𝔖𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢

From: Lee Eunkyung ([email protected]) Subject: Tutoring Reassignment  Dear ____, Professor Choi has informed me that I will be tutoring you for the remainder of the semester. Please arrive promptly at 3:00 p.m. on Thursday and bring your textbook, workbook, recent quiz scores, a printed copy of your practice exam, and any other assignments requiring revision.  Best, Lee Eunkyung

You let out a sigh and drop your phone face-up onto the kitchen table.

This is the tenth time you've reread Eunkyung's email in the past hour, and, unsurprisingly, her greeting hasn't grown any warmer.

You shove your laptop into your bag and reach across the table for your Korean textbook, but your fingertips brush against a small, glossy hardcover instead. Frowning, you pull it toward you.

Global Media in the 21st Century.

You don't take Global Media.

Your gaze lifts from the unfamiliar textbook and travels slowly around the rest of your living room: a hoodie hangs carelessly over the back of the couch, a phone charger snakes from the wall by the coffee table, a blanket is folded haphazardly over an armrest, and another episode of The Great British Bake Off is playing the same theme music that's been on loop for the last seventy-two hours. 

"Are you seriously still watching this?" you ask, your voice coming out a little raspy after another sleepless night.

Sprawled across the carpet with his arms folded under his head, Yunho doesn't bother looking away from the screen. "Of course I am," he says boredly. "It's my comfort show."

You just shake your head, a weak huff of amusement escaping before your eyes naturally drift past the TV and land on San's bedroom door.

It's been shut for the past four days.

Although San technically still lives here, it really hasn't felt like it. He only sneaks back into the dorm during the earliest hours of the morning, when he's certain you and Yunho are asleep, quickly grabbing fresh clothes or whatever textbooks he needs for class, then slipping back out before sunrise. He's been crashing at Yeosang's, which you're only aware of because he and Yunho have practically swapped homes.

No matter how many times you tell Yunho to go back to his own dorm and sleep in his own bed, he waves you off with increasingly dumb excuses. The Wi-Fi here is way better, he'll say. Or, I can't deal with Yeosang’s snoring anymore. I need a break.

You can't tell whether he's making sure you aren't left alone with your thoughts or whether he's still trying to give San as much space as possible.

You've texted your actual roommate multiple times. You've told him that you meant it when you said you weren't mad at him, that you understand what happened. You told him that you know what Wooyoung is like, and that you know firsthand how easily he can twist someone into acting like a person they barely even recognize. But San seems determined to punish himself for what he did.

It makes sense, in a way, why he's choosing to hide with Yeosang rather than facing you or Yunho. Yeosang doesn't do pity or comfort; his bluntness is probably exactly what San feels he deserves right now—safely removed from Yunho's kindness and even farther from your own unearned forgiveness.

Honestly, you aren't angry about that, either. Because if there's anyone who understands the urge to hide from the people you care about because you're ashamed of a lie... it's you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the TV screen suddenly pause on a shot of someone's collapsing tiered cake. Yunho turns around from his spot on the floor and catches you staring at San's door.

He pushes himself up off the carpet and ambles over to the kitchen table, stretching his long arms high over his head as though he hasn't noticed anything at all.

"Heading out soon?"

"Yeah," you murmur, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. You finally locate your actual Korean textbook and shove it in your bag beside your workbook and printed practice exam. You snatch your phone off the table, opening the email to read over Eunkyung's instructions one last time for no reason other than to give your hands something to do.

Yunho leans his hip against the table, quietly glancing down at your screen, then back up at the tension in your face.

"Are you nervous?" 

"I'm fine," you deflect automatically.

The lie slips off your tongue naturally, without giving you a chance to really think about what you're saying. You turn away and reach for the coat draped over the back of a chair, but your hand stalls.

You suddenly hear Hongjoong's voice from that night and remember the sinking feeling of realizing that he's right—that you move through life as though it's a test, that every imperfection must be corrected before anyone else can see it. And, more importantly, you remember exactly what it cost you to maintain that version of yourself. 

Your fingers slowly curl away from your coat.

Maybe... maybe fixing things won't begin with some grand confession or apology. Maybe it begins here, with a simple question you could easily avoid, with one of your best friends. 

Your gaze drops to the phone in your hand, to the unfamiliar name sitting at the top of the email, and you're reminded once again of who isn'tgoing to be waiting for you in the Language Center today. And how it's no one's fault but your own.

"Actually..." you say so quietly that you nearly swallow it. You stare down at your screen, unable to meet Yunho's eyes. "Yeah. I'm—” You hesitate, fighting the urge to make the truth sound smaller than it feels. "I really don't want to do this."

Yunho goes quiet. You brace yourself for a pep talk, but when you look up at him, there's only a tiny, knowing smile on his face.

"Do you..." He tilts his head toward the door. "Want me to walk you there?"

A huff escapes you, half laugh and half embarrassment, and you turn toward the entryway. You already feel the 'no' coming; you can walk across campus alone. You aren't a child. 

But as your hand wraps around the handle, you stop again. You stare at the door with the refusal rising behind your teeth.

Then, with a long breath, you let it go.

"...Yes."

Yunho nods, grabs his own coat, and follows you out of the dorm. 

The walk across campus takes nearly twice as long as it should. Even though the wind is howling and the temperature is hovering dangerously close to freezing, you're in no rush to get inside at all. You intentionally drag the soles of your boots along the walkway, shamelessly stalling, and you know Yunho can tell exactly what you're doing. Thankfully, he doesn't call you out on it. Despite having legs long enough to cross half the campus in three strides, he shortens his pace to match yours, keeping himself positioned between you and the wind.

You can feel him watching you carefully out of the corner of his eye as you walk. Every few steps, you find something new to occupy your hands with. You adjust the cuffs of your gloves. Brush a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. Pull at the zipper of your coat. You can't seem to stop fidgeting.

"Are you worried the new tutor's gonna be strict?" Yunho finally asks.

You shrug. "Not really."

You walk another few paces in silence.

"Are you worried she's gonna be too nice?"

You think about this for a moment, picturing the email sitting in your inbox. You try to imagine Eunkyung smiling when you walk into the Language Center, asking how your week has been. It doesn't make the knot in your stomach any tighter.

"Not really," you say again. "It's more..." You swallow, watching a dry leaf skitter across the path in front of your boots. "It's just gonna be different."

Yunho nods, understanding what you mean without you having to say his name.

You pass a group of students walking in the opposite direction, their gloved hands clutching steaming coffees and paper-wrapped sandwiches from the café. Yunho's gaze follows the food with such naked longing that you almost laugh.

"I can stop there after tutoring and grab us something for dinner," you offer.

His entire face brightens. "Seriously? I've been thinking about that chicken Caesar wrap since this morning."

"Why didn't you get one between classes?"

"Didn't have enough time." He nudges a pebble off the path with the toe of his shoe. "What about you? Have you eaten yet today?"

"Yeah, I had a granola b—"

You stop, your teeth snapping shut.

Once again, the lie was ready before you even knew you were telling it—and this time, it wasn't even one meant to protect some terrible secret. It was just some tiny, useless adjustment to make yourself sound a little more functional than you are. 

You stare straight ahead, heat creeping into your face despite the cold. 

"Um. I mean... no," you awkwardly correct yourself, clearing your throat. "Not yet."

Yunho glances over at you. He gives a small shake of his head, pretending to be disappointed in you, but that little knowing smile from the kitchen has returned to his lips. "And sleep?" he asks, keeping his tone light. "Any better the past few nights?"

You press your lips together as you quickly think over your options. If you lied and gave a reassuring yeah, a little, he'd probably drop it.

"Well..." A sigh leaves you in a pale cloud. "Not really."

Yunho simply nods. And to your immense surprise—and overwhelming relief—he doesn't push you any further. 

You walk through campus in a comfortable silence for the next few minutes before he clears his throat to break it again. 

"Okay. One more question." 

You purse your dry lips, bracing yourself. It'll be something about Hongjoong, probably. Or San. Maybe even Wooyoung, if he's feeling particularly brave.

"Be honest. Do you think Mingi's funnier than me?"

Your head snaps toward him, and you laugh from the surprise loudly enough to fog the air in front of your lips. "Is this something you're insecure about?"

"As of this morning, yeah," Yunho admits, smiling a little sheepishly. "Mingi and I went to Professor Choi's office hours today. Mingi made one joke about falling asleep during his lecture, and Choi actually laughed."

"Huh. I didn't know he could do that."

"But when I made a joke about Mingi failing the final, he just stared at me and shook his head."

"Well, it was about time someone humbled you."

"I'm serious!" Yunho whines, bumping his shoulder against yours. "Do you think he's funnier than me?"

"No," you answer without hesitation. 

He beams. "Really?"

"Of course not."

"Aw." He nudges you again, grinning. "Thanks."

"Yeosang is, though."

"Hey!"

The banter carries the two of you the rest of the way across campus, but as the steps of the Language Center finally come into view, the lightheartedness drains out of the conversation. You slow to a stop at the base of the staircase, and Yunho stops beside you without needing to be asked. The old building towers overhead, and somehow, it looks even more daunting than usual.

"Can I ask you a more serious one?" Yunho asks, quieter now.

You glance over at him warily. "I thought the Mingi one was serious."

"Trust me, it was," he assures you, though his smile fades as he looks past you toward the doors. "What are you going to do if Hongjoong is in there?"

You wrap your coat more tightly around your body, though the cold has very little to do with the shiver that moves through you. "He won't be," you say, shaking your head. "Why would he? We aren't tutoring together anymore."

"I don't know." Yunho rubs the back of his neck. "Don’t the tutors usually hang around here between classes? Study together and... stuff?"

You shrug, your chest tightening at the mere thought of running into him. "Even if he normally does, I really don't think he'd step foot inside this building if he knew I was going to be here."

Yunho falls quiet at that. When you glance over, he's looking down at you with an expression so unexpectedly gentle that you wish you hadn't turned his way at all.

"I know I've been messing around," he says earnestly, "but... thank you for being honest with me today."

Your face instantly goes red, the heat rushing all the way to the tips of your ears. Apparently, telling the truth isn't difficult enough on its own; now people have to thank you when you do it.  

This honesty thing is going to be a lot harder than you thought.

"I just answered a few questions, Yunho," you mutter, turning away to hide your burning cheeks. "Don't think too much about it."

At that, he smiles, chuckling as he slips his hands into his coat pockets. "Whatever you say." Thankfully, he allows the seriousness to pass. "Just don't forget to pick up dinner, okay? I got it the last three nights. It's your turn."

You roll your eyes, seizing the change of subject as you begin trudging up the stairs. "If by 'got it' you mean pressed four buttons on DoorDash, then sure."

"Those four buttons cost me forty-seven dollars last night!" Yunho calls after you. "The delivery fees are expensive! And—wait—get me a hot chocolate, too!"

You ignore him, but his laughter follows you all the way to the top of the staircase anyway. You push through the doors and step into the heated lobby, still overwhelmingly embarrassed that your best friend just thanked you for doing something most people accomplish daily without a second thought.

You hadn't expected such basic honesty to leave you feeling so exposed. It was only admitting that you hadn't eaten, that you weren't sleeping, and that you were a little nervous, but each confession felt like Yunho was hearing a million words beyond it.

Great, you think bitterly as you make your way toward the receptionist's desk on unsteady legs. As if I needed another reason to hate telling the truth.

The receptionist looks up as you approach the front desk, her face melting into the same warmth she's greeted you with all semester.

"A little earlier than usual today, aren't you?" she asks, though she doesn't wait for an answer before turning toward her computer, her fingers moving across the keyboard to pull up your schedule. 

You force your mouth into a smile and tighten your grip on the strap of your bag. "A little."

"Alright, let me just..." Her voice trails off as her eyes scan the monitor, her fingers going still above the keyboard. "Oh."

