sakamoto_hey

He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.

You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.

But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.

You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.

Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.

Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”

He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.

“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”

You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you. 

By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.

You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.

Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.

A shoulder bumps into his.

“What’s with that look on your face?”

Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”

Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.

══════════════════

Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.

Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.

He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”

The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway? 

“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”

He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”

“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”

“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”

Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.

“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”

He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.

“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”

A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.

“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”

The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.

“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”

“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”

Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”

“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”

Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”

Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.

“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”

You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.

══════════════════

True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.

At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.

You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.

It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.

You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”

“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”

Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”

You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”

“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”

Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”

Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”

The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.

“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”

You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.

“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”

Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”

“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”

“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”

“I’m serious, Mingi.”

“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”

You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”

The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.

As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.

Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?

══════════════════

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.

At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”

You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”

He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”

The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.

“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”

For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for. 

“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”

“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”

He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”

A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”

“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.

“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”

“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”

“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.

“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”

You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.

“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.

“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”

His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.

“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.

You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”

Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.

“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.

“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”

He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”

The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”

Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”

You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.

“You don’t have practice on Friday?”

“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”

“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”

As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.

“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”

“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”

He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”

“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.

His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.

You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.

As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.

Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”

“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”

Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”

You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.

“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.

As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.

══════════════════

The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.

You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”

“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.

“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”

Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”

You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”

His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”

The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.

Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.

“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.

His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“

“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.

The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.

“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”

He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”

“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”

You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.

“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”

“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”

You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”

“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”

“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”

His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”

“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”

“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”

The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.

“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”

“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.

“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”

The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.

══════════════════

As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.

“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.

“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.

He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.

The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?

You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.

His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.

You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.

“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”

You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.

I will, doll. Thank you. 

On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.

When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.

“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.

“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.

“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”

You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”

“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.

“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”

You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”

“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”

You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.

“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”

He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”

“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”

“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”

“Mingi—” 

“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”

You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope. 

“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”

His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”

As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled. 

Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.

“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”

“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”

“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”

You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”

“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”

“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.

“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”

══════════════════

On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.

“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”

You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”

Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.

“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”

You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.

“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.

She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”

You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.

You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.

“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.

You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You  find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.

You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.

You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.

He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.

You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.

The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”

You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.

The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.

“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”

You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.

“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”

“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.

“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.

“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.

You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.

“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”

“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”

The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.

“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”

Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”

“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.

“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”

You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”

Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.

“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”

Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”

“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.

The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.

After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”

You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”

He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.

“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”

“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.

“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.

You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.

“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”

He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”

“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.” 

Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”

His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.

“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”

You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”

And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”

“In your dreams.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.

“You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”

You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”

“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”

“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”

He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”

Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”

“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.

You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”

“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”

His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”

“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”

“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

“You do,” 

You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.

“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.

“Is it, doll?” 

There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.

“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”

The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.

“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—

“Yo! Mingi!”

The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.

“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”

Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”

Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”

You hesitate. And Mingi notices.

His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”

You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.

“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”

His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”

“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”

“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.” 

There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.

“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.

“I will.”

You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.

Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”

You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.

“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”

“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”

“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”

“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”

“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”

You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“

“Like what?” she prompts.

“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says firmly. “You got scared. Shit happens.”

“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.

“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”

“That sounds like a start.”

You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”

You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”

“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”

“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”

You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.

The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?

Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?

Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.

She grins. “See? Not ruined.”

You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.

His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”

“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”

You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.

══════════════════

Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.

“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?

Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Still nothing?” 

You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”

“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”

“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”

“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”

You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”

“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”

Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.

“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”

“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.

After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.

“Just ice cream, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”

“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.

Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.

“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”

You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.

He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.

Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.

“I got scared,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “Of me?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan?” he echoes.

“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.

The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.

Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.

“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.

The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.

“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”

You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”

The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”

That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.

“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”

The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.

“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”

“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”

Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.

“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.

“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips.  “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”

“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.

“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”

You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”

The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”

He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”

“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”

“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“

“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”

You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously. 

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.

“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”

There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.

“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”

“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.

“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”

The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”

You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.

His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy. 

A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.

“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.

You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.

Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.

══════════════════

The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.

It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.

Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”

“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”

“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.

Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.

“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”

You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”

“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”

Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.

One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.

“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk. 

Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.

Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”

His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”

The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.

Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.

You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.

You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.

That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.

The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.

“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”

As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.

══════════════════

The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.

“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”

You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”

You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”

He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”

“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“

“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”

“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”

Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.

The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.

When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.

“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.

“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”

“See? I told you.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”

Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.

Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.

Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.

“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”

Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. 

“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“

“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”

You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”

The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.

“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.

“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”

You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”

The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.

As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.

“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”

“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”

“Good surprised?”

“Very good surprised.”

He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.

“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.

“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”

By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.

“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“

“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.

Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”

You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.

“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”

“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”

The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.

Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.

“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.

“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.

You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”

“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.

“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.

He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”

The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.

The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.

“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”

“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”

“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”

The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”

He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”

You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”

“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”

The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere,  “I know.”

The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.

“Of course.”

“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”

You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”

He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”

“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”

His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”

“Really? That early?”

He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”

As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.

“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”

“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.

He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”

“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”

He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.

Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.

“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”

He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.

The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.

“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.

His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”

In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.

“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.

The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.

“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.

His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.” ══════════════════

When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.

His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”

He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”

“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.

“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”

You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.

His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.

“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.

“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.

Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.

You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?

You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.

“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.

He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”

You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”

He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”

You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.

“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”

You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.

“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.

You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.

“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”

Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.

“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows. 

You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“

He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.

“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“

“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.

“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.

When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.

Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.

“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“

You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.

You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing

He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“

Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.

You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?” 

He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.

“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.” 

The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.

You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.

“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.” 

He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”

You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.

You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you. 

“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”

You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”

He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.

You decide he’s earned it.

“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”

The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.

All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.

Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”

Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold. 

“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.

His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.” You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.

“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”

“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue. 

His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”

“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.

“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.

He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”

You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.

“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.

His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.

“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”

You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make. 

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.

“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.

“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.

With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.

“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“

He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.

“That’s”—thrust!—“right”—thrust!—“all”—thrust!—“mine.”

You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name. 

“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”

“Yesyesyes—fuck!”

The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.

“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”

He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.

You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.

Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.

“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin. 

You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.

The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.

“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.

He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”

You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”

“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.

“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.

“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”

You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”

“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.

“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.

His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”

“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.

“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”

Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”

He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.

═══════════════════

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?

Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.

Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.

When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”

“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”

You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”

“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”

You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”

The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.

“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”

You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:

According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?

It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.

“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”

The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.

“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”

“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.

Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.

Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.

Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes. 

When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew. 

At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you. 

And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare. 

Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on. 

So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. 

All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe. 

“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man. 

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant. 

“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently. 

“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”

He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”

All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?” 

Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year. 

“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.” 

“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands. 

“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions. 

“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.

“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?” 

The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.

He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?” 

“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”

Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”

“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”

Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world. 

In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer. 

Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.

Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around. 

“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”

“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”

“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”

“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”

“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.” 

He salutes you, which makes you snort. 

“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”

His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”

See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”

But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave. 

So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”

Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”

You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.

“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter. 

“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking. 

“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment. 

He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”

You trail behind him. “Fine.” 

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”

Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.

When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.

He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing. 

But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.

Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’

He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.

Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye. 

He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on. 

Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma. 

“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.

You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways. 

“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?” 

“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”

“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”

“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”

You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions. 

But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that. 

“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly. 

“Are you insane?”

“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”

“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you. 

He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”

“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue. 

“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache. 

“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace. 

He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”

“No.”

“Please?” 

“I will leave, Jungkook.”

He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”

Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest. 

You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?” 

“It was Hana’s.” 

You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”

Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?

You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason. 

“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it. 

“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.

He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”

“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows. 

“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”

“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”

For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest. 

Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring. 

He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”

“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”

It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.

At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”

“The old shit in there?” 

He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.

You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match. 

You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face. 

On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box. 

Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].

For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do. 

If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker. 

You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees. 

He kept it. 

“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums. 

“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”

You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?

Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it. 

Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.

First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine. 

Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.

Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.

The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.

To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.

“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”

You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”

“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”

“Hmm, uglier than the first.”

“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”

Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.” 

“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”

You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”

He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”

It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt. 

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”

You can’t argue with that. 

He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold. 

You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone. 

“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”

“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.

He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”

“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.

Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.

“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”

“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.

“And then I got you out of it.” 

“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory. 

He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time. 

Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”

You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).

You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string. 

Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says. 

You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight. 

“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough. 

He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.

“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”

Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you. 

Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15.  You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.

“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”

It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”

“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”

“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”

“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”

“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”

He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles. 

You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.” 

He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?” 

Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”

You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”

“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”

“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.

“Worked well for us, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?” 

Oh god, you’ve really done it now.  

Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger. 

Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”

“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”

He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”

Weird. 

And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal. 

“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”

He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.

“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”

You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”

“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”

“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”

Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.

But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.

You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”

He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.” 

Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb. 

“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”

Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”

“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.” 

You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”

“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently. 

Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”

“Cause of stress or something? School shit?” 

“Sure.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now. 

He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."

She purrs in the corner. 

“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”

You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.

This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.

So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in. 

“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?” 

“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink. 

“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”

You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”

He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”

You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly. 

You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.

It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.

But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.

“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room. 

Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest. 

“Not too shabby, Jeon.”

He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”

“Subpar at best.”

“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”

“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.

“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”

You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”

He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”

“My abode is not a lair.”

“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder. 

“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”

“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know. 

“I have a surprise.” 

You protest, “Jungkook—”

“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage. 

Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is. 

He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.

In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.

It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been. 

“No,” you object immediately. 

“Come on—”

“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time. 

“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”

“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”

“Not this one.”

“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”

You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity. 

“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”

His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?

“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”

“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”

“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’

He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.

“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do. 

“Why not?”

Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.

“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”

An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.

“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly. 

He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created. 

At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter. 

“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”

“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.

“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”

Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”

“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”

“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”

For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”

“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”

“How is it different? Enlighten me.”

“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”

Fuck. “Koo—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”

“Oh.”

Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered. 

He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.

The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.

Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.

Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

“[Y/N]?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hana. 

The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be. 

At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.

Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were. 

“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.

“How have you been?” she asks. 

“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home. 

“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”

“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.

“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”

“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”

“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.

There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”

You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her  for wondering. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”

Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”

“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”

She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”

“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”

“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”

“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can. 

“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”

Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”

She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”

“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.” 

Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?

“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”

She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”

It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land. 

“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”

Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest. 

“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.

She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”  

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”

Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.

“Hana, I never meant to—”

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”

Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked.  He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him.  You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry. 

“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”

“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft. 

For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here. 

“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”

“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape. 

You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”

Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”

She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.

“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”

You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket. 

“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”

Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..

“What did he say, Hana?”

“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”

Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.” 

She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”

You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.

But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.

No. It can’t fucking be. 

“I gotta go,” you say abruptly. 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely. 

There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.

It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills. 

It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned. 

Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening: 

Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day. 

When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.

Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.

Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment. 

Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter. 

Everyone loves Jungkook. Everyone always loves Jungkook.

Yet, he won’t even spare you a passing glance. 

It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better. 

You feel ill. Fucking ill.

Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.

“You alright?”

You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”

“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”

“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out. 

Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”

Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.

“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”

Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”

Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it. 

It’s worth one last shot. 

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Bitch just tell me.”

You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.

Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly. 

“I fucked up.”

Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”

You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”

Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything.  How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.

You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours. 

When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says,  “That was a low blow.”

“I know.”

“Like, really bad.”

“I know.”

“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”

“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Have you apologized?”

“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”

“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.

“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”

“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. 

You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole. 

The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.

Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see. 

And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.

You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm. 

Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”

But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.

“Oh,” she says. 

Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?

“How long?” Jisoo questions.

“How long what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”

You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.

“Since I was a kid.”

Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” is all you can offer.

“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room. 

“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”

“I get that a lot.”

From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.

“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.” 

It’s already worse. 

“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”

“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”

The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.

“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts. 

“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”

You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.

Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”

“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?” 

Yeah, exactly that. 

“We’ll see.”

Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”

You hold up your middle finger. 

“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.

And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you. 

It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.” 

You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”

Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.

Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs. 

It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook. 

You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you. 

He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon). 

Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.

But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle. 

Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve. 

You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand. 

“Need any help?”

Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat. 

Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous. 

“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you. 

You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.

“The party’s a hit,” he offers. 

“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.” 

“The food’s really good too.”

“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted. 

This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to. 

“Listen—”

“Jungkook,” you say in unison. 

Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.

He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”

Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge. 

Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.

But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?

“Maybe, Jungkook.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”

He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.

Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words. 

You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.

“Jungkook.”

Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”

Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”

He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.

By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore. 

“Is this a joke?” you ask. 

“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth. 

You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.

“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?” 

Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain. 

Shit. 

Your throat goes dry.

“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”

“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips. 

“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare. 

“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.” 

“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. That stupid fucking word. 

“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug. 

“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”

You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.

“I was drunk,” you argue. 

Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.

“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”

You throw her a grateful look. 

“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.

“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat. 

But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching. 

“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”

The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other. 

Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.

There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower. 

He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest. 

It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks. 

It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.

Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship. 

The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.

But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful. 

You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods. 

You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’ 

He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.

And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.

But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks. 

Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Shut up.”  Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”

Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”

“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”

“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”

“She what?” 

“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”

“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not a confident yeah.”

“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”

“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”

Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.

“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now. 

“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.

He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”

Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”

Oh. 

“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s chest feels tight. 

But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”

He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him. 

“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance. 

He can’t help it. 

“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”

“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”

“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’

Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes. 

“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.

Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.

“Jungkook.”  Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”

It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not. 

Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time. 

“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”

But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—

In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.

Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest. 

Oh god. Oh fuck.

How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?

His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.

“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.

He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it. 

But he remembers every Christmas with you.

He remembers all of it. 

Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo. 

Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs. 

Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”

“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”

His credentials are questionable. 

“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”

Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred. 

Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be. 

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly. 

“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”

Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.

But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year. 

For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”

To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).

You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.

Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.

What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?

It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway. 

And then you scream. 

You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.

Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”

“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”

Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle. 

It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.

But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up. 

“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands. 

“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”

You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.

“I am.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.” 

With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it. 

But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him. 

“Me neither,” you agree quietly. 

You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway. 

“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice. 

You keep scrubbing. 

“Hey.”

His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh. 

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”

There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you. 

What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?

You can do that, you think. 

You swallow, “Jungkook—”

“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit. 

“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.

“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”

He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when it all started?”

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”

“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter. 

“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”

Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.

“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”

He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him. 

“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”

Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features. 

“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”

The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks. 

“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”

You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”

“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”

Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”

“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”

You hiccup, trying to catch your breath. 

“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks. 

You deadpan. “What?” 

“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”

“I–what? Why?” 

You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.

Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”

“Look up.” He smiles. 

With shaky breath, you crane your neck. 

Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan. 

You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”

“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”

You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles. 

He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying. 

Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room. 

Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself. 

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”

“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it. 

But he nods. 

“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”

“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire. 

“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”

Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible. 

“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets. 

“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”

“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”  

Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow. 

“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”

He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. 

He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent. 

“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”

“Koo,” is all you can manage.

“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater. 

“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”

Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose. 

His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”

Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…

“You… you love me?”

“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”

Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this. 

“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”

Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face. 

“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”

And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle. 

“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”

You laugh, a watery bubbling sound. 

You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.

“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes. 

His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”

He kisses you. 

And oh.

Oh. 

You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds. 

Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms. 

His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.

Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”

“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.

At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more. 

Finally, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this. 

He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom. 

You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.

“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills. 

Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously. 

“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”

You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”

Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely. 

You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.

“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”

“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”

“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”

Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”

This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.

“Still nervous?” you mutter. 

“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”

“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck. 

“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”

You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”

He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”

“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”

He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”

Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of. 

Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you. 

“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.

You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment. 

You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?

And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

Tears threaten to appear again. 

He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.

Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them. 

“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”

You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”

That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you. 

“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever. 

“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”

“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak. 

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”

“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”

He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked. 

“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”

And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin. 

“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”

“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”

You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have. 

And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse. 

You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly. 

Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses. 

His cheeks turn red. 

“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?” 

He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”

“What, Koo?”

Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”

Oh. 

Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it. 

You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips. 

“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”

“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”

He grins toothily. “I love you too.”

And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you. 

You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length. 

“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.

“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline. 

Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck. 

You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.

But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.

You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”

Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you. 

He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you. 

You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”

“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”

A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right. 

“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”

“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake. 

You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat. 

Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you. 

His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.

“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”

You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second. 

He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”

“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”

He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”

Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”

You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.

“Yours,” you cry, clutching him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.

“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”

Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his. 

You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.

You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.

You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Me either.”

“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”

“Of course it did.”

You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”

Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.

You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.

“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”

“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies." 

“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug. 

He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”

Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”

“It was all you.”

He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”

You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore. 

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”

“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”

He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.

“Koo, what—”

But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he demands. 

“Jungkook—”

“Close them,” he whines.

You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.

“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”

Timidly, you open them. 

He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.

It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.

“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.

His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”

“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”

His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved. 

It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip. 

“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur. 

He pauses. Goes completely still.

“You saw that?”

