in this apartment.”

You’re close to tears by this point. Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, now soaked in sweat instead of rain, and it should disgust you—it should be revolting, the way most people’s bodily fluids are, but you’re laid here anyway— glossy lips sucking on his neck, where you know he’s most sensitive, taking in his scent like it’s all you’ll ever know.

He smells so fucking good when he’s fucking you like it’s his life’s purpose.

You feel his pulse under your tongue. You also feel the way his cock is swelling up in your walls, taking up more and more and more of you, until you’re gasping for air and his pace is almost fucking frantic. Jungwon feels like he’s losing himself in you.

“See,” he moans, breath all hot and loud, leaning right into your ear like it isn’t the most filthy thing he’s done. “You’ll always belong to me.”

And as your friends would say*: you did this to yourself*. The desperate nods come as soon as the last word leaves his lips—your ears pick up on every grunt and huff from him, his big arms caging you in once again as you’re trying to recollect your thoughts. Everything’s too much, the room smells like sex and sin and everything you’ve resolved to stay away from, with the man you love right in the centre of it all.

“J-Jungwon, fuck, I can’t,” you gasp when you feel your throbbing clit dragging against his length, impossibly hard and aching for more of you. “We can’t do this—“

“Shhh,” and his hands are so, so gentle when they come up to caress your tear-stained cheeks. You’re sniffling like this isn’t the best high you’ve experienced in your life—you just lean into his touch, pathetic, staring into his pseudo-soft expression as if it had any real concern. “Yes, you can—and you will.”

Jungwon feels you clamp down on him just then, jaw going slack at just how heavenly your pussy feels. It’s criminal that he’s almost forgotten it, forgotten how well you take him, how good and pliant you get when he’s splitting you open—how you welcome him inside every time, despite all your little pleas and stubbornness.

He knows how to get to you. Yang Jungwon knows that nobody will ever fuck you like how he does, and that every man that comes after will have to remember that you belong to him before anyone else. They’ll have to remember that you get all shy when he whispers in your ear, or that you can cum just from his middle finger alone.

Everyone will know. They don’t have a choice.

“Fuuuck,” he rasps, nose bumping into your jaw as he breathes you in. You smell so much like him that he’s beginning to lose his very little composure remaining. “Gonna cum, Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum—“

“Hngh, ‘m close too,” your arms find themselves tightening around him, desperately searching for something to hold onto. His muscles are flexing with every desperate rut, every frantic roll of his hips, and God, he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t going dumb at the idea of filling you up. You’d be all warm inside, his cock plugging you closed as he empties himself into your battered cunt, and you’d take every single drop of it like it was what you’ve always meant to do.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers, and though it makes your eyes shoot open, you find yourself muttering the same phrase back to him. There’s something sweet in the way he leans in close, just to give you a tender kiss, and then the room flips upside down when his tongue is sliding at your bottom lip again; soon enough, he gets messy, and you’re moaning into each other like you’re the only two people on this street.

“Always mine, mineminemine,” Jungwon huffs. “Don’t ever forget it, mm? You belong to me.”

It crashes into you. Blinding, deafening, like something in you just exploded after the pressure’s built up for months.

You’re soaking him shamelessly, hot and dizzying—Jungwon’s moans sound like they’ve been clipped straight from a porno, disgustingly loud, and still: it makes your orgasm shake. Electricity is buzzing through you, and just what does your ex know to do when you’re crumbling like this?

Go deeper.

“Fuckfuckfuck—w-wait, Jungwon!”

Your pleas mean nothing. He’s being selfish, and he knows it. He doesn’t care if it’s too much, he doesn’t care if you’re crying because he’s too big, he doesn’t care if you’re going to cum on his cock for the fifth time in an hour.

Oh, and he definitely doesn’t care that you’re not together anymore. That’s never stopped him, has it?

“Shit,” his hips snap into you, ruthless, unforgiving, bruising your cervix like it’s personally wronged him. “Wanna get back together, mm?”

“You’re… hngh—you’re crazy, Jungwon!”

“Worth a try.”

⊹

The front door clicks open a little before five, and you don’t even look up from the stove because you already know it’s him.

Your baby Naya’s been fussing for the past ten minutes, crying every time she’s not in your arms. So here you are stirring pasta with one hand, resting her on your hip with the other.

“Hey,” Riki calls out, shoes getting kicked off somewhere in the hallway. “I’m home.”