She blinks once, then glances up at you before quickly looking back at the screen, as though she read something incorrectly. Her brows pull together. "I have a notice here from Professor Choi's office," she says, confused. "It says you’re here for Lee Eunkyung today?"

You open your mouth, but your throat has gone so dry that nothing comes out. After a second of standing there uselessly, you settle for a stiff nod.

The receptionist's gaze lingers on the monitor, and you can see her trying to read between the lines. Then: "Not Hongjoong?"

Your lips press into a thin line. "No," you manage quietly. "Not this week."

Not next week, either.

Not ever again.

Her eyes flicker over your face, and whatever she finds there makes her expression soften. "Eunkyung is already here," she says carefully. "She's in the same room you usually use."

"Okay," you mutter, dropping your gaze to the scuffed toes of your boots. "Thank you."

She opens her mouth, looking as though she wants to add something else—maybe a question—but she hesitates, ultimately thinking better of it. Instead, she offers you a small, sympathetic smile.

"Good luck today."

Avoiding eye contact, you whisper a quick, "Thanks," before she can say another word, then turn on your heel and practically flee down the hallway.

You can get through this, you tell yourself as you make your way to the tutoring room, your pulse quickening with every step. You can survive one tutoring session with someone who isn't Hongjoong. Someone who—hopefully—isn't anything like James was, either. All you have to do is sit down, review your grammar, nod when you're supposed to, and leave when the forty minutes are over. You've done harder things than that. This will be a piece of cake. 

When you reach the door, you pause, inhaling a deep breath to steady yourself as best you can. Then, you push it open, stepping into the same room as always. The scenery is torturously unchanged: the same rows of tables, the same stacks of scratch paper piled beside the whiteboard, the same colorful posters in a dozen different languages scattered across the walls, and of course, the same table nestled right next to the window where you spent so many hours sitting across from Hongjoong. 

Except your usual chair isn't empty.  

Your heart plummets straight to the floor. 

He's sitting in his usual spot, his shoulders slightly hunched as he leans over a worksheet spread across the table. His glasses have slipped low on the bridge of his nose, and a pencil rests between his fingers, poised above the page with the same concentration you've seen a hundred times before.

But that worksheet isn't your assignment. That pencil in his hand isn't correcting your handwriting.

The student sitting across from him isn't you.

She's a girl you vaguely recognize from class, someone quiet who always sits two rows behind you and rarely speaks unless Professor Choi calls on her. Her purple notebook is propped open between them, and Hongjoong's finger moves slowly beneath a line of text as he explains something too softly for you to make out from the doorway.

Then he pauses.

The girl repeats after him, her mouth carefully shaping each sound, and Hongjoong watches her with complete concentration. His head tilts as he listens, his gaze fixed on her lips, patient and attentive as he waits for a mistake.

An ugly and irrational sensation twists in your chest.

It's stupid. You know, objectively, how pathetic it is to feel this way. Hongjoong is a tutor. This is his job. Of course he has other students. Of course you were never the only person he helped, and of course that table by the window never actually belonged to you.

But that's your chair.

That's your table.

That's your tutor.

That's the voice he uses when he's coaxing you through a translation you're too embarrassed to attempt out loud. That's the precise tilt of his head he wears when he's listening to every clumsy syllable that leaves your mouth, ready to correct it gently enough that you never feel stupid for making a mistake. 

And now, right in front of your eyes, he's giving all of it to someone else.

The door suddenly slips from your trembling fingers, slamming shut behind you with a deafening thud.

Hongjoong's head snaps up at the sound, and your eyes lock across the room. 

The pencil in his hand goes motionless against the worksheet, and in an instant, everything around you—the muffled chatter of the other tutoring sessions, the squeaks of the other chairs in the room—seems to fall silent.

You stare at each other, frozen, a million unspoken words passing through the space between you.

How could it possibly have slipped your mind that you were never his only student? Of course Hongjoong tutors other people. There was nothing exclusive about meeting him here every week, nothing uniquely special designed solely for the two of you. You should've known there was a chance you would walk through this door and find someone else occupying the place you had foolishly thought of as yours.

But the longer his wide eyes stare at you, the less you can think about the girl sitting in your chair. A far more frightening thought crashes through you: Does he even know? Does he know Professor Choi reassigned you, or does he think you requested it? Does he think you walked into Professor Choi's office after everything that happened and decided you couldn’t stand to sit across from him anymore? 

You search his face, trying to find some indication of what's going through his head, but on it lies nothing you know how to read. His expression is still, but the longer he looks at you, the tighter his jaw becomes. Across the table, his student continues sounding out the sentence on her worksheet, oblivious to the fact that Hongjoong isn't listening anymore.

He's only looking at you.

"____?"

A hand taps on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin.

You tear your gaze away from Hongjoong and whip your head around. There's a girl standing directly beside you, her dark hair pulled neatly away from her face with a clip. She's clutching a color-coded binder against her chest, along with what looks to be several freshly printed pages of a lesson plan.

"I'm Eunkyung," she introduces herself, extending one hand toward you. "You're ____, correct?"

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. It takes you a second too long to remember that you're supposed to shake her hand, and when you finally do, your fingers feel stiff and cold in hers. "Yeah, um... hi."

"Good." Eunkyung releases you and glances briefly toward the ticking clock mounted on the wall. "I apologize for being a minute late. I had to grab today's schedule from the printer." She adjusts the papers in her arms and turns away. "You can follow me."

She marches past you without waiting for a response. You stand there stunned for a second before numbly trailing behind her, keeping your eyes fixed on the back of her head and trying not to feel Hongjoong’s gaze following you from across the room.

But when she stops, your stomach sinks.

The table she chooses is situated just a single row over from his, close enough that with only the slightest turn of your head, you can look directly at him. 

As you shakily pull out your chair, you can't stop yourself from risking one more glance over your shoulder. His eyes have followed you the entire way to the table, his jaw set. You force yourself to sever the eye contact, turning your back to him as you slip out of your winter coat and quickly lower yourself into the chair across from Eunkyung. 

One row over, after several long seconds, Hongjoong finally looks back down at the worksheet in front of him. 

"We can begin by briefly reviewing any specific assignments you had in mind," Eunkyung begins, opening her binder to a fresh page. She uncaps a blue pen, writes the date in the upper corner, and adds your name beneath it in Hangul. "Professor Choi mentioned in his email that you may need some additional help preparing for the written portion of the final exam. Did you bring a copy of your practice essay?"

Your face immediately burns.

There is absolutely no chance you're letting another person read that pathetic excuse for an essay—and certainly not today, not with Hongjoong sitting only a few feet away, close enough to hear every word you and Eunkyung exchange.

Against your better judgment, your eyes drift toward him again. His student is reading quietly from her worksheet while the tip of Hongjoong's pencil follows along, keeping her at a slow pace. When she stumbles over a difficult pronunciation, he waits without interrupting, then gives an encouraging nod when she corrects herself. That ugly, twisting sensation tightens in your chest again.

"I, um..." You tear your gaze away from him and look back at Eunkyung, but no answer comes.

Shit.

You don't want to lie again. Less than ten minutes ago, you stood on the stairs of this very building and forced yourself to admit things to Yunho that would've been infinitely easier to hide. You let him see that you were nervous, exhausted, and barely taking care of yourself, all because you know that change has to begin somewhere.

But this is different. This isn't a granola bar.

Facing the truth about why you bombed that essay—admitting out loud that your thoughts had been so consumed by what happened with Hongjoong that you couldn't even compose a basic coherent sentence—right here, right now, with him listening... you aren't ready for that. Someday, maybe. But not yet. Not today.

"I forgot it," you lie, staring down at your hands. "At my dorm."

Eunkyung's expression remains polite, but something in her gaze suggests she doesn't quite believe you. Nevertheless, she gives a slow nod and lowers her pen to the page, adding a brief note beneath your name.

"That's alright," she says, offering you a smile, though her eyes already look slightly irritated. "Since I have a copy of the original prompt, I can give you about twenty minutes now to rewrite—"

"No!"

The protest tears out of you before she can finish. 

You don't realize how loudly you've said it until Eunkyung flinches. Worse, your sudden outburst shatters the quiet of the room, silencing the conversation at the tables around you and drawing several startled glances from the surrounding pairs.

Including Hongjoong's.

Across the aisle, both he and the girl sitting opposite him have stopped what they're doing. His pencil rests unmoving against her worksheet as he stares at you with concern in his eyes. 

Heat surges into your face again.

"I mean..." You shrink into your chair, lowering your voice. "That's okay. You don't have to do that. I... I've been working on the essay on my own, and I really think I'll be fine when I take the actual exam. The practice one was just... um..."

You can't help it; your eyes flick back over to him. He's averted his eyes again, seemingly focused on the reading, but his posture is different now. Every few seconds, his gaze subtly darts in your direction before dropping back to the paper. 

"I just wasn't focused that morning," you finish, barely above a mumble. Beneath the safety of the table, your fingers twist around one another. "We can work on something else."

Eunkyung says nothing. She stares at you, her growing annoyance beginning to bleed through her professionalism.

"Alright," she says at last.

She lowers her pen to the binder and writes another note. This one takes considerably longer than the first, her handwriting continuing across the entire line. You stare at the page, unable to make out the words from your side of the table, but your cheeks burn nonetheless.

"You also have your weekly dialogue due," Eunkyung states, her tone noticeably clipped now. She caps the pen. "Would you be comfortable working on that?"

"Sure," you answer quickly, dropping your gaze to your lap. "That's fine."

She flips past several pages of dated notes to a new page in her binder, revealing a handwritten copy of this week's dialogue arranged in two columns. You lean forward and squint at the paper, your stomach knotting as you try to make sense of several unfamiliar words in a stranger's handwriting. Reading Hangul is difficult enough when it's printed in your textbook. The prospect of deciphering a handwritten version of it on the fly makes you insanely anxious. 

You reach into your bag and fumble for your phone, ready to open the voice recording app, but Eunkyung retrieves hers from the pocket of her cardigan first.  "We'll use mine to record," she says, propping it horizontally against her pencil case and positioning the microphone as close to you as possible. "I require my students to submit the full recording from each session, including every attempt. Professor Choi said it gives him a more accurate picture of your progress."

Your fingers go still inside your bag. 

Every take is going to be submitted? Hongjoong would always let you record the dialogue as many times as you wanted, but only the version youapproved would ever leave the room. You rarely made it through the first take without stumbling over a conjugation, and even when the second or third attempt was acceptable, you usually insisted on trying one more time because you hated the way your accent sounded played back to you. He never complained. He never made you feel as though the mistakes were being counted against you. He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and told you to take your time as though nothing was embarrassing about needing another chance.

Eunkyung is still explaining something about file names and submission dates, but her voice begins to fade beneath the rush of blood in your ears. Your palms grow damp, so you wipe them discreetly against the fabric of your pants beneath the table.

Your eyes lift.

Across the aisle, Hongjoong has stopped writing. His attention is on Eunkyung's phone, then on the handwritten dialogue in front of you, his eyebrows etched together. The second he catches you looking back at him, however, his jaw clenches, and he lowers his eyes so abruptly that he almost looks angry, dragging his pencil back beneath the line his student is reading.

Eunkyung slides the binder toward you. "You can read from my copy," she instructs, tapping the first line with the capped end of her pen. "I already have my portion memorized from my earlier sessions."

You wait for her to explain the dialogue's context. When she doesn't, you wait for her to point out the vocabulary words, or ask whether you need a moment to review, or at least tell you which role you're supposed to read.

Instead, she presses the red circle on her phone, and the timer begins counting upward. She folds her hands on top of the table and gives you an expectant nod.

Your eyes drop to the page, your mind blanking as you scramble to separate the syllables and translate them into words. Typically, Hongjoong gives you time to preview the dialogue before recording, to ask about any sounds that feel awkward on your tongue before the microphone is ever turned on. 

Eunkyung hasn't even told you what the conversation is about.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and force your eyes to the first line, trying to ignore her phone. 