“It has my name on it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.” 

You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you. 

After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily. 

“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.

In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach. 

You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it? 

The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.

But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle. 

Plus, the Grinch is overrated. 

“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”

Because THIS is exactly the kind of Christmas fic I love: warm, Hallmark-ish coziness except underneath all of it is this awful, aching pining that makes your chest hurt. And making the mistletoe tradition itself into this symbol of exclusion and yearning??? Evil. Genuinely evil in the best way. Christmas is their thing, so watching it become a quiet source of pain over the years hurt SO good. The story really understands that the holidays can feel magical and devastating when you’re in love with someone who’s basically been your person your entire life, but was never actually yours in the way you wanted them to be. And the writing was so good at pulling all of those emotions out of me too (I was already sniffling during the supermarket scene 😭).

And I also loved how natural the emotional progression felt because I would’ve hated it if they suddenly just blurted out their feelings after years of repression 😭 but the transitions between Hana, Jisoo, and Namjoon’s conversations made everything feel so gradual and earned.

And honestly, thank you for making the smut feel emotionally necessary instead of just inserting it to hit a checkpoint in the fic. I usually struggle when smut feels disconnected from the emotional arc, but here it still carried that same clumsy tenderness that defines them as a pair. It wasn’t just “okay now they finally have sex” but it felt like an extension of all the yearning, hesitation, familiarity, and realization they’d been carrying around for yearsso yes, the crying-during-sex felt so right and fitting. Even in those scenes, they still felt completely like them. (Again, I just really loved how this was written.)

Blanket large enough to share, your feet touched beneath the cover, both of your legs folded up on the couch, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and uncoated pages turning by the grip of two fingers. You’ve been absorbed in the series you’ve been reading this month, in the second book out of five, the next conflict laid out for the characters to resolve. A fantasy series by an author you enjoy, you’ve come to love nights like these, across from your fiancé on the couch, silence in the room, minds escaping to another universe. 

You shifted, getting comfortable, Yunho eyed you from above the spine of his book, beneath his thin frames. An arm beneath your body, you curled into the couch, legs stretching to tangle with his, your bare skin against his clothed by cotton. 

“Do you want me to move?” He asked softly, “Or are you comfortable?”

“I’m comfortable, you’re fine,” you shake your head, barely shooting him a glance, nose in the pages before you.

He smiled to himself, not that you could see, because he loved these nights just as much as you did. It’s turned into every night these past few weeks, ending your long workdays on the couch, full stomachs and minds roaring to empty upon pages of someone else’s life. A shared hobby, one of many, how you both looked at reading the same way– an escape of your own busy routines, emptying out your thoughts, your worries, taking your consciousness and placing it into another realm. 

You slid your leg beneath one of his, letting the weight of him comfort you. Your head dug into the couch cushion along the back, book held up in front of you, brows subconsciously furrowing as the two main characters finally reached somewhere private. Excitement sits low in your belly, you know what’s coming, it only makes sense for their relationship to take the next step. 

A shared kiss, your lips curl, flipping the page. Your toes wiggle beneath Yunho’s leg, eyes scanning the page, smile growing as their clothes come off. He’s watching you now, as your hand lifts, fingernail between your teeth, biting onto your manicured hand like he didn’t pay for it yesterday. He knows that look, he can feel the tremor in your legs, he can see the arousal spreading through your body like the fire crackling across the room. 

Amused, his own lips twitch upward in a grin. You flip the page again, ignorant to his eyes, to how well he knows you. Finally, he asks, “How’s your book, baby?”

You don’t even look up, “So good.”

Still amused, grin still present, his eyes thin. “Should I read it next?”

“I don’t know if you’d like it,” you answer mindlessly, words breathy and casual like you didn’t know what you were saying, too focused on what you were reading. 

“Why not?” He pries further, closing his own book after bending the corner of a page, letting it fall into his lap. “It’s fantasy, no?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you will,” you flip the page, eyes glued to the top of the next page. You were brushing him off, he should leave you alone, let you at least finish the scene. His lips tighten, scrunching to one side as he opens his book back up again, eyes finding the last sentence he read, trying to pick up where he last left off. 

He gets all the way to the next page before he realizes he hasn’t actually read a single word. Eyes scanning the page, recognizing words, but the movie isn’t playing, he can’t see what’s happening. His mind drifts again, you’re reading smut, he knows you are, yet you pay no attention to him? Can he not do what your little characters in your book can? 

He gives his head, his shoulders a small shake, ridding himself of the thoughts. That’s not what reading is– he knows it in his soul, he reads, too. It’s a story, you’re watching a scene in your head of two other people, it had nothing to do with him. Yet his eyes flicker back up to you, your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes flying down the page like you couldn’t digest the words fast enough. His book lowers to his lap again subconsciously. 

At that, your eyes perk up, they’re on him and suddenly he feels bare. Caught red-handed. 

“You okay over there?” A smile tugs at your lips, and Yunho blinks in response.

“Fine,” he nods, slapping a smile on his lips, “just reaching a wall, my brain isn’t working anymore, I think.”

“Turn on the tv then,” you bring your eyes back down to your book, and Yunho doesn’t move an inch, not a single muscle. Now he just wants your attention, he thinks, he’s too curious about what you’re reading, what spicy shit is happening between those characters to get your legs twitching beneath his own. 

You chuckle, and Yunho realizes your eyes are on him again, analyzing, amused at what’s probably a dumbfounded look on his face. You fold the corner of your page, reaching sideways to place your book on the coffee table, no force to your actions, no sign of irritation. 

“Whatsup, baby?” You ask, voice light and playful, “Wanna watch our show instead?”

Ah, fuck, he loves you. He can’t fucking wait to marry you. 

“Want you to tell me what’s happening in your book,” he finds himself answering, maybe he’s the cat that’s grown too curious. 

“Feyre and Rhys,” you shrug, then you smile, “they’re fuckin’.”

Yunho’s brows raise, knowing a few details already from what you’ve shared over the month, “Finally.”

“I know,” you groan out, tipping your head back, “Rhys is so sexy.”

“Yeah?” Yunho’s voice dips, cresting something deeper, an idea that had been planted ten minutes ago finally taking shape. “What’s he doing?”

Your head straightens again, eyes thinning as you stare at Yunho across the couch, warm brown hair unstyled, air-dried, laying flat over his forehead. “Why are you asking, hm?”

He reaches sideways the same way you did, placing his book on the coffee table beside the couch, your eyes stay locked on his bicep that flexes as it sneaks out of his short sleeve tee. He croons, “Wanna know what’s got you so hot n’ bothered.”

You chuckle again, disbelief lining your tone, “I am not hot n’ bothered.”

He squints at you the same way, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “So you don’t want me to fuck you stupid on this couch?”

Smile gone, your eyes widen ever so slightly, bones going rigid. Then the heat sinks in, like a warm hand at the base of your spine, spreading through each limb until it reaches your throat, forcing an ‘I do’ out of your mouth. 

Yunho’s smile grows into something cocky, pushing himself up with his palms on the cushion beneath him, knees pressed to the couch as he crawls over you, so close your foreheads are touching. The heat of him is raw, it seeps into you, mixing with your own– your breath grows shallow, eyes widening as the full broad length of him looms over you. So threatening, he could be, he might be, you don’t know what mood he’s in yet. 

“You do?” He asks again, chocolate eyes boring into yours, circled with something brighter, an idea brewing. 

Your feet kick at the blanket still covering you, peeling it off your body, answering him with a breathy, “Yes.”

“That’s my girl,” he says with a knowing grin before he presses his lips to yours, one arm on the armrest behind you, the other pressed to the cushion beside you. Molding together like you always do, your head tilts to meet his guiding lips, hands coming up to his chest, feeling his cotton-covered skin before they trail up to his shoulders, his neck, letting the shape of him comfort you until your legs spread beneath him. 

They hook over his thighs as he slots himself between them, pinning you down to the couch, his tongue splitting your lips to taste you. You whimper into him as your hips buck, the strength of him still as you use his thighs to lift yourself up, hips grinding against his. He breaks the kiss, keeping his lips just grazing yours to taunt you, “Thought you said the book wasn’t making you horny.”

“It wasn’t,” you’re quick to respond, voice breathy, loaded by impatience, “it’s just you.”

He hums, smiling as he places another kiss on your lips, “She’s nice today, huh?” 

You smile, hooking your arms around his neck, grinding your hips into him again, “Want you, Yun.”

“How do you want me, baby?” He asks, dipping his head below your jaw, placing soft kisses along your skin, tongue poking out to leave a trail as he sinks down your neck. 

“Wanna ride you,” somewhere between a whine and a moan, your eyes flutter closed, using him to grind yourself up against him, his length beneath his sweats catching onto the slick beneath your sleepshorts, already sticky, already clinging to your core. 

He scoops an arm under your back, breaking from your neck to lift you upward in one quick motion, sitting up straight at the center of the couch. A move he’s done a thousand times, you barely react, using one foot planted on the floor beneath you to shimmy your shorts down your legs as he tugs his shirt off his head. You throw yourself against him, thighs bracketing his hips, core pressed flush to his. 

Skin creamy like the moon, it’s littered with splotches of cherry, flushed and needy, he was just as horny as you. It makes you smirk, arms laying over his shoulders to attach your lips again, heavier this time, quicker, your hunger grows as your hips grind into his still-clothed length, this angle better, harsher, it leaves you gasping into his mouth. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper into his mouth, barely breaking the kiss, “need you inside me.”

“Not yet,” his hands find your hips, grinding you against his length, using more force than you were on your own, a broken moan forces its way out of your lips, head dipping down in pleasure. 

His lips find your jaw, sinking down to your neck as his fingers toy with the hem of your tee, pushing it upward, over your chest until he breaks away from your skin, pulling it over your head. Hands to your chest, you find his lips again, a mess of saliva and teeth, rushed as if you were running out of time. 

Thumbs brushing over your nipples, he hisses, “Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

“Don’t tease,” you whimper, hips rocking against him, voice breaking as you say, “I need you inside me, Yunho.”

“Patience, my love,” he whispers, the air cool against your nipple, making your back arch as your hands fall into his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. “What were they doing in your book, hm?”

Your brows furrow, jaw already slack in pleasure, you search your mind, blinking, dumbfounded, trying to find words you just read. His eyes glance upward, lips around one of your nipples, the look of him does nothing to aid in finding the memory, it makes you groan out, body twitching. 

He chuckles, popping off of your chest, “What? Can’t remember?”

“Not when you’re doing that, fuck,” you huff out, “why do you care? Just fuck me.”

His brows furrow, disappointed, you don’t care. He tsks, taunting again, “Come on, smart girl, you just read it. Don’t tell me you weren’t paying attention.” 

“Ah, fuck–” you whine, “I was, it’s too much– I have to explain,” his lips wrap around your other nipple, teeth poking out to graze, “shit– the table, he ate her out on the table–”

His hands slide down to the plush of your ass, squeezing, shifting you backward on his thighs, spreading his knees to open yours wider. His lips breaking from yours again, his hands slide over your hips, squeezing your thighs as he leans back into the cushion of the couch, watching you with analyzing eyes. His voice is short, curt, ordering instead of encouraging as he says, “Keep going.”

Palm up, his hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your wetness along your folds and you suck in an exasperated breath, back arching, eyes fluttering closed. His fingers slap up against your core once, “Hey.”

“I’m sorry!” You hiss, shaking your head to collect your jumbled thoughts, rearranging your memories. His fingers slide up to your clit, keeping pressure there as you start again, “He ate her out on the table, m-made her cum twice– the sex was claiming, they kept saying ‘You’re mine.”

He hums, leaning forward as his fingers slide backward, the tips of two fingers catching on your entrance, “Made her cum twice, hmm?”

You choke out a moan, hips digging into his fingers, bottom lip trapped between your teeth in a fight to keep your composure as you nod, stuttering out, “T-twice.”

His fingers sank inside, “Then what?”

Your head falls forward, a lewd moan slipping out, his fingers are so long, they curled inside you perfectly, adding pressure where you needed it most. Hips already shaking, you ground them into him, his other hand thrown lazily over your thigh. 

You cursed, “They fucked again, she gave him head, fuck– and he flipped her on her front, fucked her stupid.”

His fingers picked up in speed, curling inside you with each thrust, hitting that spot each and every time like his fingers couldn’t go anywhere else. It’s engraved in him, you think, to make you cum with ease, to pull you to the edge as quickly as possible, because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it, and never fails. 

“That what you want?” Taunting, teasing, honest.

You shake your head, shoulders shaking in pleasure, “Wanna ride you.”

“Need you crying around my fingers first,” he hums, flattening the edge of his palm against your clit, making you cry out, fingers clawing at his shoulders for purchase, stability while you grind yourself into him. 

You pick your head up to see a ghost of a smile on his face, eyes locked on yours as he asks, “Should I make you cum twice, too? Hm?”

You nod, lips parting, breath catching in your throat as your clit glides against his palm just right, the sounds of his fingers filling you up obscene. “Please, Yun,” you cry out, trying so hard to keep your rhythm steady, to catch the high you were so desperately chasing.

“I’ll give you one,” he adds more pressure in his palm, fingers working you faster, the sounds of you gushing so loud, you couldn’t feel the flame of shame. “You’ll have to work for the second.”

You clench around him, pressure building with each curl of his fingers, it’s worse when they stay there, pressed up against your walls while you clench hard, clit grinding against his palm like a bitch in heat. You cry, “I’m gonna cum– I’m close, I’m gonna–”

“Give it to me,” he urges while his palm presses harder, almost bouncing against your clit, “Let me feel you cum around my fingers, c’mon, give it to me.”

“Kiss me,” you cry and he leans forward, a mess of teeth and tongue, your lips barely moving against him as your pleasure hits its peak, orgasm washing over you, hips jerking wildly against him as your nails claw hard enough into his skin to leave crescents in their wake. Yunho groans, working you through it, feeling the sting of your nails in his skin, loving it as much as you need it. 

“S’good,” there’s relief in your voice, hips slowing down into a dirty grind, chest heaving, breathing into his mouth that he keeps pressed to yours, top lips touching, bottom lips connected by a single string of spit. 

He gives you a moment to come down, to breathe, he waits for your core to stop clenching around him before he starts again, plunging his fingers deep inside of you instead of curling them around your walls. You gasp, eyes blowing wide, body locking up, bones made of stone, he smiles into your mouth. 

“Told you you’d work for it.”

A promise, one that went over your head, you quickly realized. Lifting your hips, you’re still, silent as he fucks his fingers into you, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“Y-Yunho– fuck, Yunho!”

Your voice grew in pitch, high and whiney, surprised, still reeling off your last orgasm, body still shaking. Your toes curl, shins lifting off the couch cushion behind you, face scrunching into pleasure, into surprise, into overstimulation. 

“Breathe, baby, you can take it,” he encourages, swiping his tongue over his lips, “you can do it, my good girl, one more f’me. Just one.”

The sound that leaves you is between a scream and a squeal, eyes screwed shut– he curls his fingers and you fold, abdomen clenching, elbows pressing against his shoulders to keep yourself up. 

“Yunho, I can’t, I can’t–” you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything other than blinding pleasure, it’s too much. 

“Just like the girl in your book, baby,” he says it like it’s easy, “just one more, don’t disappoint me. I’ll let you cum on my cock after, you want it, don’t you?”

You’re nodding before any words can leave you, they’ve all died in your throat that constricts around nothing, jaw dropping, tongue lolling out. A knowing, fond smile breaks out across Yunho’s face, “There she is, my good girl, needs something in her mouth, huh?” 

You’re stuck in a whirlwind of pleasure as his hand fucks you open, fucks you dumb– the other one travels up your waist, a thumb over your nipple as he crosses your chest, over the curvature of your shoulder. It lands on your jaw, forcing your eyes on him, his had deepened, seeming more charcoal than chocolate. “Say please,” he said simply, edged with dominance. 

“Please,” you whisper, voice shaky. 

Two fingers push past your lips, landing flat on your tongue. Your eyes fly back, immediately grinding into his fingers still working at your core, effectively restarting your nervous system. Your lips close around his fingers, tongue massaging against them, you can’t see the smile he wears, how proud it is, how loving it is. 

“Cum for me,” it’s nothing but an order, his voice harsh. His fingers press against the front side of your walls and you lose it, clit untouched, hips bucking against his fingers as your lips suck harder against the ones in your mouth.

Shaking, spent, your body crumbles, hands holding onto his wrist like it's your lifeline to keep his fingers in your mouth as your forehead hits his shoulder. His fingers slide out of you, pulling them up to his mouth, you can hear the sound as he licks them clean. Wet, sloppy, lewd– it makes you shiver.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” his wet hand finds your back, trailing fingers down your spine, “want you to ride my cock like you did on my fingers.”

You whine, letting go of his wrist, freeing his fingers. “Dunno if I can.”

“You wanted to,” wet fingers find your waist, lifting you to slip his sweatpants off his hips, lifting them to tug his pants down to his thighs so his cock can spring free. 

You shiver again as it slaps against the slick spread on your folds, the weight of it clear, fear sitting heavy in your spine at the length of him. “Yun,” you mumble, followed by a whimper. 