“I’m in the kitchen, baby,” you answer, shifting Naya higher up on your. hip. Her tiny fist gripping the fabric of your shirt.

He appears a second later, bag still slung over his shoulder, hair messy from the day. The second he sees you struggling with a pot, a spoon, and a baby, his expression softens completely.

“Oh—” he starts, already stepping closer. “Hey, hey.”

You lean toward him so he can kiss you, his lips brushing yours softly. Before he can even pull away, you sigh.

“Can you take her? She’s getting heavy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got her,” he says immediately, sliding his hands under Naya and taking her from your arms. She settles against his chest the moment he has her.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that really soft tone he only uses with her. “Hi, angel. Daddy missed you so much today.”

Naya lets out a tiny sound and his face lights up like she just told him a secret.

“Did you hear that?” he asks you, eyes wide. “She knows i’m her dad.”

You snort, turning back to the stove. “She made the exact same noise when Jay held her.”

“That’s different,” he says seriously, adjusting her so her head rests under his chin. “He didn’t help make her.”

He sways gently from side to side without even thinking about it, one hand supporting her back, the other patting her butt in a slow rhythm. You watch him for a second longer than you mean to, the way his shoulders relax now that he’s holding her.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you. “How was your day, mama?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Chaotic.”

He winces sympathetically. “Yeah?”

“She cried all afternoon,” you add. “Wouldn’t nap unless I was holding her. The second I put her down—” you make a little exploding motion with your hand. “I ended up just laying down with her.”

Riki clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Little drama queen. Gets that from you.”

He grins, then looks back down at Naya. “Were you crying a lot today, huh? Giving mommy a hard time?”

Naya blinks up at him, completely unimpressed.

He shifts her slightly so she’s facing you both and tilts her toward the stove. “Look, angel. You see that? Mommy’s cooking pasta for us. She’s been doing everything today.”

He looks back at you. “She’s calm.”

“Yeah. For now,” you say. “I’m not trusting it.”

“She’s calm because i’m holding her.” He jokes. You roll your eyes, smiling.

He presses a quick kiss to your cheek. His hand settles at your waist, thumb rubbing there while he talks.

He watches her face for a second, then looks back at you. “You okay though?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He straightens, adjusting Naya in his arms. “Alright. You cook. I’ll walk her around a bit.”

By the time dinner’s done and Naya’s fed, Riki clears the table without being asked, scraping plates and sliding everything into the dishwasher. You hear cabinets opening and closing while you’re already in the bathroom, getting things ready.

You fill the small baby tub in the sink, checking the temperature with your own hand. Not too hot, not too cold. You lay out her towel on the dresser nearby, tiny pajamas folded next to it, diaper ready.

Naya fusses a little when you undress her, her face scrunching up like she’s about to cry. “I know, I know,” you murmur, lowering her into the water slowly. “Just a bath, baby. Promise.”

Once she’s in, she relaxes almost immediately. Her arms float, legs kicking gently, and you smile without even realizing it. You wash her carefully, talking to her the whole time like she understands every word.

“Long day, huh?” you whisper. “You tired now?”

She makes a small noise, blinking up at you, and you lean closer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mommy’s gonna give you your bottle after this and then you’ll fall right asleep.”

Riki shows up in the doorway a few minutes later. “How’s it going in here?”

“She’s being good,” you say. “Can you grab her in a sec? I’ll get her bottle ready.”

He nods and steps closer. “Yeah, I got her.”

You lift Naya carefully and hand her to him, still warm and damp. He takes her with both arms, she’s already smiling at him.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, already turning away.

Riki lays her down gently on the dresser, patting her dry with slo. “Okay,” he says softly. “Let’s get you ready for bed.”

He wraps her in the towel, pulling the little teddy bear hood over her head. It’s slightly too big, slipping down over her forehead, and he chuckles softly as he adjusts it.

“Look at you,” he says quietly. “All clean.”

He lifts her against his chest and starts pacing the bathroom, small steps, swaying side to side.

“Are you gonna let mommy and daddy sleep tonight, angel?”

“I doubt that.” You say with a smile as you step in and reach out to take her from Riki.

The bottle’s ready by the time you carry Naya into her room, the lights dimmed low. You change her slowly, slipping her into her sleeping bag and settling into the chair next to the crib. She latches onto the bottle easily, eyes already heavy, her tiny hand resting against your finger.

You sway a little as she drinks, humming under your breath without really thinking about it.