"어제 여기에서 공책을 잃어… 잃어버린 것 같아요," you read. I think I lost my notebook here yesterday. Your voice catches, repeating two syllables as you stumble through her handwriting. You already know you pronounced at least one word incorrectly, but Eunkyung doesn't pause the recording.

"어떤 공책이에요?" she asks right away. 

Your heart lurches. The question comes too quickly for you to separate it into individual words, and before you've even processed the first syllable, Eunkyung has already finished speaking. Your eyes dart across the page, searching for the line she just read so you can at least determine where you're supposed to be, but every sentence looks identical. You didn't catch a single word. You hope she only read the second line as you skip ahead to the third.

"파란색 공책이에요. 저한테 정말..." It’s a blue notebook. It's really...

Your voice fades out. At the end of the sentence sits a phrase you've never seen before: 소중한 거예요. It's not a challenging word, but it isn't anywhere in the vocabulary list Professor Choi assigned this week, and you can't remember encountering it in any of your previous lessons. You attempt to sound it out, but you can feel that you're butchering it.

You look up at the phone propped between you, then helplessly at Eunkyung. "Can you... I'm sorry, I'm not sure what this word is."

Without even looking at the paper, Eunkyung nods. "It means 'precious' or 'important.'" She then rattles off the Korean word, instructing you to repeat it. But it's so quick. She speaks with the cadence of someone who's been speaking the language since birth and lacks the understanding that a learner might need an extra second to untangle the sounds.

You try, but what comes out bears only a vague resemblance to what she said. Eunkyung repeats the correct pronunciation, but this time, it's just as fast—if not faster—than before. 

You try a second time. Then a third.

"Could you..." you ask quietly, your face burning. "Could you say it... slower?"

You can practically see Eunkyung suppressing a sigh as she repeats the phrase for you again. This time, she stretches the first few syllables by the tiniest, most infinitesimal fraction, but it's not enough for you to understand what you're saying wrong.

You take a shaky breath, looking back down at the word blurring on the page until the black ink begins to swim. Why is this happening? you think, your chest caving inward. Why did I have to be reassigned? Why did I have to ruin things with Hongjoong? Why does this feel like a punishment?

The lights overhead suddenly become unbearably bright. You dig your fingernails into your palms. Your eyes sting, but you refuse to let the tears gather. You will not cry here. Breaking down in the middle of the Language Center while Eunkyung’s phone records every second and Hongjoong sits only a few feet away—that's a humiliation you would never, ever recover from.

You bow your head over the binder and blink hard, once, twice, willing the heat behind your eyes to recede. Eunkyung's handwriting wavers in and out of focus, the ink bleeding together into black smudges. You lower your face another inch, hiding behind the curtain of your hair and hoping that Eunkyung will mistake your silence for concentration.

But your head snaps up as something clatters against the floor a few feet away.

Hongjoong is murmuring a quick apology to his student as he leans over his armrest to retrieve the pencil he dropped. She barely seems to notice the interruption, continuing to read aloud from the worksheet while he reaches beneath the table.

But when he straightens, setting his pencil beside the paper, his attention doesn't return to the line she's reading. His eyes lift across the aisle and find yours.

Your heart skips a beat.

His student continues sounding out a new paragraph. Eunkyung continues to wait across from you.

Hongjoong's lips part.

소중한 거예요. 

Now, your heart nearly stops.

He says nothing aloud. His posture remains angled toward the girl, one hand resting beside her worksheet as though he's still following along, but his eyes stay fixed on yours. He raises a finger toward his mouth, the gesture small enough that no one would think anything of it, and waits.

Watch my mouth. 

Once he's certain he has your attention, his lips move again. This time, he breaks the phrase apart for you. 

소—중—한. 거—예—요.

He exaggerates the syllables just enough for you to understand where they begin and end. You watch the slight rounding of his lips at the beginning, the shift of his jaw through the middle, and the placement of his tongue behind his teeth at the end. 

You drop your gaze to Eunkyung's binder, pretending to study the sentence before she can notice where you're looking, but you keep Hongjoong at the edge of your peripheral vision. Your lips barely move as you follow him beneath your breath, too softly for the phone to catch.

소.

Across the aisle, his lips shape the next sound.

중.

You whisper it along with him.

He gives you the rest one piece at a time. When you reach the end, Hongjoong's chin dips in the faintest nod—so unnoticed that you might've imagined it if you weren’t watching him so closely.

Say it all together. 

You draw in a trembling breath and turn your full attention back to Eunkyung.

"소중한 거예요."

The phrase leaves your lips without snagging, and you know it's right before Eunkyung even reacts. For a moment, you're back beside that window, Hongjoong watching you over the rim of his glasses as he waits for you to realize you've finally said it perfectly.

Eunkyung gives an approving nod. "좋아요," she says, unaware that the answer didn't come from her. Good. She moves directly into her next line. "잠시만요. 누가 맡기고..."

But you barely hear her.

Your eyes dart back across the aisle, desperate to catch Hongjoong's gaze again. You don't really know what you expect to communicate if he actually looks back at you—you just need one more second, long enough for him to see the gratitude in your face, the apology lodged in your throat, all the things you still don't know how to say to him. 

But Hongjoong is already staring back down at the worksheet, his pencil moving beneath a new sentence as he quietly guides the girl through her translations, as if he never even looked at you at all.

The little bell above the café's front door chimes as you shoulder your way inside. Warm air rushes over your face, prickling against skin still numb from the cold, and your body shivers as you hastily tug off your gloves and stuff them into your coat pockets. 

The rest of your session with Eunkyung lasted less than ten minutes.

Once the dialogue was finished, she stopped the recording, added several more lines to the growing collection of notes in her binder, and asked whether there was anything else you felt comfortable working on. You flat-out told her no—not even bothering to offer an excuse—and stood up, wrestling yourself into your coat before practically sprinting out of the Language Center. 

Hongjoong never did look at you again, but you felt his eyes on your back as he watched you leave.

Though... it's very possible that it was just your imagination. 

You release a breath when you realize how short the line at the counter is. Only one student stands ahead of you, waiting for her drink, and within a minute, she grabs her coffee and heads toward the exit. You step forward and begin fumbling through the disorganized contents of your bag for your wallet. Although your fingers are still a little numb, you finally manage to hook them around your card.

"Hi, can I get—"

You pull it free and look up.

"—oh."

You haven't seen Seonghwa behind this counter since the morning after you and Hongjoong confessed to each other. After several weeks of his continued absence, you began to assume his brief employment ended before it ever officially began—and that perhaps he'd been fired for flirting with too many customers. 

Apparently, no such luck. 

But today, Seonghwa is looking at you differently. His usual smile is gone, and so is that teasing spark in his eye. His mouth tightens as his gaze meets yours for one second before dropping toward the register.

He knows. Of course Hongjoong told him. Why wouldn't he? Seonghwa is his best friend—the person who knew about Hongjoong's feelings before you did and the one who intervened when neither of you seemed brave enough to close the distance yourselves. If Hongjoong told anyone how badly you fucked up, it would've been Seonghwa. And if Seonghwa has chosen a side, there was never any question which one it would be.

"I..." You tighten your fingers around your card, laughing nervously. "I haven't seen you here in a while. I was starting to think they already fired you."

Seonghwa doesn't laugh. He taps a few buttons on the register without looking up. 

"What can I get you?"

Whatever awkward smile you're wearing fades away.

"Um..." You glance up at the menu hanging above his head, pretending to consider your options despite knowing exactly what you walked in for. "A chicken Caesar wrap, a club sandwich, and—"

"A hot chocolate?" Seonghwa cuts in, still staring at the screen.

Your mouth shuts. You stare at the dark fall of his hair as his fingers move across the screen, placing the order. "Yeah," you say after a beat. "Um... two of them, please. To go."

"Extra marshmallows?"

Your face warms.

"...Yeah," you repeat quietly.

He presses one final button, tears the printed receipt from the machine, and turns away without telling you the total.

You lift your card toward the reader anyway. The display remains black, giving you no amount to approve and no instruction to tap or insert. You hover there for a few awkward seconds before hesitantly leaning closer to the counter. "Uh, Seong—?"

The espresso machine roars to life before you can finish his name, drowning out the sound of your voice. Seonghwa locks the portafilter into the machine, reaches for a cup presumably meant for the man waiting near the pickup counter, and moves through the motions with his back to you. Eventually, you let out an irritated huff and lower your card, left waiting uselessly at the register.

He prepares your order in silence, folding both sandwiches into their paper wrapping and placing them inside a brown bag. He then pours the hot chocolates, pressing their plastic to-go lids into place before securing them in a cardboard carrier. When he finally turns around, he slides the bag and drinks across the counter without a word. 

You catch the carrier before it can skid too close to the edge, then immediately raise your card again. "Seonghwa, I haven't paid."

He doesn't acknowledge it, pressing a few more buttons on the register before he replies.

"You can pay me with ten minutes of your time."

You freeze. "What?"

"Ten minutes." He taps the screen once more, clearing the transaction. "That's all."

"Seonghwa, not aga—"

"You can say no." For the first time since you entered the café, he looks up at you. The argument waiting behind your teeth falters. His expression isn't as cold as you initially thought, though it isn't gentle, either. "But," he continues, "I think you should sit down."

Before you can ask what he wants, he reaches beneath the counter and lifts the hinged wooden flap separating the employees from the customers. He steps through, letting it drop shut behind him, and walks past you without so much as untying his apron or yelling back to his coworkers that he's going on break. 

Seriously, how has he not been fired yet? you wonder to yourself. 

You watch him cross the café, then look down at the takeout bag and drinks balanced awkwardly between your hands. Nothing is stopping you from leaving. Seonghwa said so himself. You could turn around, take Yunho his dinner, and avoid whatever conversation he wants to have.

But avoiding things—running and hiding from the mess you've made—hasn't really been working out for you lately. So, with a defeated sigh, you turn away from the exit and follow him.

He leads you through the café toward the little table in the back corner, the same one where he sat with you weeks ago, back when your biggest problem was simply figuring out if Hongjoong liked you back.

Once you sit down, neither of you says anything at first.

You set the paper bag on the table and pull one of the hot chocolates free from the cardboard tray, mostly because your hands need something, anything, to do. But the hot lid burns your fingertips, and you almost drop the cup before setting it back down again. A few marshmallows have already begun dissolving beneath the opening, sinking into the drink while you stare at them like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

Seonghwa watches your little performance without comment. 

"The reason you haven't seen me here," he says at last, "is because Joong's been keeping you away."

Your head snaps up. "What?"

"He asked for my work schedule a while ago."

You stare at him, waiting for the twitch at the corner of his mouth to indicate he's joking, but it never comes. A disbelieving scoff escapes you. "I don't think he would—"

You stop.

Because now that Seonghwa has said it, the memories rearrange themselves with ease: you can recall at least three separate instances where Hongjoong paused outside this very café, checked his phone, and suddenly decided he was craving a certain sandwich from the smaller coffee shop all the way across campus—just to quietly throw it away after taking three bites. At the time, you thought nothing of it, too busy feeling giddy over the way he laced his fingers through yours, too distracted by the fact that he wanted to spend time with you at all.

"Oh."

Seonghwa raises his eyebrows.

"Maybe," you amend, lowering your gaze to the hot chocolate again. "Maybe he did."

A faint breath leaves his nose, resembling amusement, but not quite a laugh. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Maybe."

The table goes silent again. You curl both your hands around the cup and force them to endure the heat seeping into your palms. This feels wrong. Seonghwa shouldn't be sitting across from you with his arms folded and expression blank; no, he should be leaning forward with that charming smile, searching your face for the smoothest way to make you blush. He should be exaggerating the story, accusing Hongjoong of jealousy, delighting in the fact that he can embarrass both of you at once. 