You break away from his chest to sit up, lifting your hips for his length to sit before you, tall, pink, leaking– your mouth waters like you didn’t just come twice. 

“Look at you,” he settles back in the cushions while you wrap your fingers around the base of him, “my cock-hungry slut, already wanting more. Thought you were too tired?”

You stare at him through your brows, gaze pointed, “Don’t be mean.”

“You’re wetter when I’m mean,” he laughs a little, and even that feels condescending. “We both know you like it. Ride my cock like you were begging to earlier.”

Cheeks inflamed, you obey, hips lifting to line him up with your entrance. “Deep breath,” he reminds you, like he does every time, as you start to sink down onto his length. 

It steals the breath from your lungs every time, you need the reminder. Mouth falling open, your brows furrow, a small squeak escapes from the tip of your throat as you pass the mushroom tip, slowly lowering yourself inch by inch, savoring the curve, every vein until you’re fully seated. A moan of relief escapes, breath entering your lungs again, mumbling out, “So fuckin’ big.”

“Never gets old, huh?” He’s smiling, it’s cocky, but you can see the furrow in his brow, the pleasure he was hiding. 

“Arrogant,” you mutter, but you clench around him, when he’s like this it never fails to edge you further. “Fuck,” you force out, it’s harsh, the stretch, the feeling of being so fucking full. 

His hands find your wrists, throwing them over his shoulders, bringing your chest close to his, pulling you into him. Your lips find his, not as messy, more controlled, his tongue slips into your mouth with purpose, tasting every inch of your mouth. 

His hands on your back, his nails graze your skin, making you shiver. “Move,” he says into your mouth and immediately you start grinding your hips, followed by a moan poured straight into his lips. It’s indescribable, how he can feel so fucking good, like you were molded for him, by him, how sex can feel so perfect. 

He leans backward, dipping his head to wrap his lips around one of your nipples as you start to move, hips grinding against him, bouncing when his teeth poke out to bite.

“Shit,” you curse, using your shins pressed to the couch for leverage, his hands hold you at your waist, sliding forward, thumbs sliding under your chest, holding up your tits for him to use. His tongue pokes out from between his lips, grazing your nipples as you bounce. “So good, Yunho, so good,” you cry, holding him by his hair, bouncing against him.

He pushes himself forward, reaching over you to get his sweatpants down to his ankles, never breaking his lips from your nipple as he kicks them off, bringing his ass to the edge of the couch, spreading his knees wide, trapping your calves between his knees and the couch.

Your hips switch to a nasty grind as his arms wrap around your back, cradling your body, you don’t break your rhythm as he leans forward, your body sliding backward. Your arms slide around his neck, keeping his head to your chest as gravity pulls your hips down, farther off his length, giving you more space to fuck onto him, to grind your hips steadily onto his length, all while pathetic, whiney moans leave you one after another, the pleasure too much to bear. 

“There you go,” he says into your skin, voice sounding choked, raw, “fuck, so fuckin’ good, my good girl, doing what I need her to do.”

“Big,” is all you can get out, repeating it like a mantra, his arms tighten around you harder, holding you closer. Your hips pick up speed, riding him faster, feeling him curve against your walls, the drag of the head of his cock against you. 

“So big, fillin’ you up,” he chokes out, “feel good? This what you wanted?”

You’re nodding, you loosen your arms as he pulls you backward, finding his lips again, pushing him back into the couch to bounce on him faster, the tops of your feet hooking over the tops of his thighs. 

“Needed this,” you whimper, steadily bouncing, “needed you to fill me up.”

“No one else can fuck you like this,” he reaches up to grab your jaw, pulling you down to whisper into your mouth, “you’re mine, this pussy is mine.”

You moan out, pressure building in your core all over again, “No one, Yunho, just you– fuck– this’s all I need– fuck!”

Your thighs burn, you don’t care, his lips are on yours again, messy and wild, so claiming it renders you brainless. You moan into his mouth, fingers curling into his hair, you need him to take over, to give him what he needs, you need to be full. “Flip me over.”

In one quick movement he turns the two of you over, you flip to your stomach on your own, pressing your face into the pillows, one knee bent up on the couch while the other lays dangling off of it, presenting yourself for him. He groans behind you, so low and dragged out it makes you arch further, one of his legs lifts onto the cushion beside you, a palm splayed over your ass while he lines himself up, sliding inside. 

Your face digs into the couch, a punched yelp escaping you, legs shaking, your fingers fist the cushions. “Yes, yes, Yunho!”

“Fuck,” it’s a low groan, an honest admission, he picks up speed immediately. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, the squelch of him sliding into you, the crackling of the fire silent by now. 

“I won’t last,” he leans over you, fingers rough at your spine, sliding up until they reach your hair, pulling you upward. 

You cry out, fingers reaching for the back of the couch, your other leg half on the couch, half dangling, letting him use you in whatever position he needs you in. One of his legs lifts yours onto the couch until you’re steadily positioned for him, stable, head pulled back into his chest, back arched, breath heaving as you look up at him– face red and splotchy, hair fucked up, features blown out and crazed, fuck, you couldn’t help the way you clenched around him. Even upside down he was beautiful, perfect, you couldn’t believe you got to marry him. 

“So pretty,” you say mindlessly, voice not your own anymore, something ruined, overwhelmed. 

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Not as pretty as you, baby. Rub your clit f’me, need you to cum around my cock.”

He lets go of your hair to wrap an arm over your chest, holding your back flush to him as he fucks into you all over again, “Fuck, baby, need you to cum.”

Your hand finds your clit, still buzzing from your previous orgasms, you use your middle finger to rub tight circles into the bundle of nerves as his hips pick up speed. He holds you steady as your moans grow in pitch, closer together, body bending at the hips as the pressure picks back up where it left off, getting too heavy too quick, at this angle his cock slides against the front of your walls, curving deliciously, adding pressure exactly where you need it. 

He holds you tighter, head dipping down to your ear, breath hot against your skin, “Come on, baby, one more, need to feel you cum around my cock. Need to feel you clenching around me.”

Your breath is thin, tight, cramped in your chest as your orgasm approaches, “Fingers, Yun, please–”

You barely get the beg out before his other hand is wrapping around you, fingers hooking into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you’re gagging around them– the loss of breath, of the intrusion, the weight on your tongue, the taste of his salty skin, you convulse around him, orgasm washing over you in a heavy wave, his other arm holds onto you tight as your hips stutter, jerking, bending against him. 

“Yes, my baby, fuck– so fuckin’ good, feels so good,” mindlessly babbling his praise, his hips fuck into you harder, faster as a nasty whine escapes him, “gonna fill this pussy up, yes, gonna cum inside.”

Your head falls limp against his shoulder while his hips snap against yours, riding out the end of your orgasm as his hips stutter, pushing into you as deep as he can until he empties himself inside you with a guttural moan, his teeth finding the shell of your ear, sinking into it as he fills you with warmth. 

You hiss, then moan, letting your body ease into him, letting him hold your weight. He lets go of your chest, pulling out of you slowly, his voice soft as he says, “Careful.”

Two hands find the back of the couch again as you kneel into the cushion, carefully sinking into the plush, chest still heaving, eyes half open. You felt… Open, used, loved, spent. 

Yunho’s at your side, sitting back on the couch, pulling him into you slowly, easing your head onto his chest, “You okay, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, eyes closing, grounding yourself in his skin, in his warmth. His hands dance over your skin, your arms, your back, your thigh, your calf bent up on his lap, each one analyzing, searching for a reaction, disguised by careful, loving touches. 

 In a quiet, soft voice, he says, “I’ll give you five, then we’ll go clean you up, okay?” 

“Wanna sleep with you,” you mumble into his chest, “quick shower, kay?” 

“Want you to drink water before bed,” he says into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “maybe eat something if you’re up for it, hm? It’s still early, baby.”

Your head lifts, looking up at him, soft brown staring down at you, skin still splotchy, flushed. His eyes, filled with so much warmth, so much love, it makes you smile, craning your neck upward to press your lips to his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he smiles against your lips, giving you another, “I really do want you to eat, though.”

He gives you five minutes on the couch, kisses you lazily for three of them, then he’s scooping you up bridal style, bringing you up the stairs to the second floor, into your bedroom, into the bathroom where he places you on the toilet to pee while he heats up the shower. All innocent, you wash each other’s bodies, giggling while you wash your hair, letting your bodies soak under the hot water, your muscles relaxing. 

In a robe, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter while he cooks you noodles, something quick and light to share, he forces three glasses of water in your system before he’s satisfied. Across the counter from each other, you’re silently eating, making eye contact after every few bites, the two of you erupting into giggles all over again. 

After cleaning up, shutting the lights off, you pause at the base of the stairs, “Hold on, forgot something.”

Running to the living room, you pick up your books from the coffee table, meeting him back at the stairs with a smile, “So we can read before bed.”

Yunho deadpans, eyes thinning, lips amused, “You want round two?”

“If you interrupt me again I will kill you,” you push a finger into his chest, stepping up onto the stairs, “We’re reading our books and then we’re going to bed.”

choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.

the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.

that had been the moment everything shifted.

quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.

deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.

“god, sugu' i seriously can’t! oh my god!”

he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.

his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.

“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more! fuck!seconds!”

he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.

the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.

it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.

“just a little longer, y/n, fuck, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.

~

morning

the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.

he looked fucking wrecked.

you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.

“good morninggg, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.

he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”

you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.

you’d never had awkward silence with him before.

“uh, you sleep okay?” you asked, trying to keep the mood somewhat lighthearted.

he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “yeah. where’s geto?”

your stomach fell to the floor. “huh?”

“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”

you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he, uh, left early. he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.” you clear your trust trying so desperately to try and give this awfully awkward conversation some leeway.

choso didn’t say anything, he only nodded, eyes still lazy with the clear lack of rest. but you knew that look, his patience threatening to snap, the clear click of his neck.

“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm, hear us?”

his eyes found yours, staring right through your head. “mhm.”

you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to...”

“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it, y/n.”

you winced. “was it... was it bad?”

he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think-”

“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyways, so it should be fine.”

you shied into yourself, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone a closed door.

so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as, like, an apology?”

he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”

you let go of a longgg breath and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.

you weren’t sure what he liked this early, he'll, he'd never really been up this early before, he usually slept until noon, leaving the scent of smoke and cereal bowls behind, but it felt like the right thing to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.

behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes open, watching the sunlight catch beautifully in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you, bare legs, hair messy, singing softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen? that hit him in the dull, sore spot inside his chest.

“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.

you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”

“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”

you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”

he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.

you’d seen so many clips online, crowds packed like smelly sardines tight in dark centers, stage lights shining over exorcize as they played.

they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.

gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.

they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.

and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.

the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food, scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado, and brought it over to him.

“hereee you go,” you said in a sing song voice (trying your best to be not annoying but still welcoming), setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty apology.”

he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”

you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.

“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”

he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”

“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”

you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”

he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”

“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”

“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”

you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just, just shut up.”

“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”

you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a sec, it felt like the old nostalgic times again.

easy, careful comfort setting back between you. but under it, he felt that same ache still there, low and continuous.

the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad overplayed katy perry song he couldn’t skip.

he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.

“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.

the quiet hung around again, except it felt more comfortable this time.

~

the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.

“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.

“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.

toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.

gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”

suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”

“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"

toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”

“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”

suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”

“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”

suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”

gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."

“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”

gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.

"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."

the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.

toji glanced at them, expression flat.

“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”

suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”

“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”

little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.

at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—

“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.

choso froze.

“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”

choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.

"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.

"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."

gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.

choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.

“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.

gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.

choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night, the jealousy, the heat, the ache, pulled into a tighter knot in his heart and mind.

and still. he didn’t react to any of it. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that kind of shit. he just let the words steep there, let the laughter flush over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.

then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.

he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.

“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”

“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”

suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.

choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.

but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.

gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.

gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”

“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.

suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.

toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”

choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”

the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.

gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”

the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.

suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.

choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.

gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.

when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.

“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”

“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.

choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.

suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”

choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.

“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”

choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”

“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”

suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.

choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”

no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.

for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”

suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.

toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."

~

choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.

the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark, off dark. no wannabe niche indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint sound of the fridge and the hanging scent of your coconut shampoo that always stuck in the air.

he squints toward the living room. nothing.

“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”

nothing.

he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.

“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.

he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.

“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit. not in the mood."

he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.

then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.

he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’. you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.

and freezes.

you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.

for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.

“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”

he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh, my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”

he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”

you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”

“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”

you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”

he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”

you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”

“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like, you look fuckin’ insane. good insane, tho.”

you smile, looking back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”

he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”

“be my guestt!” you say, turning back to your mirror.

he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.

he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.

after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”

you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”

“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”

you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”

“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”

he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.

she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.

she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.

maybe he’s some sick cuck.

the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.

he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.

you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

“sure.”

“what’s the deal with you and geto?”

you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”

you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”

he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”

something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”

he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.

“you guess?”

“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”

choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”

you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”

“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.

he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”

you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”

“maybe i do,” he mutters.

“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”

his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.

but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.

you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.

“cho?” you ask gently.

he blinks. “yeah.”

“what were you gonna say?”

he opens his mouth, ready to just do it, to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru, but then your phone lights up on the dresser.

suguru calling.

you both look at it.

your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”

choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.

“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”

his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the ton, light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.

you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.

and something in choso deflates.

he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.

“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.

he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.

you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.

“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”

his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.

the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.

you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...

~

the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.

you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.

choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.

he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”

you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”

“yeah, and i meant it both times.”

you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.

inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?

“sorry,” you say automatically.

he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”

he holds the side door open, letting you through first.

the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.

“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.

choso looks away, jaw tight.

“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.

“you made it,” he murmurs.

“told you i would.”

behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”

choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”

“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”

“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.

toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.

everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.

choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that, focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.

“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.

you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.

the crowd roars as the lights dim.

you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.

gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”

the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.

the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso, he owns that rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.

you seriously can’t take your eyes off of him.

he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.

and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.

you glance at suguru. he looks good too, cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels out of place, like a performative douche you knew deep down he was.

your chest squeezes together. you look back at choso.

there’s something odd in the way he plays tonight. like he’s exorcising something, (no pun intended.) every strike on the snare is much louder, almost angry and harsh. you ponder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier?.

when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”

choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.

you smile.

he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.

you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.

and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.

by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.

“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.

“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.

suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”

you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”

he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second, to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.

suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”

you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”

“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.

you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.

you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”

he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”

“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”

you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”

he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”

you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.

but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.

~

the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.

you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light, like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.

choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.

people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.

suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.

choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.

you look happy.

and for a minute, that’s enough.

he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.

he can almost convince himself it’s fine.

you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.

but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.

“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”

he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”

you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.

choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.

choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.

suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.

she smiles like she’s been waiting.

he says something that makes her laugh, that same sexy smile sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.

he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s gross smile.

the same old shitty act.

he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.

he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it. oh well.

“yo.”

his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.

suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”

choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s much differnt, “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before y/n gets back?”

the girl looks baffled, stares between them, then takes a step back (yeah that's right).

suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”

choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”

the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.

suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”

“deadass.”

he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”

“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”

suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”

“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”

“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”

“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”

suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”

choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t scoff. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”

for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe? guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”

“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”

suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”

“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch you have to get more toilet paper what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”

suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.

then suguru laughs again softly, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”

“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”

“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”

choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.

choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”

suguru finally looks up, eyes darker now. “you done?”

choso lets out a dry laugh. “mm. guess i am.”

he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.

you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”

both men go still.

suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”

“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.

choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.

and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.

he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.

he takes a breath.

then another.

the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.

and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.

.

a few hours later

choso doesn’t mean to, really.

but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.

he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.

he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.

but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.

“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."

choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”

choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”

the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."

choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.

you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.

he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”

“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.

the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.

but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.

he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.

he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.

“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..

choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song, and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.

every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back, but his ja tight.

and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, disgust. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.

he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.

the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveld over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.

and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.

just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.

"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.

you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.

choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos, the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass, all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.

he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.

when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.

“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like, like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even, don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”

you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.

“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”

he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like, fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”

he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like, fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”

you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”

“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m, shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.

“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”

he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”

you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”

he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”

you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”

he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”

you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.

as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”

gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”

you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.

“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”

he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.

“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”

you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”

he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”

~

you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.

choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.

normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.

“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.

then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.

“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”

you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this, not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.

“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.

“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”

you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”

he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.

“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”

your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.

“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said, he said such shitty things about you."

your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."

"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”

you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”

“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”

his voice was raw, breaking a little on the last word.

the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.

“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.

“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.

“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”

your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.

he was slurring his words, looking frantic.

“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.

“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”

“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”

he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."

you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.

you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.

"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.

"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."

it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.

"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.

"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."

that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.

he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”

you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.

normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.

once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”

you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.

he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.

“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"

you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”

he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”

you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”

you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.

it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.

and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.

your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.

for now, that was all you needed.

~

the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.

the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.

and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.

evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.

there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.

but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.

the band had its own tension.

practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.

he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.

gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.

“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"

choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.

suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”

toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”

the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.

back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.

one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.