She’s almost done when Riki quietly steps into the doorway.

You immediately shoot him a look and lift a finger. “Shh.”

He freezes mid-step, and he nods. He walks over slowly, like the floor might creak if he’s not careful.

When Naya’s eyes finally close, you stand carefully, holding her close. Riki leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, barely touching her.

“Night, angel,” he whispers.

You lower her into the crib, hovering for a second just to make sure she stays asleep. She doesn’t stir.

Back in the living room, you collapse onto the couch without a word. You turn the TV volume down and settle between Riki’s legs, his back against the armrest, your head resting against his chest. He automatically reaches up, fingers combing through your hair, slow and familiar.

You melt into it almost immediately.

A few minutes pass. Your breathing evens out, your body getting heavier against him. He notices before you’re fully asleep, his thumb brushing your temple.

“Baby,” he murmurs softly. “Let’s go to bed.”

You hum in response, barely awake.

He smiles to himself. “We’re both tired,” he adds. “And she’s gonna wake us up in like three hours anyway.”

You nod against his chest, eyes closed, already half gone. He gives your hair one last gentle stroke before shifting carefully.

“Come on,” he whispers.

You barely talk while getting ready for bed. Brushing teeth side by side, changing into pj’s.

You crawl into bed first and roll onto your side, slipping one leg over his. He pulls you closer without thinking, arm settling around your waist like it belongs there. You press a quick kiss to his lips, sleepy and warm.

“Goodniht,” you murmur.

“Night, baby,” he answers, already half out.

Sleep comes fast.

A sharp, loud cry cuts through your sleep a few hours later.

You both stir, no one moves right away. You groan into the pillow, half-awake, delusional enough to think maybe she’ll stop on her own if you don’t move. Riki shifts beside you, dragging the blanket up like it might block the sound.

The cry comes again, louder.

You mumble “She’s crying.”

He lets out a long breath through his nose. “Mmh. I know.”

Another scream.

You nudge his side with your knee, signing for him to go.

He rolls onto his back “You go.”

You crack one eye open. “No. I went yesterday.”

He turns his head toward you, eyes barely open. “I’ll do it for the rest of the week if you go right now.”

You shake your head and make a fake exaggerated snoring sound.

There’s a dramatic sigh before he pushing himself up.

You smile into the pillow as he drags himself out of bed.

You hear his footsteps down the hall. The door to Naya’s room opens, and a moment later you hear his voice through the baby monitor. “Hey Naya… hey, it’s okay. Daddy’s here.”

He lifts her carefully, cradling her against his chest. “What’s all this about, huh?” he whispers. “It’s the middle of the night.”

The crying doesn’t stop.

He sways slowly, pacing the room. “Shh… shh. I got you. It’s okay.” He presses his cheek to her hair, rocking her back and forth. “Sleep babygirl…”

He tries the pacifier. She takes it for half a second then spits it out and wails louder.

He exhales a tired laugh. “Okay. Got it.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, bouncing her softly on his knee. “What do you want from me, hm?” he murmurs. “I’m doing my best here.”

He stands again, walking slow circles around the room, whispering nonsense to her, anything that might work.

“Shh Naya… yeah… daddy’s got you…”

Five minutes pass. She’s still upset. You hear it all from the bedroom. The crying hasn’t softened at all.

With a sigh, you push yourself out of bed.

The door to Naya’s room is open. Riki’s standing there, rocking her, looking tired but patient.

“She won’t—” he starts, then stops when you step closer.

You take her from his arms without a word.

“Shh sweetie, mommy’s here.”

Almost instantly, the crying softens. Then quiets. Her body relaxes against you like she’s been waiting for this.

Riki blinks. “You’re kidding.”

You sway gently, “Don’t be mad at me,” you whisper. “Be mad at her.”

Her body relaxes in your arms. “Shhh…” You whisper once more to Naya.

He watches for a second, then shakes his head with a tired laugh. “Does she hate me or what.”

“She doesn’t,” you say softly. “She’s just a mama’s girl.”

He snorts. “Nah. She’s definitely a daddy’s girl.”

You glance at him, smiling. You turn and show him Naya’s sleepy eyes in your arms. “You see that? Mama’s girl.”

“Alright then. Next time, I’m pretending I didn’t hear anything.”

You snort quietly. “Sure you are.”

Riki steps closer, carefully helping you lay her back down in the crib.

—

The next morning the baby monitor cracks softly. No crying, just little noises and rustling.