You watch your untouched drink steam through the opening in its lid, trying to tell yourself that you don't need to ask. Whatever answer Seonghwa gives you won't change anything, and there's certainly no version of it that won't hurt. Still... the question's been sitting at the tip of your tongue since the moment you recognized him at the register. 

"How..." You clear your throat. "How is he?"

Seonghwa's gaze drops to the table. The pause that follows is long enough for you to regret asking. He reaches toward the bag between you and rubs his thumb absently along its edge, flattening a crease that rises again when he lets go. 

"Not good."

You nod, although you don't know what you're agreeing with. Your eyes fall to your hands, where your own thumbs have begun worrying at the seam of the sleeve around your cup. You know he isn't doing well. You saw him less than half an hour ago and watched him turn himself into a stranger from one table away. You don't know why you hoped Seonghwa might tell you otherwise. 

"He's been different since that night," Seonghwa continues after a moment.

"Different how?"

You both look up at the same time. Part of you wants to find anger in his eyes; anger would be easy. It would allow him to accuse you and you to accept it. What you find instead is disappointment tempered by a reluctant kind of sympathy.

"He's acting like he did when I first met him," he explains quietly. "Careful, quiet... controlled." He takes a deep breath. "He thinks through everything before he says it. He leaves the room the second I even mention your name. And he's back to staying up all night working again." He pauses. "He hasn't done that since he started spending time with you."

The hot chocolate no longer feels warm beneath your palms. "I didn't mean to hurt him," you say. 

"I know." Seonghwa's answer comes so quickly that your eyebrows raise in surprise. "I've never thought you meant to."

You blink. "Then... why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because that's your problem."

Slowly, your brows draw together. "How is that my problem?"

He leans forward at last, resting his forearms on the table. His voice remains low enough that none of the other students scattered throughout the café could possibly overhear, even if they tried. "Because Joong knows you care about him, ____. That isn't the part he's questioning."

At that, your heart gives a painful, hopeful pull.

"But he doesn't know what else was real anymore," he continues, and the hope collapses just as fast. "That's where he's stuck. He thought he knew you—not perfectly, and not all at once, but he thought he was getting there." Seonghwa pauses, his eyes flicking over your face. "Now he keeps wondering whether those moments meant what he thought they did. Whether you were actually letting him in, or only opening the door wide enough for him to see the parts you wanted him to." 

Your eyes begin to sting. You quickly lower them to the table, staring at the ring of condensation beneath your cup. "I wasn't pretending."

"I never said you were."

"Seonghwa—"

"I don't think you wanted to hurt him," he cuts through you, firmer this time. "I believe you, angel. But I'm not the person you broke trust with." 

Your mouth closes. You feel him watching you for a long moment before he releases a quiet sigh, turning his attention to the window beside you, where the glass has fogged around the edges.

"Joong knows you were scared," he says, looking past you. 

You feel your throat tighten. "How could he know that?"

Seonghwa's gaze returns to you. "Do you really think he learned nothing about you all those months you sat across from each other? Do you think you're that good at controlling what people see?"

You stare at him, startled.

"Joong notices far more than he lets on. He's told me he's learned that you need to feel prepared before you do almost anything. He understands that when you don't know how a situation will play out, you start reaching for whatever pieces of it you can still control. Sometimes that means rerecording a conversation until there are zero stutters. Sometimes it means saying what you think someone wants to hear instead of what they need to." He pauses, scanning you for a reaction. His eyes snag on your fingers, which have started trembling again, sending a ripple across the surface of your drink. "He knows you panic when someone sees more than you meant to show them, and I don't know if he'd put it this way, but I think he knows that when you feel exposed, your first instinct is to cover yourself back up—in any way you can."

You pull one hand away from the cup, curling your fingers anxiously in your lap. Somehow, Seonghwa is making every one of your worst habits sound like a predictable flaw that Hongjoong was watching you battle long before you even realized it yourself. 

"And he understood that," Seonghwa adds, his voice a little gentler. "Probably better than anyone else could have. He's afraid of the same thing, you know. But the difference is that the two of you hide in opposite directions. You change what people see, and he makes sure there's nothing to see in the first place."

Your gaze drops to the bag beneath his hand.

"It was one of the first things he liked about you. Not the lying, obviously. But I remember him telling me about your first session together. Apparently, the very first thing you said to him was that you were 'bad' at Korean, all because you were worried he would think you were stupid. He liked that you were scared, but you tried anyway." His thumb goes still against the crease of the bag. "Every time you let him guide you through a mistake, he thought you were choosing to trust him despite your instincts telling you not to. He thought he really understood what your fear looked like. But more than that... he thought he was becoming the person you didn't feel the need to protect yourself from."

You press your fingernails hard into the skin of your palm, but the small sting does nothing to distract you from his words. 

"That's what hurt him," Seonghwa finishes quietly. "It wasn't only that you kept a secret. It was that you kept it from him, specifically. He thought he was the one place where you were learning to be honest, no matter how scary the truth might be." He pauses. "But that night proved him wrong." 

The sting behind your eyes returns, and you have to look down before Seonghwa can watch them fill. You trace the ring under your hot chocolate with your pointer finger, smearing the condensation across the table. "I... I apologized. I told him how sorry I was, and—"

"I know." The corner of Seonghwa's mouth twitches. "According to Joong, you apologized quite a lot."

Heat crawls up your neck at the memory of your voice continuously breaking around the same two useless words, your hands reaching for Hongjoong even after he flinched away.

"An apology won't fix anything, angel. It just tells him you regret what already happened," he says simply. "It doesn't tell him what you'll do the next time the truth makes you look bad. Joong can believe that you're sorry and still not trust you. He can know you care about him and still wonder whether caring about him will ever matter more than protecting yourself."

You press your lips together, fighting to keep your face from crumpling. There's nothing unfair in what he's saying in the slightest. "I don't know how to fix that," you say, your fingers squeezing your cup until it caves beneath the force. "I don't know what to say to make him believe me again."

Seonghwa is quiet for a moment.

"You don't make him believe you with words," he says at last. "You show him."

"But how?"

"By letting the version of you he gets from now on be the real one. The one who can be scared and jealous and selfish and mean. The one who makes mistakes." His eyes soften. "A relationship can't last without that, angel. Maybe not with anyone, but especially not with Joong." 

Your eyes fall to your hands. You know he's right. That was the reason you forced yourself to correct your lie about the granola bar earlier, why you admitted to Yunho that you weren't sleeping and let him walk you across campus instead of insisting you could handle everything alone. But when Eunkyung asked about the essay—the second the truth became embarrassing instead of uncomfortable—you lied again. 

Being honest is much, much easier said than done. 

"I want to show him the real version," you say. "I really do. I just..." You swallow, staring at the dent your fingers have left in your cup. "I don't know how."

"You can start by telling the truth before you can make it prettier."

Your gaze flickers up to his. "To Hongjoong?"

"Not yet." Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. "To me."

You blink. "To you?"

"Yes, to me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not the person you hurt." He says it lightly, but your heart still sinks. "There's less at stake here. If you can't say the hard parts to someone whose opinion doesn't decide the future of your relationship, you're never going to manage it when Joong is the one you're talking to." 

You stare at him, suddenly suspicious of the direction this conversation has taken. 

"So, we practice," he continues. "I ask you a question, and you answer it honestly."

"...And then what?"

"Then I ask another one."

For a second, you almost laugh. Not because any of this is funny, but because you're confused. You study his face, searching for the hidden motive beneath all this sudden sincerity. Shouldn't he want to keep you away from Hongjoong? You hurt his best friend badly enough to send him retreating into the man he used to be, and Seonghwa warned you from the beginning not to treat his feelings carelessly. So why is he sitting here teaching you how to find your way back to him?  

"Why are you telling me all of this?" you ask quietly. "Why do you still want to help me?"

Seonghwa's expression falters. For the first time since you sat down, he looks caught off guard.

"Don't make it sound more generous than it is," he murmurs at last. 

"What do you mean?"

Seonghwa releases a breath through his nose and looks away, staring out the café's window. "I'm doing this because Joong is my best friend. He's been walking around our apartment like a ghost since that night. He disappears into his room the second I even say your name, but he still listens quietly from the hallway when I try to give him advice. He barely sleeps, then he snaps at me if I point it out." His voice drops, losing its hostility as his eyes return to yours. "And, like I said, because I don't believe you ever set out to hurt him." 

You look down, shame burning through you. Before you can start apologizing again, he continues. 

"And maybe..." He pauses, his fingers flattening the paper bag between you hard enough to permanently crease it. "Maybe because I need to know I wasn't wrong about you." 

Your eyes slowly lift back to his.

"I pushed him toward you," he confesses quietly. "Not all the way—Joong doesn't do anything unless he wants to, no matter how much anyone interferes." A little curve pulls at one corner of his mouth. "But I saw what was happening before either of you wanted to admit it, and I helped you because I thought..." He hesitates. "I thought if Joong was finally going to let someone in, it should be someone who looked at him the way you did. So, maybe this is selfish. Maybe I need to know I didn't help my best friend walk into something that was only ever real for him. Maybe I need proof that I didn't make a mistake." 

"You didn't," you say instantly, breathlessly. "It wasn't only real from his side. I wasn't pretending to care about him. I wasn't pretending when I—"

You cut yourself off, swiping a hand over your lips to stop the words from spilling out. You already know what would come next: either another empty apology or another variation of 'I never meant to hurt him.' But Seonghwa's right. Your regret may be real, but it can't undo what's already been done.

Seonghwa watches you for a long moment.

"Then prove it," he challenges softly. "Prove it here, for the next ten minutes. Start by telling me the parts you don't want him to know. The things you're afraid would make him look at you differently if he found out."

Your pulse pounds against the base of your throat as he leans back in his chair, his eyes pinning you in place.

"Did you have feelings for Wooyoung?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. You expected Seonghwa to start somewhere uncomfortable, but not this close to the center of things. Though, in hindsight, you probably should've seen it coming. Seonghwa watched Wooyoung follow you outside that night at the bar, and you still have no idea how much he actually saw. Even so, hearing Wooyoung's name spoken aloud at this table makes your stomach twist with dread all over again. 

You look down at the cooling hot chocolate between your hands, watching the last of the marshmallows dissolve into thin white streaks across the surface. 

"No."

Your answer comes out cleanly. You could stop there and technically call it the truth, preserving the easiest version of the story: Wooyoung wanted you, you never wanted him, and everything that happened was a mistake inflicted upon you by someone who knew how to manipulate your uncertainty.

Pieces of that version are undeniably true... but they aren't all of it.

"No," you repeat, quieter this time. "I didn't have feelings for him. I didn't even like who I became when I was with him. But at the time..." You drag in a breath, hating how Seonghwa gives you no expression to respond to. "At the time, it felt good to be wanted by someone who went out of their way to make sure I knew it. I never had to wonder whether I'd imagined the way he looked at me. There was nothing subtle about Wooyoung. He made that part easy." 

Seonghwa's eyes narrow slightly. "That implies that the rest of it wasn't." 

A humorless breath slips through your nose. "No. It wasn't."

He waits. 

You bite your bottom lip, tracing the dent you've made in your cup with your thumbnail. "Even when I was with Wooyoung, I couldn't stop thinking about Hongjoong," you confess at last. "I compared everything. The way they spoke to me, the way I felt afterward. I knew Hongjoong was the one I wanted long before I was ready to admit it to myself. Wooyoung was..." You stop, already hearing the excuses lining themselves up in your head. A distraction. A mistake. Bad timing. But you swallow them down, refusing to sugarcoat it for your own benefit anymore. "Wooyoung was the person I chose because being wanted by him didn't scare me as much as wanting Hongjoong did."

For several seconds, Seonghwa says nothing. Then, quietly, "You were afraid of how honest wanting Joong would've forced you to be."

You stare down at your lap. 

"Yeah," you whisper. "I know." 

"This seems to be a recurring theme, angel."