“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.

he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”

your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”

“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”

and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.

no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.

practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.

choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.

and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.

the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.

"so, will i see you at the gig?"

"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."

god, he wishes you would scream his.

~

the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.

you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.

you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet—bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.

the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.

“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”

the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first, guitar slung low, hair slicked back, jaw set tight.

toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.

choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.

his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.

it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.

geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.

because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.

he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.

you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.

and you were screaming it too.

every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.

gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”

the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.

the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.

choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.

you picked it up, clutching it tight.

the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.

you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.

when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.

“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”

his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”

his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.

“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.

you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.

after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.

"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”

he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.

for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.

the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.

“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”

choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.

you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”

his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”

“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”

he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah. home sounds really good.”

.

as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”

you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”

he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”

your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”

“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.

he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.

“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”

your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.

“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.

the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.

you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.

“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”

your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.

"does that answer your question?"

he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”

“ask?” you whispered, breathless.

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”

your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.

that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.

you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.

he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.

“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”

you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”

he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.

and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.

he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.

your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.

“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.

every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.

his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.

your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.

you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.

he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.

"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"

he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.

"ch-choso!"

his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.

after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.

"th-that's not gonna fit..."

"we'll make it fit, baby."

and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.

"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."

his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.

"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"

he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.

his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.

he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.

"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."

you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.

he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.

you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.

"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"

you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.

he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.

"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"

you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.

"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"

when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.

"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."

you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.

he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.

you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.

"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."

the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.

you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.

"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."

m.list !

Scrolling through the endless list of “potential candidates” online quickly turned into a horror show.

One girl mentioned she had at least five cats. Nothing against cats—you love animals—but five? In a tiny Metropolis apartment? That’s practically a zoo.

Then there was another one who casually asked if you’d mind her being a camgirl. You didn’t. Live and let live, right? Until she mentioned she’d also have to bring her “partners” over. Frequently. Which, honestly, was not part of the cozy-home vibe you wanted. You didn’t need a parade of strangers in your living room every week, and you definitely didn’t want to hear people getting laid through the thin apartment walls.

That was when you were just about ready to give up and he shows up.

His ad had been short, almost boring compared to the others. No flashy promises, no desperate oversharing. Just a neat little message about needing a quiet place to live, being responsible with bills, and “happy to help around the apartment if needed.” Honestly, it sounded too good to be true. Responsible? Quiet? Happy to help? In Metropolis? Either he was secretly a serial killer or the most boring man alive.

Except he wasn’t boring. Not even close.

The first time you met him, he’d shown up at the café across the street wearing an ill-fitting button-down, glasses that kept slipping down his nose, and the warmest smile you’d ever seen. He shook your hand like you were doing him the biggest favor in the world, like moving in with you was some sort of blessing.

And that was the start of all your problems.

Because Clark Kent turned out to be polite to a fault. He always knocked before entering a room, never left dirty dishes in the sink, and somehow managed to make carrying the trash downstairs look like an Olympic sport. He even fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom without being asked, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing in ways you really didn’t want to notice.

Living with him should have been easy.

But with every little thing he did—every considerate gesture, every domestic miracle—it got harder and harder not to imagine what it would be like to close the space between you.

Over the weeks, you and Clark fell into an easy rhythm—one that surprised you with how natural it felt. He wasn’t just a polite roommate who paid rent on time; he was… a friend. The kind of friend who always asked how your day was, who carried your grocery bags without being asked, who remembered small details about your life that even you sometimes forgot.

And then there were the little things he did that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to analyze too closely.

Every time you covered your friend’s late-night bar shifts and dragged yourself home at some ungodly hour, Clark made sure there was food waiting for you. Sometimes it was leftovers he’d reheated on the stove, covered with a plate so they’d stay warm. Other times, it was something he’d picked up from the bakery down the block—always your favorite order.

Cinnamon rolls with hot chocolate.

He never asked, never made a big deal about it. Just left it there for you with a little sticky note that said something simple, like “Don’t forget to eat” or “Hope your night wasn’t too hard.”

The first time it happened, you’d laughed softly to yourself, touched but convinced it was a one-time thing. But then it kept happening. Again, and again. Until the sight of a steaming cup of cocoa and the smell of cinnamon and sugar waiting on the counter started to feel like home itself.

And the worst part?

Every time you took a bite, every time the chocolate warmed your throat after a long night, you thought of him—his stupid kind smile, the way his glasses slid down his nose when he concentrated, the gentle patience that seemed stitched into his every move.

After a few months, the wall between you and Clark slowly began to crumble. What started as polite small talk over shared takeout boxes turned into long conversations that stretched past midnight, sitting on the couch with the city lights spilling in through the window.

You got to know him in ways you never expected. He told you about Lois—the Lois Lane—and how, in the end, things just didn’t work out. You never pried too much, never wanted to push where it still seemed tender, but deep down you couldn’t understand how anyone, especially Lois Lane, could let a man like Clark Kent just… walk away.

And he got to know you, too. He knew you didn’t always get along with your mom, that the two of you clashed more often than not. But he also knew that, no matter how strained things were, you still called her every Sunday evening—because that’s what you did. That was your ritual. You never admitted it out loud, but those calls left you feeling both drained and relieved at the same time. Somehow, Clark understood without you having to explain.

Somewhere in all those little moments, the air between you changed. He wasn’t just your roommate anymore. He wasn’t even just your friend. He was Clark—your Clark, in ways you couldn’t quite admit out loud. And the more you let him in, the more dangerous it felt to stay this close.

It started small. A hoodie here, a T-shirt there. Clark didn’t think much of it at first—laundry got mixed up sometimes, right? But then he noticed the pattern. His clothes weren’t missing, exactly. They were… migrating.

The first time he actually caught you, you were in your room painting one of the walls a soft shade of blue. Hair pulled up messily, brush in one hand, a little streak of paint on your cheek. And on you was a shirt he hadn’t worn in years—faded cotton, the logo of The Mighty Crabjoys barely hanging on.

“I know that shirt,” his voice came from the doorway.

You turned, startled, to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to make that stupid smirk tug at his mouth. His glasses had slipped a little down his nose, and the way his eyes gleamed with amusement made your stomach twist.

“Do you?” you asked, feigning innocence as if you weren’t caught red-handed in his clothes.

Clark raised a brow, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah. It used to be mine.”

“Used to be,” you repeated, dipping the brush back into the paint as if this was no big deal. “Finders keepers, Kent.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you shot back, smirking now yourself, even though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

His eyes lingered on you a little longer than they should have, warm and soft and dangerous all at once. Then he pushed his glasses up with one finger, still smiling. “Alright. But don’t blame me when you run out of closet space.”

And with that, he left you there, paintbrush in hand, face flushed hotter than it should’ve been over something as simple as a T-shirt.

And then there were the nights.

Your last year of marine biology was brutal—endless papers, late-night study sessions, your brain swimming with notes about coral reefs and migratory patterns when all you really wanted was sleep. More often than not, you lost track of time, staring at textbooks and research articles until your water bottle sat empty for hours without you even noticing.

That’s when Clark would appear.

He never knocked too loudly, just a soft tap against the door before easing it open. In his hands: your water bottle, freshly refilled, and a plate with a couple of brownies balanced on top.

“Thought you might need these,” he’d say simply, like it was no big deal.

And then he’d stay.

Sometimes he perched on the edge of your bed with his laptop, typing away at an article for the Planet. Other nights, he just sat back with a book, glasses sliding down his nose as he read quietly. He never spoke much, never distracted you—just kept you company, the steady presence in the room reminding you that you weren’t completely alone in the chaos of deadlines and exams.

It became your favorite part of studying, though you’d never admit it out loud. The sound of his pages turning. The soft click of his keyboard. The way he’d nudge the plate of brownies a little closer when he noticed your energy fading.

It was a random Tuesday. You were in your room, halfway through reorganizing your closet, humming along to your playlist and carefully folding clothes, when you heard the doorbell ring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but as usual, Clark was faster.

“I got it,” he called from the hallway.

You shrugged and kept folding, letting the music wash over you.

A few minutes later, a series of repetitive thuds started echoing over your music. You paused the song and held still, listening. For a moment, the only sound was your own breathing. Curiosity won. You set down the stack of clothes and stepped out of your room to see what was going on.

And there he was.

Clark Kent, in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first few buttons of his shirt undone just enough to reveal a hint of the chest beneath, muscles flexing with every motion. He was focused, meticulously assembling a chair.

Your chair. The one you had just ordered from IKEA to replace the battered old thing that groaned every time you rolled around in it and had almost collapsed under you one night during a particularly long study session.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to stare. Every movement he made, tightening a screw, adjusting a bolt, made something stir in your chest. The air in the apartment suddenly felt charged, heavier, and somehow… impossibly warm.

You cleared your throat, trying to draw his attention without making it obvious.

Clark looked up sharply, his head snapping toward you. And then, just like that, his eyes traveled—slowly, deliberately—from your face down to your legs.

You followed his gaze, and a sudden, involuntary gasp escaped your lips. You pressed your hand over your mouth immediately, hoping he hadn’t noticed just how… revealing your outfit was.

You’d been so absorbed in reorganizing your closet that you’d completely forgotten what you were wearing.

A tiny gym short that left the curve of your butt barely covered… and on top, the cherry on the cake: Clark Kent’s Metropolis Meteors jersey, loose and hanging off your shoulders in all the right ways.

For a moment, time froze. The room felt impossibly small, the sound of the IKEA chair thudding under his hands drowned out by your own heartbeat. Clark’s expression was unreadable at first, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you everything you needed to know.

“Hmm… is that my new chair?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Clark glances up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Yes… and is that my jersey?”

You glance down at yourself, mock innocence on your face. “Maybe,” you say, letting your fingers play with the hem just slightly. “Did I mention it’s really comfortable?”

His eyes flick up from the screws in his hands, slow, deliberate, scanning you from head to toe. That smirk widens just a fraction, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—and something else. Something hotter.

“Comfortable, huh?” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer, careful to stay in the “helping with IKEA” role. “I’d say it looks… better than comfortable.”

You feel heat rush to your cheeks, but you don’t move. Instead, you tilt your head, playful, daring him to say more. “Better than comfortable? That sounds like a compliment—or a warning.”

Clark chuckles softly, shaking his head, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with every small movement as he adjusts the chair. “Maybe a little of both,” he says, voice low. “And you owe me a warning next time you decide to borrow my clothes.”

You bite your lip, trying not to grin, trying not to imagine too much, knowing full well that the air between you has just shifted—suddenly, the IKEA instructions and the thuds of the chair are the least interesting thing in the room.

You were ready to give a quick, witty reply when your phone buzzed on the dresser. 

“Give me a second,” you said, already turning toward your room. 

Clark’s eyes followed your every move, tracing the curve of your hips, the way your shorts hugged your body, the subtle sway of your ass as you walked. You tried not to notice—or rather, you tried not to notice him noticing—but it was impossible.

Clark listened faintly to your conversation, catching only a few words here and there. He wasn’t trying to abuse his super-hearing—he knew when to dial it back, when to respect someone’s privacy.

But then he heard it.

Your voice, soft and casual over the phone, casually dropped his name.

For a moment, he hesitated. Using his hearing now would cross a line… but the curiosity, the pull of wanting to know exactly what you were saying about him, was too strong.

He decided to use it.

Slowly, carefully, Clark tuned in, letting his super-hearing pick up more than the faint murmurs. He didn’t listen to everything—just enough to catch your tone, your inflection, the way you laughed at something small, the warmth in your voice when you mentioned him.

Clark froze for a moment, the words sinking in.

"I swear, every time he acts like a gentleman… tears run down my thighs."

He had to pause, just to process it. Part of him wanted to pull back, to remind himself that this was your private conversation. But another part—the part that had been quietly simmering for months—couldn’t ignore what he had just heard.

A slow, deliberate smile tugged at his lips.

“You slut!” he heard your friend laugh on the other end of the line.

Clark’s gaze flicked to the closed bedroom door, tightening slightly. Part of him wanted to knock, to stop listening, but curiosity—and something far more primal—won.

“I just can’t help it,” you continued, your voice soft and casual, completely unaware he was listening. “Today I ran on him assembling my new chair from IKEA, that huge biceps popping out of the sleeves, and those curls falling on his forehead…”

Clark swallowed, heat rising in his chest. He tightened his grip on the screwdriver in his hand, pretending to focus on the bolts, but every word was burning its way into him.

He could feel the pull—the magnetic, impossible-to-ignore tension—and he realized with a sharp jolt just how much he wanted you in ways that went far beyond shared chores or quiet nights studying together.

Clark shook his head slightly, setting the screwdriver down on the partially assembled chair. It was time. Time to stop abusing his super-hearing, time to respect your privacy, and time to process everything he had just heard.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the apartment fade to normal—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the city beyond the window—and carefully pushed the intrusive words to the back of his mind.

But even as he did, he couldn’t deny the way his body reacted, the way his heart still raced, the subtle tension in his muscles. That pull, that magnetic draw toward you, hadn’t disappeared.

Clark exhaled slowly, trying to center himself. He would process this. He would think it through. But he also knew, deep down, that nothing between the two of you would ever feel quite the same again.

After a few minutes, you returned to the living room, oblivious to the fact that Clark had overheard your conversation.

“Need some help?” you asked casually, leaning against the doorway and watching him crouched over the chair, meticulously sorting the pieces and screws.

Clark glanced up, giving you a small, polite smile. “No… I’ve got it,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But thanks.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping a little closer, handing him a small Allen wrench anyway. “Are you sure? It looks complicated.”

He gave a tiny shrug, his focus still on the chair, but you caught the subtle flex of his arms as he adjusted a bolt. “I’m sure,” he repeated, tone calm, measured… but there was an edge to it now, a quiet intensity that made your pulse pick up.

You turned your back to him, reaching into the fridge for something to drink, completely oblivious to the storm that was about to hit.

That’s when Clark finally snapped.

His eyes landed on the jersey stretched across your shoulders, the name “Kent” clearly visible on the back. Something deep inside him ignited. Without thinking, he rose from the floor and closed the small distance between you.

Before you could react, he had you gently but firmly pinned against the open fridge. He leaned in just slightly, his face hovering centimeters from yours, the heat radiating off him undeniable.

With a smooth, almost casual motion, he picked up the juice jar you had been reaching for and closed the fridge behind you both, trapping you in that small bubble of kitchen space.

Clark’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, and every muscle in his body was taut, controlled, aware of you in a way that had been simmering for months. “You… have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate, almost teasing.

The room shrank around you, the IKEA chair forgotten, the mundane apartment sounds fading away. It was just you, him, and the magnetic pull between you—the tension that had been quietly building for months now impossible to ignore.

"…I… wanted juice?" you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper as you meet his intense gaze. Your eyes flicker nervously, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the storm behind his blue eyes, and the way his chest rises and falls steadily, controlled.

Clark lets out a low, almost amused sound, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Juice,” he repeats, the single word rolling off his tongue like it’s a secret, like it’s somehow the most ridiculous thing in the world compared to what’s really happening right now.

His hands, still resting near your arms on the fridge door, don’t move, but the pressure of his presence is inescapable. “You have no idea… how dangerous it is to wear that,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower, brushing against your ear. “You think this is about juice?”

Your heart skips, your breath catching, and you shake your head almost involuntarily, realizing that whatever this is, it’s not about juice anymore.

He tilts his head, studying you, a slow, deliberate smile creeping across his face. “No… it’s about this,” he says, and the word hangs between you, thick, heavy, and impossibly charged.

You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the closeness, of the heat radiating off him, of the way the tiny kitchen feels impossibly small now, containing only the two of you. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“I… I didn’t know… look, if you were upset that I grabbed your shirt—” you try, your voice trembling, swallowing nervously with each word.

Clark raises an eyebrow, that corner-of-the-mouth smirk still there, amused and more intense than ever. “Upset?” he repeats, the word drawn out, almost as if savoring it. He tilts his head just enough so that his breath brushes your face, making you acutely aware of every inch between you.

“N… no, it’s not that,” you stammer, feeling heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just… I didn’t know that… that this would…” You falter, unable to finish, because the truth—the attraction, the tension, the pull between you—is impossible to put into words.

Clark laughs, low, almost a purr, his hand sliding slowly to rest over yours, firm yet gentle. “This… this is exactly what I wanted you not to know,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with that intensity that slices through the air between you.

“Know what?” you whisper, your eyes flicking to his lips, drawn to the curve of them, the slow, deliberate way his mouth moves.

Clark’s gaze drops to yours, dark, heated, impossibly intense. “Know that… I want you,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word lingering between you like a spark hovering just above a flame. His hand tightens slightly over yours, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel the weight of his intent.

“I’ve… wanted this,” he continues, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand, sending shivers up your spine. “Every time you wear that shirt, every time you don’t even realize you’re looking at me… it’s like it pulls me in. I can’t… I can’t look away. I can’t ignore it.”

His eyes search yours, unwavering, and there’s an edge to his tone, a mixture of confession and challenge. “Do you know what it’s like, to want someone this much and have to pretend like it doesn’t matter? To see them, to feel them, and know that every second I stay still, I’m dying a little inside?”