Riki blinks awake, eyes still heavy, listening.

She’s awake. He has like 5 minutes to get her out of bed before she starts crying.

He glances at the clock, he looked but his mind didn’t process the time, he believes he saw an 8. You’re still asleep, arm draped over his waist, breathing slow and even. He smiles to himself and carefully slides out from under your hold.

He slips out of the bedroom and into Naya’s room, closing the door softly behind him. He pulls the curtaint open just enough to let the morning light in.

Naya’s already wide awake, kicking her legs, eyes bright when she spots him.

“Hi angel,” he whispers, instantly softer. “Good morning.”

He leans over the crib and picks her up, tucking her against his chest. She lets out a little sound that almost sounds like a laugh, lips curling up in a gummy smile.

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs. “You’re happy to see me now?”

He rocks her gently, pacing the room. “Mama’s still sleeping, okay? We’re gonna let her sleep.”

He looks down at her little face. “You hungry?” he asks quietly. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He carries her into the living room and sets her gently in the playpen, dropping a toy near her so she’s distracted for a second. He moves around the kitchen, preparing her bottle on autopilot, still half asleep.

Once it’s ready, he scoops her back up and settles onto the couch, turning the TV on low. Some random comedy show fills the room, entertaining enough for now.

He props her in his arm and feeds her, watching her drink while his head leans back against the couch. His eyes keep slipping shut, then opening again, making sure she’s okay.

“Big breakfast today?,” he murmurs. “All that crying got you hungry.”

After she finishes, he slides down so he’s lying back on the couch, a pillow under his head. He places her on his chest, holding her securely so she’s sitting on his chest.

She stares at his face like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

He wiggles his fingers in front of her. “What?” he asks softly. “You got something to say?”

She answers with little noises, her tiny hands grab his fingers.

He laughs quietly. “Yeah? That’s crazy. Tell me more.”

She babbles again, completely serious.

He nods along like he understands every word. “Mm. You’re a daddy’s girl, huh Naya?”

She lets out a high pitched noise in return. Riki smiles and nods. “Yeah that’s right. Don’t tell mama.”

Riki doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

One second he’s blinking at the TV, listening to Naya’s tiny sounds, the next his eyes are closed and he’s passed out on the couch. His head tilts slightly to the side, mouth parted just a little. Naya stays awake though, calm, resting on his chest. One of his arms is still wrapped around her, hand firm against her back, holding her there on pure instinct.

Ten minutes later, you wake up to an empty spot beside you.

The bedroom is quiet. Naya isn’t crying. That’s what makes your heart speed up just a little. You slip out of bed and peek into her room. Empty.

You head towards the living room, and the moment you see them, your chest tightens in the best way.

Riki is sprawled across the couch, completely knocked out, one arm curled around your daughter. Naya’s lying on her stomach on his chest, awake and peaceful.

Your heart flutters, you pull your phone out without thinking and take a picture.

Then you step closer and carefully slide Naya out of his arms.

“Good morning, baby,” you whisper to her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Did daddy feed you already?”

She makes a small noise in response.

You smile and glance back at Riki. “Yeah, he’s tired,” you murmur. “You’ve been waking him up every night.”

You place Naya into the playpen and head into the kitchen. You make breakfast without much thought, ccereal for yourself, a sandwich for him.

When you’re done, he’s still asleep, taking up most of the couch.

You carry his plate over and set it on the small table, then look down at him for a second, amused.

Then you climb right on top of him.

He groans immediately, brows furrowing, hands lifting instinctively to your hips.

“Excuse me, sir,” you say softly. “Move your long legs out of the way.”

He groans, eyes still closed. “Mm… five more minutes.”

“You already took fifteen.”

He squints one eye open, then the other, finally registering you sitting on him. “Hmm,” he mutters. “Good morning to me.”

“You fed the baby and passed out?” you say, leaning down.

He scoffs, rubbing his face. “Mhm.”

He pulls you down into his chest, arms wrapping around you.

You press a kiss against his jaw. “I made you breakfast.”

“Thank you baby.” He mumbles with his eyes closed, no intention of getting up just yet.

You’re tired, he’s tired. You rest on his chest for a second, listening to his heartbeat, the quiet sounds of Naya in the background, the morning sun filling the room.

You both might fall asleep again while the breakfast is waiting to be eaten, but you don’t really care. You just want this moment to last a little longer.

⊹