At that, a dry, self-deprecating huff of laughter actually escapes you. "Yeah," you say again. "I... I know."

The corner of his mouth twitches again, but his expression never forms into anything recognizable. His thumb continues playing with the bag for another few seconds before finally going still. 

"What did you feel for me?"

Your heart gives a strange thud. You stare at him, genuinely wondering whether you heard him correctly.

"For you?"

His face reveals nothing. "For me."

Of all the invasive questions you braced yourself to answer, this was not one of them. Wooyoung made sense. Hongjoong certainly made sense. But whatever happened between you and Seonghwa was... different. You could frame it as nothing, tell him that he was only ever a bridge to help you get closer to Hongjoong. And you think that technically, it's the truth.

But as you open your mouth to say it, the words get caught in your throat.

Why does it feel like a lie?

"I don't know." The words sound cheap the moment they leave your mouth—evasive in the way you promised to stop being. You wince. "I know that's a terrible answer."

"Is it dishonest?"

Your lips part, but no defense comes. Seonghwa waits.

"No," you admit softly. You try to pinpoint the feeling, remembering the very first time you met Seonghwa and how he flirted with you with such ease that it somehow made you feel effortless in return. The way he always challenged Hongjoong, openly teasing and complimenting you right in front of him just to get a reaction.

"It was..." You stop, hesitating. The first comparison that bubbles to the surface feels a little insulting. Still, this entire conversation means nothing if you only offer him the truths that are easy to hear. "In a way... I think it was a little like Wooyoung."

Something changes in his face, and you quickly wave your hands. 

"Not because you're anything like him!" you backtrack, heat rushing to your cheeks as you scramble to fix it. "You're not. That's not what I meant."

One of his eyebrows arcs upward, but he says nothing.

"It was just... easy to be drawn to you," you try to explain, dropping your hands back to the table. "You were charming. You flirted with me like it cost you nothing. Like it was just... you. And it felt safe again, at least compared to Hongjoong." When he still doesn't speak, you keep digging. "I really liked being around you, Seonghwa. But... I don't know how much of what I felt was actually about you, and how much of it was because of what I felt for Hongjoong."

You watch something flash across his face before he smooths his expression over. You can't bear to hold his gaze; you drop yours first.

"You could tell me things he couldn't," you push on quietly. You don't want to look up and see if you're hurting him. You probably are. But backing down and lying now would ruin everything he asked of you. "When he was hiding behind tutoring, you told me what he was too afraid to admit. Even... even now, you're sitting across from me, telling me all of this without me even asking for your help."

When you finally look at him, his eyes are walled off, even harder to read than before.

"Being around you made me feel closer to him," you confess. "And... I know how awful this sounds, but..."

You trail off, and he doesn't deny it. You stare down at your hands, fighting the urge to soften the blow, to tell just one tiny, little lie. But instead, you drag in a trembling breath and deliver the truth.

"...it was like you were the part of wanting him that didn't make me wait."

Seonghwa goes still. His hand remains flat against the bag, his fingers splayed over the creases he made, but his eyes have dropped back to the table, staring at nothing at all. 

Maybe you should leave it alone. Seonghwa asked for the truth, and you gave it to him as honestly as you knew how. The answer was unkind enough without making him explain how it felt to hear it. You have no right to demand vulnerability in return simply because offering your own has left you embarrassed.

But your curiosity pushes the question out anyway.

"Seonghwa?"

His eyes lift to meet yours.

"What did you feel for me?"

To your surprise, his expression softens. The corner of his mouth gives the faintest twitch, an echo of the Seonghwa you've grown accustomed to.

"You're the one practicing honesty here, angel," he murmurs. "Not me."

His words are light enough to pass for teasing, but his eyes are dull. His half-smile vanishes just as quickly as it surfaced.

Heat crawls up the back of your neck for a different reason now. You couldn't endure five uninterrupted minutes of honesty without asking him to match it. You drop your gaze back to your drink, wishing you could swallow the question back down.

"That's fair," you mumble. "Forget I asked."

But you hear Seonghwa release a long, quiet breath.

"You know I liked you."

Your head snaps up to see that his attention is on the wood, not you. "How many times did I tell you I wished I'd gotten to you first? That was never a lie. You're beautiful. And you were so easy to tease." A smile touches his lips. "Believe me, it was very difficult not to want more of you. Yes, there were moments when I let myself imagine what would've happened if I had met you first. More than a  few." He pauses, and his smile falters. "But I'm not an unrealistic man. I saw what the two of you do to each other."

You stare at him, fighting the sudden flush dusting your cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember what I told you in the car that night? After we left the restaurant?"

How could you forget? You remember sitting stiffly in his passenger seat while he drove you back to his apartment, your hands folded nervously in your lap. The shine from the passing streetlights had danced across his face as he laid out the next part of your plan, and between teasing you and warning you not to overthink things, he admitted—almost reluctantly, staring out the windshield—that he thought you and Hongjoong were good for each other.

"You never explained what you meant," you say quietly.

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because he started making more music."

The answer is so far from what you expected that you can only blink at him, confused.

"Joong has always been a perfectionist, which I'm sure you've discovered by now," he explains. "He can spend three months working on one track because a single line doesn't sound exactly the way it did in his head. He'll stay awake until sunrise tweaking the same four notes, forget to eat because he's too busy rewriting a verse, then insist none of it is ready for anyone to hear." His thumb sweeps over the paper bag again, though it's much gentler now. "But after he met you, something changed. He started leaving lyric sheets everywhere: on his desk, in his car, folded into the pockets of his jackets, even all over our kitchen counter. Most of it wasn't finished. Some of it wasn't even good, and Joong knew that." He lifts his eyes to meet yours. "But he finally stopped playing things safe."

You don't know what to do with the image he just handed you: Hongjoong moving through his life with music spilling out faster than he could contain it. You remember seeing his room and his car littered with loose paper, but you never once imagined that it was because of you.

"You made him brave," Seonghwa says. "And that's the thing Joong has always been most afraid of."

Your vision swims. You blink rapidly, but the tears gather anyway, blurring both the crumpled bag and the untouched drinks between you.

"And then there was you." He gestures around the bustling café, then down to the very table you're sitting at. "The first time we sat here, I asked you how you felt about him. You could've laughed it off and made your feelings smaller than they were... but you didn't. At the time, I don't think you even realized how much you were revealing to me. But I did." 

A tear slips down your cheek at the memory. You wipe it away quickly, but you know Seonghwa caught it. That was the very first time you confessed your feelings for Hongjoong aloud. 

"Joong makes you honest," he says. "Which seems to be the thing you're most afraid of, too."

Your breath breaks between a chuckle and a sob. 

"That was when I knew that even if whatever I felt for you was real, it wasn't what mattered most." His gaze holds yours. "You made him brave enough to stop hiding himself. And he made you honest enough to confront your feelings." He hesitates before adding more softly: "Or at least, he made you want to be."

"I do want to be," you whisper, your voice cracking as you look up at him through burning eyes. "Not even just for him. I mean, yes, for him, but..." You shake your head, frustrated by how clumsily your words spill out. "For myself, too. Even if he never speaks to me again, I want to be able to let others see the real me before I've controlled everything. Even when what they see is selfish or embarrassing. And... and I really want Hongjoong to be part of that. I want him to be the person I learn how to do it with." 

For a full minute, the two of you dwell in the silence of your confession. You focus on evening out your breathing, letting your few tears run their course until you're calm.

Eventually, Seonghwa gives a slow nod. "Good."

You sniffle, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. "Good?"

He leans back, and like a switch being flipped, that look returns to his eyes—that spark of calculation beneath his charm.

"Yes. Good," he repeats, a little smile spreading across his face. "Because I have a plan." 

You stare at him.

"Um..." You wipe once more beneath your eye, suddenly wary. "Maybe... maybe not again, Seonghwa."

He chuckles. "Not like the last one. Despite how..." He pauses, his eyes flicking over your face with enough mischief to ignite your nerves. "...successful it ultimately proved to be."

You feel your face burn.

He lets the teasing linger for another heartbeat before his smile softens. "Relax, angel. I'm only trying to see whether you're still capable of blushing. This isn't that kind of plan. No tricks this time."

You hesitate, still unconvinced. "Promise?"

"I promise." He nods sincerely. "This time, we leave everything up to Joong."

For some reason, that frightens you more than the scheme ever did. Tricks are cruel, yes, but they create movement. They allow you to keep some control over what's arranged, some sequence of steps that can be followed to nearly guarantee the result you want. Surrendering the decision to Hongjoong means accepting the very real possibility that he might choose the ending you don't want him to. 

But as you look back into Seonghwa's eyes, you realize that is exactly the point.

"How?" you ask.

"Tonight, I'll ask him whether he's willing to speak with you tomorrow." 

Your eyes go wide. "Tomorrow?"

One of his eyebrows lifts. "Would you prefer next month?"

"No, I—" You cut yourself off, unsure. "I don't know."

"We can wait," he says, gentler now. "If that's what you need."

The offer is tempting. The mere thought of facing Hongjoong tomorrow—especially after your encounter today—fills you with dread. One more day would give you time to brace yourself. A week would be even better. A month might even be enough time to plan the perfect strategy and rehearse the right words to fix it all.

But that's your fatal flaw, isn't it? You don't need more time to perfect yourself for this conversation. You need to walk into it exactly as you are.

"Tomorrow," you confirm breathlessly, and Seonghwa gives you an approving smile before another thought flashes through your mind. "But... what if he doesn't want to see me?"

You can't help but replay what just happened in the Language Center. Hongjoong stepped in to save you, sure—but the second it was over, he turned away before you could even mouth a 'thank you' back. Perhaps helping you had been nothing more than a habit. Or perhaps it hurt him badly enough that he made sure it wouldn't happen twice. 

Seonghwa considers this for a moment. "Then you respect his choice. If Joong says no, you don't show up."

You nod, your throat thick and tight.

"But," he adds, "if he says yes—and I can't promise you that he will, so don't hear a guarantee where I'm not giving one—then you come to the apartment tomorrow night." 

Your heart skips a beat.

"Then what do I do?"

"Don't go there trying to win. Don't try to memorize the perfect answers beforehand. If you're scared, tell him you're scared. If you don't know how to answer something, say that. And if the truth makes you look selfish, let it. That's the only plan." 

You stare down at your ruined cup. "And if that isn't enough?" 

He exhales slowly. "You can tell him the truth, and he might still decide that he can't trust you with his heart again. Honesty isn't a trade, angel. You don't give it to someone because they promised to forgive you in return." 

Your eyes burn again. Another tear breaks free, but Seonghwa doesn't look away.

"But at least then," he continues more quietly, "whatever he chooses will be real. Not another version of a situation you manipulated because you were afraid of losing him."

You gulp and nod once, though it feels small and frail and nowhere near brave enough for what tomorrow might ask of you.

"Okay," you whisper.

He watches you for another moment before finally reaching for the brown bag and nudging it toward you. "Good. Now go home, eat your dinner, and get some sleep. I truly can't tell which one you need more right now." 

Despite yourself, a weak laugh slips out of you. You wipe your eyes one last time, then gather the bag and the tray of drinks with hands that still tremble, though not as badly as before.

You push your chair back and stand. But after taking one step away from the table, you stop.

"Seonghwa?"

He tilts his head, looking up at you.

"Thank you," you murmur. A simple thanks feels inadequate for all the ways he's interfered, translated, warned, and revealed pieces of Hongjoong to you over the past few weeks. "For helping me. Not just today, but... this entire time."

Something complicated passes through his face—fondness tangled with regret, affection subdued by a hurt neither of you will ever formally name. And yet, despite all of it, he still smiles at you.

"Don't thank me yet, angel," he says. "Thank me when you've told him the truth and stayed long enough to accept what he chooses to do with it."