“I know, Clark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but certain. Your hands slide up, resting lightly on his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. “I know… because I want you.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just enough, and then darkening with a mix of relief and hunger. “You…?” he murmurs, as if testing the word, letting it hang between you like a promise.

“Yes,” you murmur, letting your forehead lean slightly toward his, your fingers threading lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve wanted you too… for so long. I didn’t know how to say it… but I can’t fight it anymore.”

The air between you thickens, charged, your hearts hammering in sync, the kitchen shrinking around the two of you until nothing exists but the pull, the heat, the undeniable need.

You can’t hold back any longer. It’s like a pressure building inside you, a fire threatening to consume every rational thought. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, your hands clutching at his neck as if anchoring yourself to him, to this moment.

“Clark…” you breathe, your voice trembling, almost a plea. “I… I can’t—”

He silences you with a small, knowing smirk, his eyes dark and sparkling with the same desperation you feel. “Then don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough with restrained desire.

Before you can think twice, your lips are crashing together, urgent, hungry, the kiss exploding through you like electricity. Every second of restraint, every glance, every touch you’ve held back, pours into that moment. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and his arms wrap around you, pressing you impossibly tight against him.

It’s chaotic, desperate, and perfect—the world outside the kitchen vanishing entirely as if you’re the only two people left on Earth. The heat, the need, the longing you both tried to ignore, finally has a release, and it’s everything you imagined… and more.

Clark’s hands slide down to your waist, fingers gripping gently but firmly, pulling you impossibly closer. Your body melts against his, fitting perfectly as if you were always meant to be pressed together like this.

Your own hands thread through his curls, fingers tangling in the soft, dark strands as you tug him nearer, craving every inch of him. The sensation sends shivers down your spine—his warmth, the steady beat of his chest against yours, the heat radiating off him, all overwhelming in the best possible way.

He leans his forehead against yours for a brief moment, just enough for both of you to catch your breath, before his lips find yours again, deeper this time, slower, letting the tension simmer as your hands continue to explore the silky texture of his hair. Every small movement, every brush of skin against skin, is electric, a silent confession of the desire that’s been building between you both for far too long.

Without a word, his hands tighten at your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as his lips find yours again—this time deeper, hotter, his tongue slipping against yours, exploring, claiming, leaving you gasping.

The world narrows to the two of you, the kitchen fading into background noise, the fridge, the counter, everything forgotten. His arms hold you perfectly, steady and strong, yet every movement is deliberate, teasing, making your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

With a slow, controlled motion, he carries you over to the counter, setting you down gently but firmly. He leans in immediately, lips brushing yours again, tongue darting teasingly, hands gripping your waist, holding you close as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Every kiss, every touch, every heated glance is a reminder that the tension that’s been simmering for months has finally ignited—and neither of you wants it to stop.

His kisses move lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and a soft gasp escapes your lips as you tug at his hair, guiding him closer. Your hands roam across his chest, lingering on the firm planes of his body as you undo the last buttons of his shirt, revealing more of the warmth beneath. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers tracing the smooth curve of your bare back, memorizing every inch of your skin. There’s no hint of a bra to slow him down, and he leans in, letting his palms slide to your sides, pressing lightly, teasing your bare tits, making you arch into him.

Your breaths mingle, shallow and fast, and the tension between you feels electric. You feel his lips grazing your collarbone, his fingers exploring, mapping, claiming. Every movement is deliberate, charged with a heat that leaves the air between you trembling.

"Baby…" Clark murmurs, the word almost escaping as a whimper, and you watch him slowly kneel before you. His hands move deliberately, sliding your shorts down along with your panties, sending a shiver through you. You start to reach for the jersey, but he gently catches your wrists.

"I want you wearing my jersey," he says, his voice low and rough, eyes dark with need. He finishes removing your shorts, and the heat radiating from him makes your skin tingle. Your body instinctively arches toward him, every nerve ending alive, every touch sparking fire. The room feels impossibly small, every sound, every breath, every gasp between you two amplified.

You feel a sudden warmth spreading through your core as you realize his intent. He wants you wearing his jersey, a symbol of his possession, while he explores your most intimate parts. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he pushes your legs apart, his strong hands spreading your knees wide.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before trailing open-mouthed kisses up to your soaking wet center. You gasp loudly, your back arching off the counter as he parts your folds with his thumbs and dives in, licking a harsh stripe up your pussy.

His tongue swirls around your clit, sucking and licking with an intensity that makes your legs shake. He hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your body. His hands grip your thighs possessively, holding you open as he feasts on you like you're his favorite meal.

You tug at his hair desperately, moaning his name as he smirks against your wet flesh. His tongue plunges deep inside you, curling up to hit that sensitive spot that makes your eyes roll back. He adds two fingers alongside his tongue, pumping them roughly while sucking hard on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his lips glistening with your juices. "Goddamn, you taste so fucking good" he growls softly, before diving back in with renewed vigor. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue and fingers work in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You're a panting, trembling mess on the counter, your hands fisting in his hair. 

"Oh god, Clark... I'm gonna..." You warn breathlessly, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth. As soon as the words leave your lips, Clark redoubles his efforts. He sucks your clit hard, his fingers pistoning in and out of your spasming pussy. Your back arches off the counter completely as the orgasm rips through you, a loud cry of Clark's name echoing off the kitchen walls.

He pulls back, licking his lips clean of your release. He's so goddamn sexy like this - on his knees, between your thighs. He rises suddenly, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his lips and tongue, moaning softly as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your eyes lock with his deep blue ones. "I need you right now" you whimper.

Your hand dropping down to cup his length through his boxers. You can feel him hard and thick beneath the cotton, making you bite your lip. "Golly." he growls softly, thrusting into your palm.

You let out a soft giggle, leaning down to kiss him, your lips parting against his as your fingers work quickly to undo his pants. The fabric slips down, revealing him fully, hard and demanding.

You look down, your eyes widening as you take in the sheer size of him. He's huge - long and thick, with a vein running along the underside. The head is wide and purple, already leaking pre-cum. You swallow hard, looking back up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

He smirks slightly, reading the worry in your eyes. "Don't worry." he reassures softly, cupping your cheek. "It'll fit." He leans down, kissing you deeply, dominating your mouth with his tongue while his hands move to lift your legs higher around his waist.

He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your arousal. Then slowly, so slowly, he starts to push in. Your body stretches around him, taking him inch by thick inch. You both moan into the kiss, neither of you breaking contact as he sinks deeper.

He's fully sheathed inside you now, his hips flush against yours. He stays still, allowing you to adjust to his considerable size. His head rests on your shoulder as he takes deep breaths, inhaling your scent. "You're so tight." he murmurs huskily against your skin.

After a moment, you whimper out, "Please move, Clark." Your inner walls flutter around him, encouraging him. He lifts his head from your shoulder, his blue eyes burning into yours as he starts to move. He pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, before thrusting back in just as slow."Like this?” As he pulls out, a sense of emptiness fills you, quickly replaced by the delicious stretch of him entering again. The feeling of his thick length sliding through your wet folds is incredible. When he bottoms out this time, you let out a soft, pleasure-filled moan. 

"Yeah baby," you breathe out, your nails digging into his back. He's being careful, his hips rolling slowly, making love to you more than fucking. He watches for any signs of discomfort. You see his concern, so you pull his face close, making him look at you. "Clark," you chuckle softly. "Baby, go faster. You won't hurt me.”

Hearing your encouragement, Clark's hesitation vanishes. He grips your thigh tightly and presses his forehead against yours, his blue eyes locked intensely with yours. With a groan, he starts moving faster, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. Each thrust is deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot inside you. As he picks up the pace, so does his vocabulary. His deep voice fills the room with moans, groans, and the occasional "Fuck" or "Goddamn." You realize that under that quiet exterior, there's a very vocal man who enjoys expressing his pleasure loudly.

His movements become more urgent, more frantic. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, going even deeper. His balls slap against your ass with each thrust. "Honey..." he pants, his face twisting in pleasure. "I-im fucking close. Fuck, I need to cum so bad.” He leaves quick pecks on your lips down to your neck.

Your nails raking down his back snap something inside him. He growls deeply and pounds into you harder. You whispering  "inside" makes his mind race with dirty thoughts. He pulls back almost all the way out before slamming deep again. "Baby..." He grunts loudly.

With a final, powerful thrust, Clark buries himself deep inside you and roars his release. His thick length pulses and throbs as he fills you with warm, sticky cum. The feeling of him coming undone inside you pushes you over the edge too. You scream his name loudly, your body convulsing with pleasure as you orgasm around his cock.

You both stay locked together, bodies slick with sweat and hearts pounding in sync. Clark's softening cock remains buried inside you, still twitching gently with residual pleasure. His breath comes in hot pants against your lips as he rests his forehead against yours once more.

With great care and a soft smile, Clark slowly pulls out of you. You both watch as his now flaccid member slides free, glistening with your combined fluids. He reaches down and gently lifts the jersey off of you, revealing your naked body beneath. "Goddamn…”

You press soft kisses on his neck, making him shiver. "That was..." You start to say before he captures your mouth in a deep kiss. He suddenly hoists you up again, making you yelp. 

You wrap your legs around his waist. "Mmm" He hums. His hands squeeze your bottom possessively as he carries you towards the bathroom. His lips trail open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone while walking. "This is not over" He growls playfully, making you laugh loudly as your head falls back exposing your throat completely.

And in that moment—wrapped in his arms, your laughter mixing with his—you realize being roommates with Clark Kent was the best decision you ever made.

He looked at you a little differently after that, a spark lighting in his eyes as he leaned in just a bit and said, “I can make you get there, if you let me.”

Stupid man with stupid words. And you were just as stupid, because you really said yes.

Which brings you to the present—legs spread wide, back arching, and Haechan’s mouth glued to your cunt, his tongue working your soaked hole with shameless dedication.

How long had you been like this? You weren’t sure anymore.

Your legs were starting to ache from the position, trembling from the strain and the overstimulation. You’d long lost count of how many times he’d made you cum, even though he’d told you to keep track.

Your fingers were buried in his messy hair, tugging hard, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn’t giving you a choice, his tongue was relentless, thrusting into you with obscene precision, his mouth noisy, wet, ravenous.

His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, hands gripping them tightly as he anchored you in place, pulling you down even harder against his mouth.

He was devouring you, absolutely shameless, his nose brushing against your sensitive little bundle of nerves with every eager thrust of his tongue.

The room was filled with the slick, lewd sounds of wet sucking, your broken moans spilling freely, mixing with the soft, desperate hums coming from his throat, he was enjoying this. And you could feel it.

Not just in the way he moaned into you, but in the subtle grind of his hips against the mattress beneath him, chasing relief he was clearly denying himself in favor of feasting on you.

That familiar pressure began to build in your core once again, your body wound so tight it barely took anything now. And before you could even brace for it, you were cumming. Again.

Haechan groaned into you, loud and guttural, as his tongue welcomed your release like he’d been starving for it. He drank every last drop, licking you clean with long, purposeful strokes, your soft mewls only making his smile grow against your soaked, trembling cunt.

Honestly, you could’ve come again just from the sight of it.

He slowly hovered over you, capturing your lips in a messy, fevered kiss, his tongue coated with the taste of you, of both of you. It made your head spin.

You were so dazed, so far gone, that you didn’t even register the sound of his pants being pushed down, or the way he settled smoothly between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like they were something sacred.

Not until you felt him.

His cock, heavy and flushed, dragging through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit with maddening precision.

You gasped, overwhelmed, your hands flying to his arms as if to keep yourself ground, or stop him.

“Hyuck,” you whimpered, breathless and spent. “Gimme a break… please.”

He dragged his tongue slowly along your neck, warm and wet, just as his cock slid up and down your slick folds teasingly. The tip circled your entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.

“A break?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smirk as he nibbled at your pulse. “After everything I gave you?” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his cock still resting right at your entrance, heat pulsing between you. “You’re so selfish, you know that?”

His hips rolled forward just enough for the head of his cock to catch on your entrance again, making you twitch. He didn’t push in, of course he didn’t. He just stayed there, smirking.

“All those pretty sounds you made,” he whispered, trailing his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider. “All those orgasms I handed to you…”

He nipped at your jaw, gentle but firm.

“And now you want to rest?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your skin. “After laying there, whining, taking everything like a needy little pillow princess?”

His fingers found your clit again, drawing slow, torturous circles, just light enough to make your whole body jolt, overstimulated and aching.

“You should say thank you, pretty,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours. “And let me take care of you, hm?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips gave a weak jerk toward his fingers, your body betraying any protest your lips might’ve formed. You were exhausted, wrecked, even, but the way he touched you, spoke to you, looked at you… there was no way you could say no.

Your fingers curled tightly around his biceps, bracing yourself. “T… Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible, thick with embarrassment.

He chuckled, a low, condescending sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “I didn’t know you were obedient like that,” he teased, voice dripping with mockery.

And before you could even fire back, before you could think, he drove into you with a sharp, hard thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, a startled gasp slipping out as your body clenched around him instantly, your walls molding to every inch, the sudden stretch stealing whatever witty comeback you had.

His moan was downright pornographic and it had you clenching around him nonstop. The way he throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, made it obvious he was in heaven, or at least somewhere damn close.

He started to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that let you feel every single inch of him. And fuck, he was savoring it. Savoring the way your slick, gummy walls pulled him in greedily, clenching and fluttering like your body didn’t want to let him go.

But his slow, gentle thrusts didn’t last long, his hands clamped down on your hips, fingers digging in with an almost bruising grip as he picked up the pace. His thrusts turned rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to rock your body up the bed with each movement, as he pounded your already sensitive, abused pussy.

Slick, wet slaps echoed through the room, the sound of your cunt squelching obscene as he drove in deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot again and again like he knew it by heart.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice ragged, breath catching as you clenched down on him tight. “Gimme one—fuck, baby, gimme one more.”

It wasn’t like he even needed to ask. At this point, you had no control over your body, especially not with the way he was pounding into you while his fingers pinched your clit, only to soothe it with a teasing, gentle rub right after.

Your entire body responded to him like a live wire, tension building faster than you could process. Then, without warning, a gush of wetness burst from you, soaking his lower abdomen and the sheets below as your body trembled violently, nerves on fire from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—look at that,” he moaned, eyes wide in surprise, a slightly disbelieving smile curling on his lips. “So messy for me. So fucking good.”

You spasmed beneath him, body jerking as every muscle finally gave out, going limp all at once. He was so turned on by how completely he’d unraveled you, it took him a few seconds to even register it, until he stilled inside you, balls deep, as he spilled hot ropes of cum into your waiting cunt.

“Shit,” he hissed, breath ragged, brushing damp hair from your face and noticing how your eyes fluttered, your body still twitching softly. “You passed out?” he asked with a soft laugh as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah… I’ll take that as a thank you.”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea.

Working at a company that specializes in sexual health products isn’t exactly dinner table conversation, but it’s your job—and you take it seriously. As one of the lead researchers in product development, you’ve spent months working on a specialized condom for individuals with extra-large sizes. And now, it’s time to pitch it to the board.

You take a deep breath, tugging at the hem of your blazer before stepping into the conference room. A long, intimidating table stretches before you, lined with executives who look way too serious for a meeting about condoms. Behind you, the screen glows with the first slide of your presentation, the product name in bold letters.

"Good morning, everyone," you begin, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "Today, I'll be walking you through my research on a new condom designed specifically for those who find standard sizing... insufficient."

A few executives glance at each other. Some raise their brows, others nod with mild interest. You press on, clicking to the next slide. Graphs, charts, and anatomical studies fill the screen as you explain the glaring gap in the market and why this product is necessary.

"Our research shows a real demand for this," you continue. "Current options on the market are often too restrictive, uncomfortable, or prone to breakage. This design addresses those concerns by enhancing durability while maintaining a natural feel."

You move through the slides with confidence, breaking down the materials, elasticity testing, and the competition. But as you reach the last slide, you sense the shift in the room. Mr. Kim, the head of the board, leans forward, fingers steepled together.

"Your research is solid," he says. "The product has potential. But before we approve production, we need real-world testing."

You pause. "Of course. We're already in the process of recruiting participants—"

"Expedite it," another executive interrupts. "We need actual user data before we move forward. Bring us results, then we’ll talk."

You nod, maintaining a professional expression, but frustration bubbles beneath the surface. Finding participants for something this specific isn’t exactly a quick task. But without those test results, your project is stuck in limbo.

As the meeting wraps up and the executives file out, you exhale, already running through possible recruitment strategies in your head.

What you don’t realize is that one of your participants might already be in the room—watching you with quiet interest.

-

Back in your lab, you slump into your chair with a sigh, letting your head fall back against the headrest. The sterile, fluorescent lights hum softly above you, a stark contrast to the high-stakes tension of the conference room. You kick off your heels, rolling your chair toward your desk just as the door swings open.

"So? How'd it go?" your friend and co-worker, Jane, saunters in, her lab coat barely hanging onto her shoulders.

"Ugh." You rub your temples. "It went as expected. They love the concept, but they won’t approve production unless I bring them real-world test results. And fast."