By the time you make it back to your dorm, both hot chocolates have gone cold and the brown paper bag is pretty much unrecognizable. The bottom has softened from the heat of the sandwiches, while the top is covered in overlapping creases—some made by Seonghwa's fingers at the café, most added by your own grip during the chilly walk home. 

The dorm is quiet when you walk inside. The Great British Bake Off is still playing on the TV, but Yunho is already fast asleep, sprawled across the couch with one arm hanging limply off the cushions. He's drooling on a throw pillow with his neck bent at an angle that will surely become everyone else's problem when he wakes up in pain tomorrow morning. You roll your eyes, pausing the episode before placing the chicken Caesar wrap and the hot chocolate he begged you for on the coffee table within reach.

You pause in the middle of the living room. 

San's door is still shut. You consider texting him again, but frankly, there's nothing new to say that you haven't already sent in three slightly different forms.

So you leave the door alone.

You carry the remaining sandwich and drink into your room, lower yourself into the chair at your desk, and open your laptop. Sleep is out of the question. Your body may be exhausted, but your mind has never felt more awake. You unwrap your club sandwich, take one bite of the cold bread, and pull up the practice essay you refused to show Eunkyung earlier.

The same opening paragraph waits for you. You read it once, then again. By the fourth time, the sentences have lost their meaning. Your mind has returned to the Language Center instead.

Hongjoong's head lifting the instant your voice faltered. The pencil falling to the floor. The movement of his lips across the aisle. 소중한 거예요. The care with which he divided the phrase into smaller pieces, his eyes fixed on yours while his body remained turned toward someone else. The tiny nod he gave when you sounded it out correctly. And of course, how quickly he looked away. 

Maybe helping you meant something.

Then again, maybe it didn't. You refuse to build hope out of a moment that might've only been muscle memory for him.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes against the desk beside your half-eaten sandwich. The screen lights up with Seonghwa's name. 

Seonghwa: Tomorrow night, come over around 7:00. I'll be gone by then.

Your heart nearly stops. You stare at the message, reading it once without understanding and then again as the meaning settles into place.

Tomorrow night. Hongjoong is actually willing to see you.

Before you can fully absorb it, two more messages appear.

Seonghwa: I won't say anything else, but I'll warn you that it took some convincing for him to agree. Seonghwa: For what it's worth, angel, I'm rooting for you. Tell him the truth, and don't try to control the rest.

You reread his messages until the words blur.

Maybe this is a moment you're allowed to build hope out of. Hongjoong hasn't forgiven you, and he might not even want to. Tomorrow could end with him deciding that what you broke can't be fixed.

But tonight, you don't have to know how it ends.

Tonight, at least... Hongjoong said yes.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

“Then keep it vague,” you shrug. “Say what you think without saying too much. Just enough to keep him entertained.”

She smacks her teeth, heels scruffing against the pavement. “You’re a good liar, not me. Clearly.” You whip your head around to narrow your eyes at her. Shades covering her eyes, she grins, “Am I wrong?”

“No,” you huff. “But you’re either mad at me or you’re not. Don’t drag it out.”

She whines again, the vodka on her tongue already speaking for her, “I’m not mad at you, I’m sorry. It’s just fucking crazy and I’m scared I’m gonna slip up.”

You come to a full stop at the entrance, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re not gonna slip up because you’re my best friend and you love me and you’d hate yourself if you ruined my life.”

She nods. “Yes. Yes to all of that. You’re right.”

“Okay,” you nod, assured, then rip the front door to the Penny open.

Immediately you’re hit with the scents of grease and liquor, bright music pounding through the dimly lit bar. The small tables were put away again, replaced with taller ones, they premeditated the standing room needed tonight. And thank fucking god, because once again, the Lucky Penny is packed.

There’s streamers, balloons, a banner for whoever the fuck’s birthday it is. You think Jihyo invited all of you to get bodies into the bar, even if the Penny is usually packed on weekends anyway, they rarely have any issues getting people inside. 

You and Yunjin decided to match again, different versions of the same outfit, long pants on your legs, heels on your feet. You have on a white, high-necked top while hers is low-cut and black, your jewelry even complimented one another. Your shades are on your head instead of over your eyes, she insists that you get at least one picture with them on. 

You spent the second half of yesterday together, once again discussing the technicalities of Unscripted, how you’ve managed to keep a double life for so long. You answered all her questions, broke down stories, told her every little secret she wanted to know. By the end of it she came to the conclusion that even though you kept so much from her, it’s kinda cool that it’s you. She lives with a micro-celebrity. Her words. 

It’s strange, liberating, in a way, that someone knows. Terrifying, but freeing that there’s a person who knows all of you, the secrets, the voice, the humor, all of it. Thank god it’s Yunjin. 

“I see them,” Yunjin says from behind you, pointing towards the back of the bar. You follow her line of sight, spotting San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho. “Should we get a drink first?”

“Should we get a drink and find the girls first?” you counter. “We’re here for someone’s birthday. Whose is it again?”

“Mina,” Yunjin reminds you. “Jihyo’s friend, I think they’ve been friends for a long time, I don't know. Let’s go to the bar.”

You follow behind her after she skirts in front of you, leaving her wrist for you to grab as she pulls you into the mob of people. You should be used to it by now, swimming through the horde of people gathered in layers around the bar, but getting pushed and shoved while you’re also pushing and shoving just to get a fucking drink is too aggravating to be considered regular. 

Yunjin spots Sana and Momo before you do, tugging you forward until you’re in their line of sight, screams and squeals from the two making the crowd part to let you through. Your greetings were the same, shouted in squeals and pitched noises, side hugs and cheek-kisses like you haven’t seen each other in a month.

“You made it!” Sana beams, chocolate brown hair similar to Jen’s down, waved like she went to a salon for a fresh blowout. “Ji will be so happy, she put her whole soul into planning this.”

Your chest warms at another mention of her name, remembering your conversation with Yunho.

“Beer is free tonight,” Momo explains, her grin wide and excited. “We bought two kegs from the Penny. Miller, unforch.” You can’t help your smile, fully amused. She brings her gaze to you, “We should have gotten barrels of vodka and vermouth for you, Martini Girl.”

You shake your head, waving a hand, “I can pretend to be a frat boy for the night, don’t worry about me.”

“Just tell the bartender you’re here for Mina’s party and they’ll hook you up,” Sana adds. “Start chugging, though, two kegs will go quickly. There’s more people here than we thought would show.”

You and Yunjin take the advice quickly, switching spots with Sana and Momo to flag down the bartender, double-fisting to ensure you both end up catching a buzz. You didn’t drive since your car is in the shop, but you still want the twenty-dollar Uber to be worth it. Knowing Yunho, he’ll pay for the Uber ride home. 

Wait— can you even assume you’re going home with Yunho anymore? Since you’re no longer exclusive, that means he… He could go home with someone else. You could go home with someone else. You don’t know what feeling is blooming in your chest, but it doesn’t feel right. 

You find yourself beelining toward him, feet moving without a second thought, you don’t even tell Yunjin or the other two that you’re leaving. Your beer sways in the two glasses, toppling over the sides as you skip over shoes and slide between pockets of bodies, pushing yourself toward the tall table the four massive men stand at. 

Your glasses hitting the table introduce your presence before anyone has noticed you snuck up. Yunho’s head snaps, mid-sentence, brows tied together before his face expands in a beaming smile. “There you are, sunshine.” 

Relief washes over you at the sight. He bends down to press his lips to yours, a short peck, soft and sweet, he tastes like beer, like chapstick. Like Yunho. 

“Double fisting?” he asks, teasing, eyeing up your two beers. “Planning to get fucked up?” 

You snort, “Just ensuring I milk the kegs before they’re tapped.” You greet the rest of the table as Yunjin finally catches up, sliding between San and Jongho, setting her two draft glasses on the table, too. 

“Damn,” Jongho says, gaze bouncing between your four glasses taking up half the table, including their own glasses. “Might as well have brought a pitcher over.” 

“Can we do that?” Yunjin pops a chocolate brow over her shades. “Is that allowed?” 

Mingi asks, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You’re quick to jump in, “Because the beers are free and a pitcher feels…” Your lips scrunch, brows furrowing, “I don’t know. Feels mooch-y.”

San laughs, “And four beers isn’t?” 

“Sana told us to get it before it’s gone!” Yunjin is laughing as she brings her beer up to her lips, taking a deep gulp. 

Jongho is about to argue again but Yunho cuts him off, “You go get a pitcher.” 

“Yeah,” Yunjin nods, glass hitting the table again. “You go get a pitcher, since you want one so bad.”

Your eyes are bouncing back and forth to each face, smile growing with each interaction, every comeback. Jongho scowls as he moves from the table, no doubt thinking about what a climb it will be to get back up to the bar. At least he brings his beer with him. 

“So,” Yunho starts, leaning down to get close to your ear. His breath is hot against your skin, it makes you shiver. “See anyone yet?”

Your cheeks heat up, eyes widening at the question. You take a swig of your beer, hoping the chilled carbonation will cool you off a bit. “No,” you mutter softly, turning your head to face him. His hair is down, curly over his forehead, almost touching his lashes. “I came straight to you.” 

His face flattens out, but there’s humor in his pretty eyes. “Boring.” 

You smack your teeth with your lips and smack his arm with the back of your hand, a laugh falling out of your open mouth. “Not boring, Jeong Yunho.” 

He giggles, goading you, “Come on, it’s your first night of freedom. Start shopping.” 

Shopping. You push the memory out as your eyes travel over the crowd, loosing a heavy breath as absolutely fucking no one catches your attention. Not that no one here is attractive– but there’s no one who you’d want one night of really hot, intense fucking with. 

You’re pouting as you glance back at Yunho. “I don’t think I’m gonna be good at this.”

“You don’t think so?” His brows sit high, a playful grin on his lips like he knows something you don’t. His chin dips in the direction you were just looking at, “Look again, baby.” 

You turn, faces blending together, bodies moving as one until you see her. As if she’s beneath a fucking spotlight, her golden, tanned skin sparkles in the pockets of her cut-out, black mini dress. Her dark hair flows down her back, curled, shiny, so pretty. She looks so fucking sexy your heartbeat picks up in your chest. 

You look back at Yunho, cheeks hot, the tips of your ears on fire, “Fuck.” 

He laughs with his head tipped backward before he brings his beer up to his lips. “Told you,” he says with a little shrug. “You’ll be just fine. Go talk to her.” 

“No!” you whisper, well, more like a whisper-yell. “I can’t go hit on her.” 

“Why not?” he’s still smiling as he asks, amused by you. “Fine. Go tell her she did a great job with the party or something.” 

“That’s so fucking corny,” you groan, shaking your head as you bring your beer back up to your lips again. 

San cuts in from across the table, “What are you two whispering about over there?” 

You’ve barely swallowed your gulp of beer before you’re blurting, “Nothing!” Your gaze lands on Yunjin, and her eyes narrow. “Fine,” your lips flatten. “Yunho wants me to go hit on Jihyo.” 

The table falls into a confused silence. Mingi breaks it by asking, “You’re gay?” 

“Aren’t you two together?” San adds on. 

“Like, our Jihyo?” Yunjin adds on, and your head bobbles between the three of them, each question adding another layer of frustration. 

All you can do is groan. A pitiful, droning groan, instinctively you bring your beer back up to your lips. 

“We’re not exclusive anymore,” Yunho answers for you. “And she has her eye on your Jihyo, yes. Gay question isn’t mine to answer.”

“Mind you, you had all day yesterday to tell me about this,” Yunjin’s eyes are still narrowed at you. 

Your cheeks are flaming, hiding beneath your glass of beer. “Baby steps?” you offer with a tiny shrug. 

Yunjin sighs, “I’ll take it, I guess.”

The conversation moves on, but your head keeps turning involuntarily, taking small glances at her. She's in heels, her muscled calves flexing each time she moves her body, shifting her stance. Fuck, she looks hot. She always looks hot. She looks especially hot tonight. 

When you look back at Yunho, he’s already looking at you. Then his brows raise as if he’s saying you gonna do it, or what? Your lips purse, heartbeat picking up again. You don’t think you’ve ever approached someone with the sole intention of flirting with them in your life. 

This past month has been filled with so many firsts for you. What’s one more?

You pick up your beer and chug the rest of it down, it’s screaming all the way down your throat, the taste not wonderful but not unbearable either. It’s the bubbles, the carbonation, but you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, look at Yunho with a determined expression, and nod. 

He grins, “That’s my girl.” 

“Are you going?” San asks, thick, dark brows wiggling. “Should we give you a pep talk? Act like we’re sending you off to war?” 

You try to scowl at him, but your lips curve at the corners. “Go fuck Jen in the bathroom or something.” 

“Go fuck Jihyo in the bathroom or something,” he fires back automatically. 

“Maybe I will, bitch,” it comes out of your mouth before you can think about it and your palm flies over your mouth, shocked that you just fucking said that. Maybe the Miller gave you a little more than just courage. 

San howls with laughter. “Fuck yes, do it.”

Your cheeks are warm, and that definitely wasn’t a pep talk, but for some reason it feels like what you needed. You turn on your heel, breath pushing out of your circled lips shakily as you wipe your sweaty palm on your pant leg. Your other hand holds your other, full beer. 

She’s mid-conversation as you approach her, and before speaking, interrupting, you lay your hand softly on her shoulder blade. “Just wanted to say hi.” 

She just about fucking screams when she sees you. Forgetting her conversation completely, she throws her arms around you, yelling, “You came! You came! I’m so happy!” 

You laugh into her arms, pretending you don’t care about her body pressed against yours, that you didn’t come over here with an ulterior motive. “Of course I did, you invited me.” 

She keeps her hands on your shoulders as she pulls away, barely keeping space between you, she’s beaming, her cheeks flushed. You keep catching the gloss on her lips as she barrages you with questions, “How are you? Who are you here with? Is Jen here?” 

You point behind you, and her eyes follow. “She’s here, we invited some of the guys we’re friends with.” 

“Oh,” her brows furrow as she waves her manicured hand. “They’re already all looking over here.” 

Your face drops, you turn your head and scowl in their direction, just to catch them all staring at you. When they catch your expression they all turn away, caught. Guilty. Fuckers. 

“Isn’t the blonde one yours?” she asks, brows wiggling. “He’s hot. Tall.”

“He’s not mine,” you blurt, shaking your head. Fuck, this is harder than you thought it’d be. “We’re not exclusive, I’m– I’m fully single.” 

“Oh,” she says like this is the most scandalous information she’s ever heard. “My girl who’s committed to being committed is in a non-exclusive relationship? Who are you?” 

“I’m me,” you smile, eyes finding the floor for a millisecond. You shrug, “Just… different now. I guess.” 

“I’m proud of you,” she nods, one arm that was holding onto your shoulder sliding down to pet your bicep. You physically have to stop yourself from shivering at the contact. She’s taller than you in her heels, looking down at you as she says it, her soft palm brushing your bare skin…

“Thank you,” you murmur, cheeks heating up again. “This place looks great– I– you look great.” 

“Yeah?” She beams, taking a step back to look down at her own outfit. “I know it’s Mina’s birthday, but since I planned it I figured I have to look good, too.” 

“You do,” you affirm her, looking at her outfit with her, nodding your head. You run a hand through your hair. Why is this so hard? How do you start flirting with a girl who’s your friend? How do you un-friend your friend? How do you even flirt?

Someone grabs at her wrist, a small girl, long, black hair, she’s beaming at her. You can only assume that’s Mina. “Ji! There’s someone I want you to meet!” 

Jihyo nods toward her, and then the girl is tugging at her arm, and Jihyo shoots you an apologetic look. “I’ll find you later!” 

“Don’t worry about it!” you wave your hand, feeling a pang of disappointment in your gut. Fuck. You absolutely fumbled that. Fuck. 

You turn back to your friends with regret heavy in your eyes. You take another gulp of beer before deflating into the table, debating guzzling the pitcher Jongho brought back. 

“How’d it go?” Yunho asks as soon as you’re back in ear shot. You scowl. His lips flatten. “Can you give me more than just a look?”

You pout. “I barely got to say anything before the birthday girl pulled her away. Damn, I didn’t even say happy birthday.” 

“You have all night,” San assures you from across the table. 

Mingi cooes, “Oh my god, baby’s first gay-crush.” 

You don’t even have the time to roll your eyes before Jongho starts cracking up, “What the fuck did I miss?” 

“A lot,” you gruff out, picking up your beer again. 

Yunho lowers it before you can bring it up to your lips, “Pace yourself, sunshine. We literally have all night.” 

“Damn, no Jihyo and now no beer?” you complain, but your words are playful. “So bossy.” 

“You know bossy, and that wasn’t bossy,” he reminds you, voice sliding into that velvety cadence. 

Your gut warms. “Don’t start with that or else I’ll really give up on Jihyo.” 

His grin is bright, satisfied. “You’re funny tonight.” 

“I’m always funny,” you quip, slightly offended. 

“I don’t even know how to flirt with her,” you’re talking to the table now. “How do you flirt with a girl who’s your friend?” 

Yunjin answers, “You do know she’s super gay, right? Like she fucks with dudes but not nearly as much as women? I don’t think you even have to try that hard, she probably saw you all cute and flustered while you were talking to her.” 

If your cheeks get any hotter, you might overheat like a cell phone on a fucking beach. Your elbow lands on the table, palm hitting your forehead. “I’m not cut out for this life.” 

The table responds by laughing. The conversation moves on, San talks about the gym, Yunho talks about the really good weed he bought from a guy in his public speaking class, Mingi talks about the girl he slept with last weekend, and Jongho tells him he slept with her the weekend before.

You don’t have anything to add except a joke here and there or laughing along with the table. You can feel the absence of one, you catch yourself scanning the room, looking for a familiar head of black hair and bronzy skin. You don’t see him. You let the thought pass. 

Mingi pulls you back to the conversation by asking, “Did you guys listen to the new episode of Unscripted?” 

Yunjin’s eyes lift to yours. Your expression doesn’t so much as flicker. 

“I listened!” San beams. “I think every single person in this room listened. Who’s side are you guys on?” 

Yunho, without missing a beat, answers, “Mister Tall and Dominant.” 

Your expression cracks, a smile forcing its way through the mask. He didn’t tell his friends it’s you— well, that it’s him. 

Yunjin nods, “Same.” She’s definitely speaking just to add something to the conversation, because you know she’s team Wooyoung. 

“What?” San gawks at the table, “Are you shitting me? She’s obviously in love with Mister Piss-Me-Off.” 

“No she’s not,” you find yourself arguing. Defensively, too. 

San looks at you like you’re ridiculous. “Did you listen to the way she talked about him? It was word vomit, she’s obsessed.” 

There’s warning in the hinge of Yunjin’s jaw. You shrug, “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s that serious. Unscripted fucks a new person every week, let’s be honest with ourselves here.” 

“That’s true,” Mingi adds. “Just another fling. Content for the pod.” 

“I didn’t even listen,” Jongho reveals, “but everyone keeps fucking talking about it. Who cares who she fucks?” 

“We do, apparently,” Yunho adds with a little laugh, picking up his beer again. You should buy him something. Or fuck him really, really good tomorrow. 

Yunjin’s body is so tight you think she might explode. “Can we go to the bathroom?” she asks, keeping her voice light, but you can hear the panic lining her tone because you know her. 

You nod, sliding from the table, meeting her on the other side before walking with her toward the bathroom. She waits until you’re out of earshot before exploding, “How did you do that? How do you do that? I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack!” 

You snort, rolling your eyes, “You did fine, Jen. You’re fine.”

“Does Yunho know?” 

“He thinks I submitted the story,” you explain, approaching the neon pink Girls Room sign. The line isn’t too long, you lower your voice as you walk towards the end of it. “He knows it’s about him, but he doesn’t think I’m… Her.”

“How the hell did he figure that out?” 

You shrug, “Don’t know, but he came to the conclusion on his own. I just agreed.”

Yunjin sighs. “He’s so fucking smart, but he’s kinda stupid at the same time.” 

You giggle. “I don’t think he’s stupid at all, he’s like, one thought process away from putting all the pieces together.” 

She presses her back up against the wall, brows furrowed over her shades. “That doesn’t scare you?” 

“It does,” you nod. “I don’t know… he’s kind. I trust him. He didn’t tell everyone else the story was about him, I think if he ended up figuring it out, he’d keep it to himself, too.” 

Her head tilts. “You don’t think he’d be upset that you kept it from him?” 

“I mean, do you think he has a right to?” 

Her lips purse, shoulders shrugging. “Maybe.” 

You think on it, taking the spot beside her, sighing as you back up against the wall. You turn your head to her, “Do you really think Jihyo saw my flustered-ness as cute?” 

She wears a lazy grin as she turns her head to you. “I think you’re cute when you’re flustered, so there’s no way she didn’t.”

Your smile brightens, cheeks warming all over again. It’s too fucking early into the night to break the seal, but you do anyway because the sound of the sinks running makes your bladder feel heavier than it’s ever been. 

On the way back to the table, you spot her again. She’s talking to someone else you don’t know, a guy, tall, buff. He’s kinda hot. Her body language is friendly but your stomach jumps in warning, your mind and your legs are in agreement as you part ways with Yunjin to purposely interrupt her conversation this time. 

“I found you first,” you say, cutting off whatever this fuckass guy is saying. 

Jihyo beams, “And thank god you did.” 

The guy pouts, “Why’s it suddenly fuck me?” 

Jihyo laughs, smooth and pretty, “Sorry, Johnny.” She introduces the two of you, and then turns her attention fully on you. “Those pants make your legs look so fucking long. Is your top backless?” 

You do a little spin, and she whistles. Whistles. Your cheeks are fucking burning when you turn back to her, and you desperately wish you had your beer. 

She reads your mind. “Where’s your drink?” 

You look at her empty hands. “Where’s yours?” 

Her lips tighten in a grin. “Touché, let’s go to the bar.”

She grabs your hand and electricity shoots up your spine, excitement, adrenaline. Is this working? Are you doing it? You can’t tell. Your eyes drop while following behind her, taking in her curves, the way her hips way with every hurried step. She cuts through the layers of people before the bar like she’s the human version of a sword, shoulders back as she tugs you all the way up to the front. 

She doesn’t let go of your hand when she gets up to the bar. She swings her upper half over the deep oak, giving you a perfect view of the way her shiny hair glistens under the lighting, how her back arches, ass poking out. She calls over the bartender like he’s working for her. 

She orders two shots and two beers. Your brow pops as you lean in almost over her shoulder, “Shots aren’t free, Ji. Just get beers.” 

Her head tilts, a tiny smirk on her lips. “I can’t buy you a shot?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “Oh. Yes, you can. Thank you.” 

Her smile widens, a tiny laugh falling off her tongue. “You’re so cute.” 

Coming from her, you think maybe you don’t want to be cute. Coming from Yunjin, sure, cute is fine, but coming from Jihyo? You want to be as sexy as you think she is. You chew on your bottom lip, your cheeks flame anyway. 

The bartender brings your shots and she thanks him, yelling an ‘add it to my tab’ before she hands one to you. It’s clear, vodka, your throat is already burning before a drop has touched your tongue. 

“Cheers to new beginnings,” she holds up her plastic shot glass to you. “New beginnings, a new mindset, and freedom that you didn’t have before.” 

You tease, “We’re still celebrating my breakup?” 

“No, baby,” she shakes her head, smirk still playing on her lips. “I told you that you’re not a passive girl. You’re out of the funk.” 

Baby sounds different on her lips now. Heat curls as you clink your plastic shot glass with hers, and shoot the vodka back. You whistle as you slam it back on the bar, sipping the beer that was waiting for you, letting it wash the aftertaste off the back of your throat. 