Jane lets out a low whistle as she strolls over to the shelves lined with various prototype models and sample products. Without hesitation, she picks up one of the dildos—one of the many you use for testing elasticity and fit—and spins it in her hand like a baton. "So basically, you need to find guys with huge dicks willing to help out?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous. But yes. And I haven’t found a single participant yet. Screening takes time, and I don’t have much of it."

Jane smirks, tapping the tip of the dildo against her palm. "Maybe you should try a more direct approach. Put up a ‘Now Hiring: Well-Endowed Men’ sign in the break room."

You shoot her a deadpan look. "Oh sure, that’ll go over great with HR."

She laughs, setting the dildo back with the others. "I’m just saying, desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re working against the clock, and if you don’t find someone soon, all that research goes to waste."

You exhale, staring at the mess of paperwork and sample prototypes on your desk. You know she’s right. You need a participant—fast.

Jane heads for the door but pauses before leaving, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Hey, maybe you should start looking for participants here in the office. You never know who might be hiding a big secret."

She winks before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you groaning into your hands.

What you don’t know is that the solution to your problem is much closer than you think.

-

Lunch break couldn’t have come at a better time. You needed to step away from your desk, from the research, from the stress of finding participants. But Jane’s words from earlier linger in your head, much to your dismay.

Because now, as you sit in the company cafeteria, sipping on your drink, you catch yourself doing something utterly mortifying—unintentionally observing every single man who walks by. Or, more specifically, their crotches.

You aren’t trying to. Really. But Jane had planted the thought, and now, your brain has decided to betray you. Your eyes flicker over a group of IT specialists at the salad bar. Then to the finance associate adjusting his belt. Then to one of the marketing interns stretching in line for coffee. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until Jane elbows you with a wicked grin.

"Oh my God, you’re actually doing it," she laughs, nearly choking on her sandwich.

Your face heats instantly. "I’m not! I mean—not intentionally. I was just—oh, shut up. Let’s go."

Jane, still giggling, follows you out of the cafeteria, coffee cups in hand. She chatters about some office gossip as you make your way back to your lab, but you barely register her words. You just need to get back to work and shake this subconscious habit before you embarrass yourself further. But the moment you step into the lab, all coherent thought screeches to a halt.

Because standing in the middle of your workspace, examining a row of sample products with a curious yet unreadable expression, is Chris.

His fingers hover over one of the prototype models, but when he notices you, he straightens and offers a polite smile. "Good afternoon," he greets. "I came to speak with you."

Jane arches a brow, glances between the two of you, then smirks. "I’ll leave you to it," she says before slipping out, leaving you alone with Chris.

You turn back to him, slightly puzzled. "How can I assist you?"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding toward your desk. "I would like a more detailed explanation regarding your product—its functionality and how far in development are you."

You blink, pleasantly surprised by his interest. "Of course." You proceed to outline the design, materials, and the challenges in securing participants.

Chris listens attentively, though his expression remains unreadable. He appears to be weighing something in his mind but ultimately checks the time and exhales. "I have a meeting to attend, but could you come by my office later? Around four?"

You nod, though curiosity lingers. "Certainly. May I ask what this pertains to?"

He offers a small smile. "We’ll discuss it then."

And with that, he heads out, leaving you wondering what exactly he has in mind.

-

Chris Bang is a name everyone in the company knows. As a product manager, he’s known for his reliability, innovative ideas, and ability to bring projects to life. He’s respected, well-liked, and a natural leader. A social butterfly who effortlessly navigates through the office, friendly to everyone he meets.

You, on the other hand, have only ever interacted with him in passing—polite nods, brief greetings when you cross paths in the hallway. So when you receive an invitation to meet him in his office, you can’t help but wonder why he suddenly wants to talk to you.

A few minutes before four, you find yourself lingering outside Chris’s office, nervously shifting on your feet. You check your watch, heart thumping. A little after four, Chris finally appears, offering an apologetic smile.

"My apologies for the delay," he says. "Please, come in."

You follow him inside, settling into the chair across from his desk as he takes his seat. He folds his hands on the desk, studying you for a moment before speaking. "Thank you for coming. I wanted to discuss something regarding your research."

You nod, trying to keep your curiosity at bay. "Of course. How can I assist you?"

Chris watches you carefully, his expression unreadable as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The slight shift in his posture draws your attention—just enough to make you hyper-aware of the space between you.

“What specific criteria are you looking for in a participant for your product test?” His voice is even, measured, but there’s something in the way he asks that makes your breath hitch for just a second.

You clear your throat, straightening in your seat. “The main requirement is that participants need to have a genital size above average.”

His lips quirk up slightly, though his expression remains composed. “And what qualifies as above average?”

You’re certain he already knows the answer, but you respond anyway, keeping your tone professional. “Anything more than 5.5 inches when fully erect is considered above average.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. Chris doesn’t say anything immediately, just sits there, tapping a finger lightly against the desk, his gaze flickering over you in a way that makes the air feel heavier.

Then, finally, he exhales, tilting his head slightly. “I may have a solution to your participant problem,” he says, his voice lower now. “I would like to volunteer.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “You… what?”

“I want to be a participant.”

You blink, your mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Your grip on your pen tightens as you try to process what he just said.

He nods. "I see potential in your product, and I believe in its success. More importantly, I want to contribute to the company’s innovation."

You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. "How exactly are you going to be a participant?"

Chris leans back slightly. "I ask that my involvement remains anonymous."

Your throat feels dry as you nod. "Alright. But how are we going to conduct the test if you want to remain anonymous?"

He watches you carefully before answering. "We can arrange to do it outside of the office, in secret."

Without another word, Chris pushes himself up from his chair and moves around the desk. He stops right in front of you, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you, waiting. And that’s when it happens.

For the first time, you really look at him—not just as a well-respected product manager but as a man. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, the way his fitted white dress shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the definition underneath. How had you never noticed before?

Your eyes trail lower before you can stop yourself, a fleeting glance—until you realize exactly where you’re looking. The bulge against his dark slacks.

Heat floods your face as you snap your gaze back up, praying he didn’t catch that momentary lapse in professionalism.

Chris doesn’t comment on it, but there’s something almost amused in the way he tilts his head. He extends a hand toward you, expectant.

“So? Do you agree to this arrangement?” he prompts.

“Yes,” you regret for answering too quickly, making you sound way too eager. When in fact, you're just glad to finally solve the problem but also, yeah, okay, you can’t lie, you're a bit curious about something, about Chris.

Your fingers wrap around his, and as you shake hands, you feel it. The shift. The undercurrent of something you can’t quite name just yet.

-

The next day, work starts as usual. You and Jane are in your lab, reviewing reports and planning your next steps. This time, she’s not interrogating you about Chris—at least, not yet. Instead, she’s too busy grumbling about her own research troubles.

“I swear, if I have to go through one more round of reformulations, I’m going to lose my mind,” she complains, tapping her pen against the table. “And to make matters worse, the participant who had the reaction was the best one in the trial. Great responses, perfect for data analysis, and now she’s out.” She rubs her forehead. “I need to find a replacement ASAP, or the timeline’s screwed.”

Hearing that, you can’t help but think about your own situation. At least Jane had a participant—even if it went south. Meanwhile, you were stuck—until yesterday.

Your thoughts drift back to Chris. To the conversation in his office. To the way he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, waiting for you to respond to his offer. To the handshake that sealed the agreement, his grip firm and unwavering.

To the fact that you somehow, in the middle of all that, had managed to glance down—

Nope. Not going there.

“Hey!” Jane’s voice snaps you out of it. You blink at her.

“What’s with that face?” she asks, squinting at you suspiciously.

“What face?”

“The one that says you were just thinking about something you don’t want to admit.”

Damn it. You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Just work.”

Jane narrows her eyes. Then, suddenly, her gaze flicks past you—to the glass window overlooking the lab.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t even have to look to know what—or rather, who—she’s seeing. Still, against your better judgment, you glance up.

There he is. Chris is standing outside, observing another team of researchers working on their project. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listens to someone explaining something.

Jane lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello, product manager Bang.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Jane. No.”

Jane ignores you. “You know, I never really paid attention before, but now that I’m looking at him properly… Damn. You’ve been sitting on gold this whole time, and you didn’t even realize it.”

“I am not sitting on anything,” you hiss, horrified.

Jane grins, enjoying this far too much. “Not yet.”

You gape at her. “Stop.”

But your attention betrays you because the longer Chris stands there, the harder it is to ignore the way he looks. The rolled-up sleeves. The way his dress shirt fits just right. The way he listens so intently, brows furrowed in concentration.

Jane leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to wonder, though… With a body like that, what else do you think he’s got going on under there?”

You suck in a breath, scandalized. “Jane.”

She smirks. “I mean, you would know better than me now, wouldn’t you?”

You nearly choke on air. “I—excuse me?”

Jane just winks. “Just saying. You’re in charge of a very… specific study. And he’s very… qualified.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond because, at that exact moment, Chris shifts—and his gaze lands directly on you. Your heart stops. For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, as if sensing the sheer panic flooding your system, Jane casually takes a step back and hums. “Welp, have fun processing that. I’ll let you get back to work.”

And with that, she strolls away, leaving you to deal with the mess she just made in your brain. The worst part? You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at Chris the same way again.

Especially when, minutes later, Chris finishes his observation and starts walking past your lab.

Your body tenses as he nears the doorway, but when he glances in and sees you, his expression remains calm—pleasant, even.

“Good morning,” he says, voice as smooth as ever.

“Good morning,” you manage to reply, keeping your tone neutral.

He offers a brief nod before continuing down the hall, leaving you exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

But just as you think the encounter is over, your phone buzzes. You glance down, unlocking it. A new message. From Chris.

Meet me tonight. Hotel Mira. 8 PM.

There’s no explanation. No context. Just the time. The place. And the undeniable fact that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

-

The sun is beginning to set, casting a dim orange glow through the windows. Most of the other researchers have already packed up and left, giving you just the moment of solitude you need.

With one last glance around, you reach for the shelf where your prototype samples are stored. Your fingers hover for a second before you carefully pick up a small box of the condoms—the very ones you’re supposed to be testing.

You hesitate only for a moment before swiftly slipping the box into your bag, ensuring it's hidden beneath your notebook and other miscellaneous items. Your pulse quickens. It’s not like you’re doing something wrong, but if Jane sees…

Yeah. You’d have a lot of explaining to do. You zip up your bag, moving as casually as possible, just in case—

“Hey.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Snapping your head up, you see Jane standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.

Your heart pounds as you quickly compose yourself, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Jesus, Jane. Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

She shrugs, stepping into the lab. “Didn’t know I had to make an announcement before entering.” She leans lazily against the doorframe, completely unaware of the miniature panic attack she just induced. “Anyway, my car’s still in the shop. Can you give me a ride to the station?”

You blink, still recovering. “The station?”

“Yeah. You know, where trains exist.” She gives you a look. “It’s in the same direction as your place, isn’t it?”

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. The station. Which just so happens to be on the way to Hotel Mira.

You nod, keeping your voice neutral. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Let me grab my stuff, and we can head out.”

Jane disappears for a moment, giving you time to let out a slow breath. That was way too close.

-

The drive to the hotel feels longer than it should, your mind running in circles despite the fact that this is nothing more than a professional meeting. A business matter. An agreement you both shook hands on.

And yet, as you pull into the parking lot and step out of your car, there’s an uneasy flutter in your stomach that you can’t quite suppress.

Inside, the hotel lobby is polished and pristine, dimly lit with a warm, intimate glow. You walk past the front desk without sparing a glance, heading straight toward the restrooms.

Once inside, you take a moment to steady yourself. You set your bag down, gripping the edge of the sink as you look at your reflection. Your face betrays you. You don’t look like someone heading into a purely professional meeting. You look… nervous. Almost like—

No. You shake your head, breaking the thought before it can go any further. With a quick breath, you smooth out the creases in your shirt, adjust your hair, and dab a cool drop of water against the back of your neck. You look fine. Presentable. Professional.

And then, without giving yourself any more time to overthink, you grab your bag and leave the restroom.

The elevator ride is quiet, save for the low hum of the machinery as you ascend. The numbers above the doors blink steadily—six, seven, eight—each one making your pulse tick higher. By the time you reach the tenth floor, your grip on your bag is tight.

Room 1003.

You walk down the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps. The walls are lined with identical doors, each one leading to a private, undisclosed space. Your destination is at the end of the hall.

You stop in front of it. For a moment, you just stand there. The number on the door gleams under the soft glow of the overhead light. 1003. The right room. The right place.

Then, shifting your bag in front of you, you lift a hand—

And knock. A pause. Silence. Then, the sound of movement from the other side. A slow, deliberate click of the lock and then the door begins to open.

-

The door clicks open, and you swear your heart stumbles over itself. Chris stands before you, his usual professional image softened by the undone top buttons of his shirt and the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. He looks relaxed—too relaxed. And that only makes your nerves spike even more.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You force yourself to move, slipping past him and into the room. It’s a standard hotel suite, sleek and modern, but your attention flickers to the small bar cart near the TV. Chris follows your gaze.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, walking toward it without waiting for an answer.

You shake your head, gripping your bag a little tighter. “I’m good. I’d rather get started with the test.”

Chris chuckles, glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re all business, huh?” He picks up a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a small amount before holding up another glass. “Come on, just one drink. We’re going to be working closely together. Shouldn’t we at least loosen up a little?”

You hesitate, knowing this isn’t what you came here for. But the way he’s looking at you—warm, patient, but with an undeniable sense of control—makes you cave just a little. You sigh, finally moving toward the sofa. “Fine. Just one drink.”

Chris smiles, a pleased glint in his eyes as he pours your drink. You watch him quietly, noticing how different he seems outside the office. The polished product manager is still there, but here, in this dimly lit hotel room, he seems more at ease, more himself. He hands you the glass, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. You swallow before raising it slightly.

“To… professional courtesy?” you say, trying to keep this neutral.

Chris chuckles again, lifting his own glass. “To a successful product test.”

You clink glasses and take a sip, the burn of the alcohol trailing down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or something else entirely, but suddenly, you feel a little hot.

You set your glass down on the table after a single sip, straightening in your seat as you slip back into work mode. Clearing your throat, you open your bag and take out your notebook. “Alright. Before we begin, I need to outline the process.”

Chris raises an amused brow, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Go on.”

You nod, focusing on your notes. “The test requires me to take measurements—both in a flaccid and an erect state. This includes length, girth, and width to ensure the condom’s fit and elasticity.”

You glance up, expecting him to react professionally. Instead, Chris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. You frown. “What?”

He smirks, taking a slow sip of his drink before meeting your eyes. “You’re so serious about this.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the comment. “Well… it is a serious matter. This is research.”

Chris hums as if considering your words. Then, with a teasing lilt, he tilts his head. “Or are you just impatient to see me naked?”

Your body locks up. “What—? No! That’s not—”

But Chris only chuckles, leaning back against the sofa, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

You exhale sharply, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Without thinking, you grab your glass and take another sip, hoping the drink will calm the sudden fluster in your system.

Chris watches you with a knowing glint in his eyes, then lifts his own glass. “Alright. Once we finish these, we’ll start.”

You nod, trying not to overthink how nonchalant he is about all of this while you’re barely holding it together. This is just research. Just a product test. You tell yourself.

A few more sips and the glasses are emptied, the clink of crystal against the table sounding much louder in the quiet room.

Chris exhales, setting his drink down with ease before rising to his feet. Without thinking, you follow suit, standing just as he does—an instinctive reaction, though you’re not sure why.

The two of you find yourselves facing each other, the space between you charged with something unspoken. His gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable, and you realize you’re gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.

The silence stretches just long enough to make your pulse tick faster. Then, Chris breaks it with a low, amused murmur. “So… should we get started?”

His voice is smooth, casual, but the weight of the moment makes it feel heavier than it should.

You swallow, forcing a nod. “Y-Yes. We should.”

But your feet stay rooted in place and Chris notices. The corner of his mouth twitches—something between a smirk and a knowing smile. He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to make the next move. Or if he’s simply enjoying watching you hesitate. Either way, you need to snap out of it.

Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip on your notes and take a steadying breath. “Let’s begin.”

Chris hums in agreement, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze as he finally moves. And suddenly, it feels as if the real test is not just the one you came here for—but something else entirely.

He moves first, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing toned muscles beneath—broad chest, defined abs, and a confidence that makes the entire act seem effortless.

You keep your expression neutral, or at least you try to. “This is strictly professional,” you remind yourself silently.

Chris glances at you, catching the way your gaze flickers before you quickly refocus on your notes. “Do you need me to undress completely?” he asks, his tone smooth, almost teasing.

You press your lips together before answering. “For accurate measurement, I need access to the necessary area. So… yes.”

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound. “Straight to the point.”

You don’t respond, instead focusing on preparing the measuring tape and recording sheet. Anything to keep yourself occupied while he finishes undressing.

A moment later, you hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a belt unfastening, the subtle shift of movement. You don’t look up until Chris speaks again.

“I’m ready when you are.”

When you finally lift your gaze, your breath catches for a fraction of a second. You do your best to maintain your professionalism—but the moment you see it, all thoughts momentarily leave your head.

Chris stands before you, bare from the waist down, his body relaxed yet radiating a quiet confidence. He doesn’t shy away, doesn’t fidget—he simply waits, watching for your reaction.

You knew he had to be on the larger side to even qualify for the study, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. Bigger than you expected. Definitely bigger than you imagined.

You barely catch yourself before audibly reacting, but your throat betrays you as you swallow air, a reflex you hope he doesn’t notice.

Chris, of course, notices everything. A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Something wrong?”

You snap out of it, quickly shaking your head as you reach for your measuring tape, trying to ignore the sudden warmth creeping up your neck. “No, nothing at all. Let’s just get this done.”

Chris chuckles, but thankfully doesn’t press further. For now. You quickly move to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from your bag, slipping them on with practiced precision.

Chris raises an amused eyebrow. “You really came prepared, huh?”

You shoot him a pointed look. “Of course. This is an official product test.”

His lips twitch in amusement as he peeks into your open bag, catching a glimpse of all the testing materials. “What else do you have in there? A microscope? A lie detector?”

You ignore his teasing and pull out the measuring tape, standing straighter to compose yourself. “Alright. Let’s begin with the flaccid measurement.”

Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t make it easier for you. Instead, he watches—patient, unreadable—as you kneel slightly, positioning the measuring tape against him.

Your fingers brush against his skin through the latex, and you swear you feel the slightest twitch beneath your touch. You pretend not to notice. But Chris does.

And as the test continues, you realize that maintaining professionalism might be the hardest part of all.

You keep your focus steady, guiding the measuring tape along the length of Chris’s flaccid state. Your gloved fingers work efficiently, noting the exact numbers as you move on to measure his girth, wrapping the tape around the thickest part before finally noting the width calculation.

Chris watches you work, amusement flickering in his eyes. “How do you measure width, exactly?”

You don’t hesitate as you jot down the numbers. “You divide the girth by 3.14.”

Chris lets out a short laugh. “Huh. I used to think I wouldn’t need math in real life.”

You smirk, a little too focused on your notes when you reply, “Well, here’s a practical use of Pi for you.”

His chuckle is warm, and you don’t notice how his eyes linger on you as you make quick calculations in your notebook.

Once you’re done, you lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Alright, now I need to measure—” You stop mid-sentence as realization sets in. His fully erect size.

The complications of that request hit you all at once. Chris raises an eyebrow, clearly catching your hesitation. And for the first time, you’re at a complete loss for words.

You clear your throat, willing yourself to sound casual. “I need to take your measurements when you’re fully erect.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, studying you with quiet amusement. “And do you have any idea how to get me there?”

You keep your expression neutral. “You can look at pornographic images or watch an adult film. That should help.”

At that, Chris grins, a small chuckle escaping him. He shakes his head, clearly entertained by your clinical suggestion. “That’s one way,” he muses. “But I have a better idea.”

You don’t like the way his eyes darken ever so slightly, the playful glint in them laced with something else. You try to stay calm, but your fingers tighten around your measuring tape. “And… what’s that?”

He stalls, watching you carefully before answering. “You can help me with it.”

Chris must notice your reaction because he quickly adds, “I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.” His voice is smooth, patient, almost reassuring—but his gaze stays locked onto yours, watching your every move.

You know he’s waiting for a response but all you can think about is the weight of his words. And the heat in the way he’s looking at you. You take a steadying breath before nodding. “Okay.”

Chris’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before he speaks again, his voice firm yet gentle. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.”

You nod again, not trusting your voice. He takes that as his cue, stepping closer. You hold your ground, determined to remain professional, but the moment he stops in front of you—so close that your bodies are only inches apart—you feel the heat radiating from him. And then, when you think this is where he’ll stop, he takes another step forward.

Your pulse quickens as the space between you disappears. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but his presence alone is overwhelming. He tilts his head slightly, his mouth hovering near your neck, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Chris stays there, simply breathing you in, dragging out the tension until your mind starts to blur. Then, in a low, hushed voice, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

You look at him, startled by the rawness of his request. His gaze meets yours, unwavering, intense. “I just need to hold you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something about the way he says it—like he’s asking for permission but also making a promise—makes you nod before you can second-guess yourself.

Chris doesn’t waste time. He closes the remaining distance, his arms slipping around your waist, drawing you fully against him. The contact is intoxicating. His body is warm and solid, firm in all the right places, and you feel every inch of it pressing against you.

His breath is hot against your skin as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. The tip of his nose brushes against you, and then, slowly, his mouth follows, dragging lightly across your skin.

“You smell good,” he whispers, his voice deep, laced with something that sends shivers down your spine.

You could say the same about him. His cologne, a mix of something woodsy and subtly sweet, blends with his natural scent in a way that makes your head spin.

He’s not even doing anything—his hands remain on the small of your back, respectful, unmoving—yet the moment feels unbearably intimate. Dangerously intimate. And the worst part? It feels good. Too good.

Chris lets out a soft, teasing hum. “You know, I don’t bite.” His voice is low, velvety. “You can put your hands on me if you want.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes even as you keep your hands hovering near his shoulders. “I don’t want to.”

He chuckles, a knowing sound. “Mmm. Sure.”

And yet, as if magnetized, your hands eventually land on him. First, just your fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt, then your palms pressing gently against his broad shoulders. He’s solid beneath your touch, his warmth seeping through his shirt and into your skin.

Chris stays buried in your neck, breathing you in, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then, just as your heartbeat starts to slow, he leans in further, pressing his mouth to your ear.

His next words are a whisper. “Even if I did bite…” He pauses, his voice dipping lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you’d like it.”

You keep your head turned away, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice alone sends heat curling through your stomach.

Chris chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating against your skin. You’re not sure if it’s the heat of his body or your own rising temperature, but you feel warm all over. Your first instinct is to get a space so you can cool down.

Sensing you about to pull away, he tightens his arms around your waist, keeping you close. He lifts his head just slightly, his face now barely an inch from yours. His eyes are dark, lidded, fixed on you. “Just five more minutes,” he murmurs, almost pleading.

Your breath catches. “Five minutes,” you warn.

Chris smirks before dropping his head back against your neck, exhaling deeply as if settling in. This time, he draws you even closer, molding your body against his. His fingers press lightly into your lower back, holding you there as he murmurs, “I like the way you feel against me.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Then, his head tilts slightly, his lips grazing the column of your throat as he speaks again. “So soft,” he whispers. “So warm.”

You feel his head shift, his mouth now pressing against the curve of your jaw. His voice is barely a breath. “I was right,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Your body fits me just right.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a long second, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers down—to your lips. Your breath hitches, and he looks back into your eyes again. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in.

And without thinking, you close your eyes. Your instincts pulling you deeper into the moment but your body refuses to cooperate. You shift slightly on your feet and that’s when you feel it. Something firm presses against your thigh. Your eyes snap open.

Reflexively, you break away from his hold, your hands flying up as you step back. Your gaze darts downward before you can stop yourself. And there it is. His erection. Hard, prominent, taunting you with its size.

Your eyes widen, and the moment you realize you’ve been staring, you jerk your head away, heat burning up your face.

Chris exhales, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches you, amusement flickering in his gaze.

You clear your throat, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “It’s time for the measurements.”

For a split second, Chris looks almost… disappointed. But then he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he glances down at himself.

“Well,” he muses, smirking. “Guess I’m ready.”

You take a steadying breath, willing yourself to focus as you retrieve your measuring tape. Slipping back into professionalism, you kneel slightly to get a better angle, careful not to react to the sheer size of what you're working with.

Chris watches you with a smirk, his arms resting loosely at his sides. As you wrap the tape around him, he hums. “Are you always this serious?”

You glance up at him, momentarily thrown by the question. His eyes are amused, but there’s something else there—something unreadable.

“I’m working,” you say simply, jotting down the measurement in your notebook.

Chris tilts his head, watching you intently. “Still. You didn’t even flinch.” His smirk widens. “I’m kind of impressed.”

You roll your eyes, shifting to take the next measurement. “You’re not the first participant I’ve worked with.”

He chuckles at that, his voice dropping slightly. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Chris lets out a deep chuckle, shifting slightly under your touch. “So, you’re saying you do this often?” His voice is laced with playful curiosity.

You don’t look up, keeping your focus on writing down the numbers. “It’s my job.”

He hums. “Right. Your job.” There’s a pause, then a teasing edge creeps into his tone. “Do all your test subjects get this kind of personal attention?”

You snap your head up, eyes narrowing at the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just being thorough.”

Chris bites back a grin, looking entirely too entertained by your reaction. “Thorough, huh? Should I be flattered?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you reach for your measuring tape again. “You should be cooperative.”

“Oh, I am,” he says smoothly. “But I have to admit, it’s kind of nice seeing you flustered.”

You pause for half a second—just enough for him to catch it—before quickly resuming your work. “I’m not flustered,” you mutter.

Chris chuckles again, low and knowing. “Right.” He shifts his weight slightly, and your fingers brush against his skin, making you tense. “You sure you don’t need to double-check any of those numbers? You know… just to be extra thorough?”

You shoot him a glare, but he just grins down at you, completely unbothered. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the prototype condom packs. You hold it out to him, keeping your expression neutral. “Here. Try it on so I can check the fit.”

Chris takes the pack from your hand but doesn’t move to open it. Instead, he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know…” He tears the wrapper slowly, his fingers deliberately smooth over the material. “Since you’re the expert, shouldn’t you be the one putting it on?”

Your breath catches, and you quickly shake your head, keeping your voice steady. “I think you can manage.”

Chris lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Oh, I can. But wouldn’t it be more accurate if you did it? I mean, this is all in the name of research, right?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a challenge in his gaze, waiting to see how you’ll react.

You cross your arms. “Are you serious right now?”

He grins. “Completely.”

You exhale sharply, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

Chris sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine, fine.” He slides the condom out of the wrapper, still smirking. “But I have a feeling you’d do a much better job.”

You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Just put it on, please?”

He chuckles again, finally following your instruction. But the way he keeps looking at you—as if he’s enjoying every second of your flustered state—tells you this won’t be the last time he teases you like this.

You take a step closer, eyes focused as you observe how the condom fits around him. Your fingers hover near, but you refrain from touching, keeping your professionalism intact.

“How does it feel?” you ask, glancing up at him.

Chris exhales slowly, rolling his hips slightly as if adjusting to the fit. “Honestly?” He looks down at himself. “It’s a little too tight.”

You immediately jot that down in your notebook. “Too tight…” you murmur, pen scratching against the paper.

“And I think it’s too short for my length,” he adds, pulling at the base slightly as if to emphasize his point.

Your eyes widen slightly before you catch yourself. You write it down quickly, nodding. “Alright, noted.”

Chris tilts his head, watching you with interest. “Are you sure you brought the right size?”

You don’t even look up as you answer, still focused on your notes. “Yes, these prototypes are all specifically made for extra-large sizes.”

Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s your penis that’s too big.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.

Chris blinks. Then, slowly, a smirk curls on his lips. “Oh?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something more amused—almost smug. “So you’re saying I’m too big?”

You clutch your notebook a little tighter, willing yourself to keep your composure. “Scientifically speaking,” you emphasize, clearing your throat, “it exceeds the parameters we accounted for in development.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

You take a step back, regaining your composure as you focus on the real reason you're here. Flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, you clear your throat. "How does the material feel?" you ask, keeping your tone professional.

He glances down at himself, rolling his hips slightly as if assessing the sensation. He hums, thoughtful. "It’s… okay. Smooth, but a little tighter than I’d like. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, just a bit restrictive."

You jot that down quickly. "Restrictive how? Like it’s compressing too much or just not flexible enough?"

Chris watches you with a smirk. "Look at you, so serious about this."

You shoot him a pointed look. "Just answer the question. Please."

He chuckles, but obliges. "I’d say both. The stretch is good, but it’s still a little snug, especially at the base. If I were to wear this for a long time, it might get uncomfortable."

You nod, scribbling notes. "Noted. What about sensitivity? Can you still feel everything, or does it dull the sensation?"

Chris leans in slightly, and you catch the glint in his eye before he speaks. "I can definitely still feel things. Though, if you really want an accurate answer, I’d have to—"

"Don't even finish that sentence," you interrupt, already knowing where he’s going with it.

Chris bursts out laughing, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, full functionality testing might be necessary."

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "Noted," you say dryly, though you don’t actually write that one down.

Chris watches you with amusement before tilting his head. "So, what now?"

You glance at him—more specifically, at his still-erect situation—and then back at your notes. "We’ll discuss material modifications later." You pause, shifting on your feet. "But first… you should take that off."

Chris’s grin returns, playful and teasing. "You might want to turn around for this."

Rolling your eyes, you turn away just as you hear him peel the condom off while you put everything back into your bag.

A moment later, Chris has already discarded the condom and pulled his slacks back on, though his shirt remains unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves still rolled up. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that ever-present smirk.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "What’s the verdict, Doc?"

You ignore his teasing tone and glance down at your notes. "The material needs improvement—more elasticity without sacrificing durability. The length also needs to be adjusted for better coverage. And the base should have a slightly looser fit to prevent discomfort over time."

Chris nods along, but you can tell he’s only half-listening. "So, in short, you need to make a custom size just for me."

You look up at him, unimpressed. "You're not the only man with this issue."

He grins. "No, but I bet I’m the first one to have you personally taking notes on it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. He’s not wrong, but you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "I appreciate your participation in this test. It was helpful."

Chris’s grin softens into something more genuine. "I’m glad. I mean it. I know this is important to you."

The sincerity catches you off guard. You hesitate, then nod. "It is."

A beat of silence stretches between you, the air oddly charged. Then Chris claps his hands together. "Well, I’d say that wraps up our very professional, totally scientific evening."

You huff a small laugh despite yourself. "Sure."

Chris pushes off the desk and steps closer, his voice lowering. "And I’m assuming this stays between us?"

You meet his gaze. "Obviously."

"Good," he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before he steps back.

As you gather your things, Chris watches you with a lazy smirk, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Just as you reach for the doorknob, he speaks up.

"You sure you don’t want another drink before you go?" His voice is smooth, almost coaxing. "I still have some left."

You glance back at him, shaking your head. "No, thanks. I have work tomorrow."

Chris tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "So do I."

"Exactly my point," you say, giving him a pointed look.

He chuckles, then raises his hands in surrender. "Alright. No more drinks. Just thought I’d offer."

You nod, gripping the strap of your bag. "I appreciate it."

Chris takes a slow step closer, his smirk softening into something unreadable. "Well then," he murmurs, "I guess I’ll see you at work."

You clear your throat, clutching your bag. "Yeah. See you."

And with that, you turn and walk out of the hotel room, acutely aware of his eyes on you the entire way.

-

The next morning, you arrive at the lab early, hoping to get a head start on your request for adjustments to the condom's materials and dimensions. You’re deep in thought, typing notes on your computer when Jane suddenly appears beside you, peering at your screen.

Her eyes narrow. "What’s this?"

You nearly jump out of your seat. "Jesus, Jane! Stop sneaking up on me like that!"

Jane ignores your reaction, leaning in closer to read. Her eyebrows lift as she scans the document. "Wait a minute... requests for material flexibility? Increased length and width?" She crosses her arms and looks at you, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh-ho. This is interesting."

You immediately close the document. "It’s nothing."

"Nothing?" Jane repeats, her smirk growing. "Sounds like the test subject was huge if you need to adjust everything."

You keep your face neutral. "It’s just data. The prototype wasn’t a perfect fit, so I have to make changes."

"Uh-huh," Jane says, tilting her head. "So? Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was the guy?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "And don’t even try lying because I know you had a test subject last night."

You grab a random file from your desk, flipping through it as a distraction. "Confidential."

Jane groans dramatically. "Oh, come on! Throw me a bone here. Was he at least good-looking?"

You sigh, exasperated. "It’s not about that."

"But it is, isn't it?" Jane leans closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You had to see everything, didn’t you?"

You press your lips into a thin line, refusing to indulge her.

Jane gasps, then grins. "Oh my God. You totally did."

"I work in research, Jane. It’s part of my job."

She hums, clearly not buying it. "And yet, you're being all weird about it."

You shake your head, pretending to focus on your paperwork. "Just drop it."

Jane taps her chin, pretending to think. "Fine. I won’t ask any more questions." She pauses, then adds, "For now."

After lunch, the two of you step out onto the balcony before heading back to the lab. Jane lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag, while you sip on your iced coffee, letting the coolness settle in your throat. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the city skyline, but there’s a nice breeze that makes it bearable.

“Man, I needed this,” Jane sighs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I swear, if I have to deal with one more report about allergic reactions, I’m going to start developing a whole new drug—one for my patience.”

You chuckle, taking another sip of your coffee. “Maybe that’s the next project you should pitch.”

Jane hums in amusement, but her attention shifts suddenly. Her eyes lock on something—or someone—on the other end of the balcony. You follow her gaze and immediately spot Chris. He’s leaning against the railing, looking effortlessly put-together as always, engaged in conversation with a woman.

You recognize her instantly—Suze, the executive manager of another department. She’s beautiful, stylish, and carries an air of confidence that makes her stand out in any room. She’s also notoriously popular among the higher-ups and has a reputation for being both sharp and charming.

Jane clicks her tongue, watching the two of them. “Well, well. Looks like Miss Perfect is making her move.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

Jane gestures subtly toward them with her cigarette. “You don’t know? Suze has been eyeing Chris for a while now. Apparently, she’s been dropping hints left and right, but he’s been playing it cool.”

You turn your gaze back to the pair. Suze is smiling, leaning in slightly as she speaks. Chris listens, nodding occasionally, but his expression remains unreadable.

Jane lets out a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, they’d make a ridiculously good-looking couple. It’s almost unfair.”

You don’t respond, just watching the way Suze tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her manicured fingers brushing the lapel of Chris’s blazer ever so slightly.

Jane exhales another puff of smoke. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. You think he’s into her?”

You shrug, keeping your voice neutral. “I wouldn’t know.”

Jane side-eyes you, smirking. “You sound like you don’t care, but I know you care.”

You scoff, finishing the last of your coffee. “I don’t.”

“Sure,” she drawls, taking one last drag before stubbing out her cigarette. “And I don’t need nicotine to survive the workday.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, we need to get back.”

But as you turn to leave, you can’t help but glance one last time at Chris and Suze. And for some reason, the sight of them together lingers in your mind longer than you’d like.

-

In the lab, you and Jane stand over a workstation where another team has been developing edible lubricants. Small sample bottles line the table, each labeled with different flavors—strawberry, vanilla, honey, and even some unconventional ones like mojito and buttered popcorn.

Jane picks up a small vial labeled “Salted Caramel” and gives it an experimental sniff. “Huh. Smells legit,” she muses before wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Wanna try some?”

You scoff. “That’s not what we’re here for.”

Jane ignores your protest and dabs a tiny drop onto her finger before popping it into her mouth. She hums in thought, smacking her lips. “Damn. That’s actually good.”

You shake your head, amused. “You do realize this is meant for other uses, right?”

“Obviously.” Jane grins before picking up another sample labeled “Piña Colada.” She dabs some onto her finger and holds it out to you. “C’mon, just one taste. For science.”

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes at her suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me look ridiculous.”

She gasps, feigning offense. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I am a woman of integrity.”

You snort, but before you can respond, a voice cuts through the room.

“Can I talk to you?”

You turn, your breath catching slightly when you see Chris standing there. His expression is serious, his posture relaxed but purposeful.

Jane, still sucking on her finger from the piña colada lube, slowly lowers her hand and looks between the two of you. “Uh-oh. That sounds important.”

Chris doesn’t react to her comment, his gaze fixed on you.

You clear your throat. “Right now?”

He nods. “If you’re free.”

You glance at Jane, who raises both hands in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just be here taste-testing the entire catalog.”

Chris doesn’t wait for further response—he simply turns and heads toward the door, expecting you to follow.

You exhale sharply, setting down the sample bottle you were holding. Whatever this is about, it’s clearly not a casual chat. You throw Jane a look before heading after Chris, your heart thumping just a little harder than it should.

-

You inhale a long air before you reach Chris’s office door. After that night, you weren’t sure how it would go. Would he act like nothing happened? Would he bring it up? Would things be… weird?

Pushing those thoughts aside, you knock.

"Come in."

You step inside, closing the door behind you. Chris is at his desk, reviewing something on his laptop, but when he looks up and sees you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips.

Chris gestures to the seat across from him. "Have a seat."

You hesitate but eventually do as he says. Your fingers unconsciously tighten around the side of your lab coat.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "How are you feeling?"

It’s a loaded question, but you pretend not to notice. "Fine. Why?"

His lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re doing. "Just checking." He nods toward your bag. "Did you review our test’s results?"

"Yes," you say, clearing your throat. "The prototype was too tight and short for your size. I’ll have to make some adjustments to the material and dimensions before moving forward with mass production."

Chris hums. "So, you’re saying I’m too big for the product."

Your fingers twitch, remembering last night’s slip-up. You keep your tone professional. "Technically, yes. The size I brought was meant for extra-large measurements, but you exceeded expectations."

Chris grins. "Exceeding expectations… I like the sound of that."

You shoot him a look. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. "Back to business." He sits up, his expression turning a little more serious. "What’s your next step?"

"I already sent in a request for adjustments to the prototype," you explain. "It’ll take some time, but I can get an updated batch for testing soon."

Chris nods. "And when that happens, will I be your test subject again?"

You hesitate. "That depends. Are you still willing to participate?"

He tilts his head slightly. "What do you think?"

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—calm, confident, but with something simmering beneath the surface. You look away, keeping your voice even. "I’ll keep you updated."

Chris watches you for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You know… I have to admit, that was more fun than I expected."

You raise a brow. "Testing a condom was fun?"

He chuckles. "No, but watching you try to stay professional while clearly flustered? That was fun."

Your face heats up. "I wasn’t flustered."

Chris’s smirk deepens. "Sure you weren’t."

Then, as if the weight of the conversation suddenly lightens, he tilts his head slightly. “You’ll let me know when it’s ready, right?”

His words sound casual, but there’s an underlying meaning in them that you can’t quite decipher. You nod, keeping your voice steady. “Of course.”

Chris holds your gaze for a second longer, then leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Good,” he repeats, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach flip.

-

Exactly three days later, the revised prototypes arrives in your lab. You carefully open the box, inspecting the changes you requested. The material feels smoother, the elasticity slightly improved. Satisfied, you make a note in your log—only to jump slightly when Jane suddenly leans over your shoulder.

“Length 8.07 inches and width 2.02 inches... Holy shit!” Her voice is filled with pure astonishment as she snatches one of the foil packets and flips it over in her hands. “Are you seeing this? This is huge.”

You try to stay composed, pretending to be preoccupied with the paperwork in front of you. “It’s within the expected range,” you say coolly.

Jane squints at you, then back at the condom in her hand. “Expected range, my ass. You’ve been working on this for weeks, and I’ve never seen a prototype this size before.” She pauses, then gasps dramatically. “Wait a second… did you finally find a participant?”

Your heart nearly stops. “What? No.” You shake your head, scrambling for a convincing excuse. “I just figured… why stop at extra-large when we can push the boundaries even further? There’s always a demand for more variety in the market.”

Jane eyes you suspiciously, her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Are you sure you’re not hiding some secret test subject from me?”

You force a casual laugh. “Jane, I would tell you if I had someone lined up. It’s just research.”

She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she lets out a sigh and puts the condom back. “Alright, fine. But if you do have a participant, I wanna meet him.”

You quickly turn back to your paperwork, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your ears are burning. As soon as Jane leaves, you let out a slow breath, your fingers still gripping the pen you had been pretending to write with. You wait a few moments to make sure she’s really gone before pulling out your phone.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s contact for a second, your mind briefly flashing back to the last test, to the way he had looked at you, the way he had—

You shake the thought away and type out a quick message.

The revised prototype is ready for testing. Let me know when you’re available.

You hit send, placing your phone face-down on the desk as you try to focus on your notes. But the distraction is already there, the anticipation simmering in the back of your mind.

A few minutes pass before your phone vibrates. You glance at the screen to read a reply from Chris.

Tonight. Same place.

Your breath catches slightly. No hesitation. No pleasantries. Just straight to the point. Your fingers tighten around your phone before you type back.

Understood. See you then.

You lock your screen and exhale, pressing your hands to your warm cheeks. This is fine. It’s just a professional test. Just like last time.

…Right?

-

As the workday winds down, you keep your head low, avoiding unnecessary conversations. You wait until Jane is nowhere in sight before discreetly slipping a box of the new prototype into your bag, carefully tucking it beneath your other belongings. Just as you zip it up, your phone buzzes. You pull it out, and your stomach does an unexpected flip when you see Chris's name.

Can’t do the test tonight. Something came up.

You stare at the message, an unfamiliar twinge settling in your chest. Disappointment? No, that’s ridiculous. This is strictly professional. You quickly type out a response before you overthink it.

That’s okay. Let me know when you’re available, and we’ll reschedule.

You lock your phone and sigh, shaking off the strange feeling as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

"Hey," Jane leans against the doorway. "Can you give me a lift again?"

You figured as much. You nod, grabbing your things, and the two of you make your way down to the parking lot.

Just as you unlock your car, Jane grabs your arm, stopping you mid-motion.

"Oh my God," she whispers excitedly, nodding toward a sleek black car a few rows away.

You follow her gaze and instantly regret it. Chris is there. But he’s not alone. Suze is with him, sliding into the passenger seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. Chris gets in right after her, and within seconds, they’re driving off together.

Jane whistles low, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. "Damn. Guess the rumors weren’t just rumors."

You don't respond, just gripping your car keys a little tighter.

Jane, of course, doesn’t stop there. "I mean, it makes sense. She’s his type, isn’t she? Gorgeous, high-profile, and let’s be real, she’s been eyeing him for a while now. Wonder if they’re dating or just—"

"Can we go?" you interrupt, climbing into the driver's seat before Jane can read your face.

Jane laughs, sliding into the passenger seat. "Alright, alright. No need to get grumpy."

You roll your eyes, but as you start the car, you can't shake the odd heaviness in your chest. It’s none of your business. It shouldn’t bother you. But somehow… it does.

-

The entire company is in high spirits, and it doesn’t take long to remember why—tonight is the launch event for the newest collection of vibrators.

The venue is decked out with neon lights and sleek product displays, and there’s an open bar keeping everyone’s spirits high.

You mingle with your co-workers, drink in hand, while Jane, as expected, thrives in the lively atmosphere. She’s laughing, flirting, and making jokes that get progressively bolder with each sip of her cocktail.

At one point, she throws an arm around your shoulders. “This is fun, huh?” she grins.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

It’s not that you aren’t enjoying yourself—you just need a breather.

“I’ll get you another drink,” you tell her, using it as an excuse to slip away from the group.

Jane waves you off without a second thought, already too invested in another conversation. You weave through the crowd and make your way to the bar, ordering another drink. As you wait, you take a deep breath, letting yourself relax. But before you can even take a sip—

“Hey, can we talk?”

The familiar deep voice makes you turn, and there stands Chris, looking effortlessly sharp in his suit. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked onto you with intent.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Chris doesn’t wait for an answer—he just reaches for your wrist and leads you away from the crowd.

Your pulse jumps as he guides you through the party, his grip firm yet careful. The noise fades behind you as he takes you into a quiet hallway, away from the music, the laughter, and most importantly—prying eyes.

Finally, he stops, turning to face you. His gaze is steady, searching.

Your heart beats a little too fast. “What is this about?” you ask, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

Chris exhales, running a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Sorry about bailing on you last night,” he says, his voice softer now. “Something came up.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. We can do it another time.”

There’s a brief silence between you. The muffled sounds of the party filter in from the other end of the hallway, but here, in this secluded space, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world.

Then Chris asks, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

“I—uh—” You hesitate, quickly running through your mental calendar, but there’s nothing. “No, not really.”

Chris grins at that. “Good. Let’s do the product test tomorrow. Saturday night.”

You weren’t expecting that. The way he says it so casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, throws you off. But before you even fully process it, you find yourself nodding.

“Okay,” you agree, your voice quieter than you intended.

His smile lingers as he pushes off the wall, standing tall in front of you. “I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

You nod again, almost dazed, and Chris watches you for a second longer before he turns to leave. Just as he’s a few steps away, he glances back, his voice dropping slightly. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

And with that, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You definitely need another drink. Or at least a moment to breathe.

-

Your phone buzzes early Saturday morning, and when you check the screen, it’s a text from Chris.

Dinner first. 7 PM. La Riviera.

That’s it. No unnecessary words, no emojis—just the time and place. You stare at the message longer than you probably should.

Dinner? This wasn’t how the last test went. You were expecting another hotel, another quick, professional meeting. But a restaurant?

You shake your head, telling yourself not to overthink it. It’s probably just to discuss the test before getting into it. But despite that rationalization, you catch yourself preparing more than you intended to.

Your outfit selection takes longer than it should, your makeup is a little more put together, and even when you tell yourself it’s just because you’re stepping out for the evening—not because of who you’re meeting—you know it’s a lie.

You arrive at La Riviera a little before 7 PM, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. The restaurant is elegant but not overwhelmingly fancy—warm lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and the faint aroma of wine and freshly baked bread filling the air and then you spot him.

Chris is already seated, dressed in a casual formal ensemble. A dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his forearms, paired with tailored slacks. The contrast between the deep color of his shirt and his pale skin is striking, and for a second, you almost forget why you’re here.

His eyes find yours almost instantly, and he smiles, standing up slightly as you approach. “Glad you made it.”

You sit across from him, suddenly feeling a little nervous because this—this doesn’t feel like a business meeting at all. The dim lighting, the quiet atmosphere, the way he leans slightly forward as he watches you—it feels like a date.

Dinner starts off casually enough, but then Chris begins asking you questions.

“Are you seeing anyone right now?”

His question catches you off guard, but you answer by shaking your head, then throw it back at him. When you ask if he’s seeing someone, he hums, picking up his wine glass. “I am.”

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Is it Suze?”

Chris freezes mid-sip, then lowers his glass, blinking at you. “Suze?”

You instantly regret your brashness, but it’s too late now. You clear your throat, trying to sound indifferent. “Yeah. You two seem close, and the rumor said—”

“The rumor.” Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course.”

You watch as he leans back in his seat, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what exactly did the rumor say?”

You shift in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “Just… that Suze and you are close.”

Chris tilts his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And do you believe everything the rumor says?”

You purse your lips, looking away. “Not everything.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “Well, for the record, Suze and I are not a thing. She’s a great colleague, but that’s it.”

You should feel relieved—it’s not like you care who he’s seeing—but something about his tone makes you wary. You meet his eyes again. “Then who’s the someone you’re seeing?”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of his glass. The silence stretches just long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, finally, he sets his glass down and leans in slightly, his voice lower now. “You.”

Your heart skips a beat and a second later, you blink. “Me?”

Chris grins, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Well, we are having dinner together, aren’t we?”

Your lips part, but no words come out. He’s messing with you—he has to be. You try to regain your composure, clearing your throat. “This is a business meeting.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his fingers casually tapping against the stem of his glass. “Is it?”

You open your mouth to say yes, obviously, but the way he’s looking at you—the way tonight feels—makes you hesitate. The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken.

Chris tilts his head. “Tell me… if I didn’t bring up the product test, would you still be here?”

Your stomach twists again. You don’t know how to answer that. You feel your pulse quicken, the weight of his question pressing down on you. Instead of answering, you grab your napkin and mutter, “I—I need to use the restroom.”

Chris doesn’t stop you. He just leans back in his seat, watching with quiet amusement as you push your chair back and walk away, your heart pounding with every step.

The moment you step into the restroom, you grip the edge of the sink and take a deep breath. What the hell was that?

You turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your hands as if it’ll help clear your thoughts. This was supposed to be a simple dinner before the product test—so why does it feel like he’s pulling you into something else entirely? And worse, why aren’t you stopping him?

You glance at yourself in the mirror, your reflection betraying the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. No matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is just work, that Chris is just teasing, something about the way he looks at you makes it hard to believe that. You take another breath, steadying yourself. Just go back out there and keep it professional.

Easier said than done.

-

The car ride is quiet, but the tension between you is thick. You grip the hem of your dress, feeling the fabric twist between your fingers as you steal glances at Chris. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing the strong lines of his forearms, and it takes everything in you not to stare. Then, you notice something. The hotel he took you to last time—the one you were expecting—flashes past the window.

“Wait,” you blurt out, turning to him. “You just passed the hotel.”

Chris doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he grins slightly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I know.”

Your brows furrow. “Then where are we going?”

“I know a nicer hotel,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he adds, “It’s not like you have anything to do tomorrow, right?”

No, you don’t. But the way he phrases it—like it’s already decided—sends a shiver down your spine.

Chris glances at you then, his gaze flickering down to your hands still gripping your dress. His smirk softens, but his voice is just as teasing when he says, “Relax. It’s just for the test, remember?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to loosen your grip. But you’re not sure if it’s his words or the way he says them that make your pulse race even more.

Chris pulls into the hotel’s driveway, the warm glow of the entrance lights reflecting off the sleek surface of his car. You step out, adjusting your dress as you follow him inside, your heart pounding a little too fast.

The lobby is luxurious, far more upscale than the previous hotel. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier lights, and the air is filled with a faint scent of expensive cologne and polished wood. You try not to fidget as Chris approaches the front desk.

“One suite, please,” he says smoothly.

Your head snaps toward him. “A suite?”

Chris doesn’t even glance at you, just slides his card across the counter to the receptionist. “Yeah.” Then, finally, he looks at you, an amused glint in his eyes. “Problem?”

You hesitate, glancing between him and the receptionist, who remains professional as she processes the request. You don’t know why you expected anything less from Chris—of course, he wouldn’t settle for a standard room. But a suite?

“I just thought…” You trail off, pressing your lips together.

Chris leans in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “If we’re testing a product, shouldn’t we have more space to move around?”

Your breath catches at the implication, and he chuckles at your reaction before straightening up, accepting the key card from the receptionist. “Let’s go.”

You follow him into the elevator in silence, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. The numbers on the display climb higher, the anticipation pressing down on you.

When the doors finally slide open, Chris gestures for you to step out first. You do, walking down the plush carpeted hallway until he stops in front of a door and swipes the key card. The lock clicks open.