“Fuck, I drink vodka, and taking shots still fucking burns,” you’re wiping off your lips again as you turn back to her, she looks unbothered as ever. “How are you not cringing?” 

She shrugs, “I’m older than you. More experience.” 

“You’re older than me by one year, Ji,” you almost roll your eyes, smile bending your lips. “How much more experience can you have?” 

“A lot,” she says coolly before sipping her beer. “Trust me.” 

Are you still talking about vodka? You can’t tell. Heat blooms, and whether it's from her words, the liquor, both, you don’t care. 

“Tell me about the guy,” she starts again, still leaning up against the bar. She's holding her glass with two hands, hair off her shoulders, chest on display. She's radiating the same comforting dominance she always has, the one that makes you want to obey without even realizing you’re doing it. 

“Yunho?” you question. “The tall, blonde one?” 

“The one you’re casually fucking,” she corrects, or points out, you don’t know. 

Your legs cross as you lean up against the bar, too. “He’s sweet. He takes care of me.”

She hums, looking you up and down, and doesn’t do a damn thing to hide it. “Do you need to be taken care of?” 

“Sometimes,” you answer, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Sometimes not.”

Her smile grows. “Good,” she leans forward a little more, closing some of the distance between you. “Is he taking care of you tonight?” 

Your heartbeat picks up, mouth going dry. You sip your beer, and then shake your head. “N-no, he’s not.” 

She looks like she’s won, satisfied as hell. “Do you want to dance with me?”

You’re nodding profusely, you don’t even say the word yes before she’s grabbing your hand again and tugging you toward the dance floor. 

Wooyoung’s getting real sick of the Lucky Penny. He feels like he’s spending his entire fucking week in the step-above-shithole bar, but maybe he’s just allowing himself be angry at the Penny because the alternative is too damning. It’s been two days and it’s still eating him alive, the way you looked at him in his car, like you never want to speak to him again. He doesn’t know why that hurts the way it does.

He shouldn’t care, oh, he shouldn’t give a flying fuck. But he does, and he fucking hates it.

The way he came home to Yunho with fucking word vomit, getting the entire sequence of events off his chest because he felt guilty. He didn’t even do anything and he felt fucking guilty. The batting cage, the diner, he never should have done any of it knowing that you and Yunho are exclusive. He shouldn’t have let himself get to know you any better, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have let you know him.

But it’s so fucking hard to stop himself when he’s around you. Usually it’s his dick controlling him, and… and– and it still is. He just wants to fuck you. He’s gotten a taste of you, and he’s hungry for the rest. 

He has to tell himself that with every pretty face that looks at him inside the Penny. Every wink, every longing stare, every fuckable face he sees he has to remind himself that the only reason you’re on his mind is because he’d rather fuck you. 

He didn’t mean to be late tonight. Every outfit in his closet didn’t seem appropriate, and by the time he was on the fifth outfit he almost yelled out in frustration because when the fuck has he ever cared about his outfit? No one in the Penny is looking at his goddamn outfit. Every woman whose eyes land on him is thinking he’s sexy, or they’ve heard he’s great in bed and they’re wondering if it’s true, every woman is debating if they’ll have a chance to find out, tonight. And they won’t. None of them will fucking know because you’re suddenly a drug, a fucking poison he accidentally injected into his veins. 

It’s disgusting. He needs to get drunk. 

He approaches the bar, slams his card on the oak. The bartender tells him something about a keg, he orders whiskey on the fucking rocks. He’s not drinking draft Miller fucking Lite tonight.

“Oh no,” Sana approaches him, a glass of beer in one hand. She looks pretty, hair tied back, showing enough skin that usually would make Wooyoung want to find out what the rest looks like. “It’s gotten worse. What’s wrong with you?”

He takes a swig of whiskey, doesn’t cringe as it burns its way down. “Nothing,” he answers. Short, definitely not sweet.

“Should you be here with an attitude like that?” she asks, brows raised. “Drinking hard liquor, of all things?”

He gives her a blank stare. “I don’t have an attitude.”

“Let me ask you something, then,” she stands a little straighter. “If I asked you to fuck me in the bathroom right now, would you do it?”

“I just got here,” he answers, voice flat. “Can you ask me after I’ve made my rounds? Scouted the rest?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Glad to find out the whore is still in there. For a second, I thought you were upset about a girl.”

He gives her a look, eyes hard, brows flat. His jaw clenches as he swallows down some more whiskey. “I’ll never be upset about a girl, Sana. You know that.”

She looks at him sideways like she doesn’t really believe him. “Whatever you have going on, you better fix it real quick. No one wants a miserable man drinking hard fucking liquor at a birthday party.”

She turns on her heel, miniskirt dancing on her hips as she disappears into the crowd. Something tight within his chest unwinds as her words sink in. She’s right. Anger isn’t a fucking party favor. He sighs, more so pushes whatever he can get out from his chest, hoping it’s all the frustration and confusion that’s bottled up inside him. 

He rolls his shoulders before walking through the crowd, ignoring the eyes, saying hi here and there to those who say hi to him, he spots San before anyone else. He doesn’t know how he recognized him, he’s currently mauling Yunjin’s face off, standing beside a tall table filled with a half-filled pitcher of beer and eight tall glasses. Some empty, some full, some half-empty. 

Mingi and Jongho are talking, clearly trying to ignore the way San’s basically having sex in the middle of the bar. He approaches the two, “Not watching the show?”

“That’s something only someone like you would enjoy,” Jongho grins, clasping Wooyoung’s hand.

Mingi does the same before adding, “Are you about to?”

“Not in the mood,” Wooyoung shrugs his shoulders. “Who else is here?”

Jongho points toward Yunho, who’s standing a foot behind Wooyoung. His brows furrow, “The fuck is he doing?”

“Go find out,” Mingi says, full of amusement.

Wooyoung’s brows furrow, but he walks up to Yunho anyway, curious. He’s facing the dance floor, Wooyoung follows his line of sight, squinting as he tries to find what the older man is looking at.

His stomach drops when he sees it. You’re… you’re kissing someone. You’re kissing a girl. You’re kissing the only fucking girl in that goddamn friend group that he hasn’t fucked. Yunho might have to pick his jaw up from the floor. 

“You’re– you’re watching this?” Wooyoung’s voice is shakier than he wants it to be.

Yunho smiles. “I’m about to stop, it feels weird to watch. They just started making out.”

Wooyoung doesn’t understand. His mind is moving a mile a fucking minute. He asks, “You’re okay with that?”

Yunho finally looks at him, and he’s wearing a prideful smile. “Of course I’m okay with it.” Wooyoung blinks at him. Once, twice. Yunho laughs like he can’t help it. “We’re not exclusive anymore.”

Wooyoung’s jaw might be on the floor again. “Are you serious?”

Yunho nods, “Sorry it didn’t happen before she tried to kiss you.”

Wooyoung’s face drops, and so does his stomach. You told him?

He starts, guilt lining his tone, “Yun–”

“Don’t apologize,” Yunho shakes his head. “We’re cool.”

Wooyoung nods, and his eyes betray him as they lead out to the dance floor again. He doesn’t even fucking know her name, but your hands are on her cheeks, her hands on your waist, no– one hand is on your waist, the other is on your ass, squeezing it. You’re kissing her like you can’t get enough of her, like there isn’t a single part of you that’s second-guessing it, like you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything. 

He swallows. He can feel the whiskey at the bottom of his stomach, heavy, leaden. You’re– you’re kissing someone else. You’re kissing a fucking girl. You just ended exclusivity with Yunho and you’re kissing someone fucking else?

He turns, walking past Yunho, past Mingi, Jongho, past San and Yunjin who look like they don’t even need air to breathe anymore. He sets the half-full glass of whiskey on the table, and announces to anyone who can fucking hear him, “I’m leaving.”

Jongho calls from behind him, “You just fucking got here!”

Wooyoung ignores him, then ignores every other person who tries to get his attention before he leaves the Lucky Penny.

Jihyo kisses you differently than Yunho kisses you. Different from Wooyoung. From Yeonjun. She kisses you like she’s trying to prove something, no, like she wants you to prove something. Like there’s still a part of you shielded, a part of you that’s begging to be released, and she wants to be the one to pull it out of you. Where her hands go, you arch into her touch. When her tongue pries your lips open, you let her explore until it evokes a soft moan from the back of your throat. When your hands finally find her cheeks, when one drops to her waist, her soft sigh makes your brain short-circuit. 

You made her make a noise. A sound. Of pleasure. You did that.

Your eyes open in surprise just to see her lips parted, her head tipped back, her spine bent toward you. The sight of someone else swimming in a haze of pleasure has never been so fucking beautiful. It’s sheer instinct to kiss her again, harder this time, your tongue pushing past her lips, your hands on her hips, needing more of her. 

You’ve imagined this a thousand times, usually alone, in your bed, sometime around twilight. You’ve imagined her, her face blown out with pleasure, dark eyes heavy with arousal, and in each and every daydream, you’ve been the reason why. You didn’t think it could feel this good, even just from some fucking kissing, to make someone else feel good. 

Her nails dig into the fabric of your pants, sinking into your skin beneath. You hiss into her mouth and she smiles into the kiss, “What is this, baby?”

“What?” you ask, brain cloudy, consumed with lust. 

“Are we just gonna make out on the dance floor?” she asks, then her teeth grab onto your bottom lip, biting soft enough to tease. “Or do I get more of you?”

Her chest presses against yours, your brows furrow, jaw cracking open. “You– you want more?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asks with a little laugh, and even that makes your gut churn with heat. “Do you want more?”

“I–” you’re panting, breaths layered. “Yes– yeah, I want– yes.”

Her grin turns to a nasty smirk, “Come.”

She tugs on your hand, pulling you through the crowd, and your eyes drift over the heads to your left. He’s exactly where you left him, with Mingi, with Jongho, they’re laughing about something. Like he can feel your gaze, his head turns, meeting your eye. He smiles, and it’s so fucking full of warmth that it eases something inside you that you didn’t realize needed to be eased.

You’re smiling, too, as Jihyo tugs you through the crowd, turning a corner around the entrance to the bathrooms, tugging on the bronze door handle to what looks like a coat closet. Or a supply closet. 

You don’t have time to decipher which, because as soon as she gets you inside the closet, she has you pinned to the door. Her lips are on yours again, sloppier, like her restraint is running thin, you hear the door lock before her hands push your hips into the door. 

Your hands fly to her hair, fingers tangling at the nape of her neck, tugging ever so slightly. Her neck bends backward with a sharp sound, and you follow, attaching your lips again because even a fucking second without it is too long. 

Her hands slide up your waist, cupping over your chest, squeezing your boobs through your bra. Your hips twitch, canting forward, the tips of your tongues still touching. 

“This your first time?” she asks, panting. “With a girl?”

You nod, voice breathy and layered, “Yeah.” She smiles wide, her eyes flaring. You laugh a little, “What?” 

“You should be happy it’s me,” she whispers, huskier now. Her hands slide down to your hips, one hand coming to the center to toy with the button to your pants. 

“Yeah?” There’s cockiness in your tone, from a part of yourself that you haven’t cracked open yet. It’s dark in the closet, the light seeping through the bottom of the door lighting her face from below. “You wanna take care of me?” 

“Do you need to be taken care of?” she asks again, head tilting. One of her fingers slips into the waistband of your pants, tugging them toward her. 

You don’t. You want to show her that you don’t. 

One hand slides around her waist, turning her swiftly until her back is pressed up against the door. She laughs, and it’s arrogant as hell, “You wanna take care of me?” 

“I can take care of you,” you murmur, now the words feel less foreign on your tongue. You think of the sound she made earlier, the soft noise of pleasure you pulled from her. You want to hear it again. 

The way her grin beams with pride only makes you kiss her harder, more confidence in your hands, pressing into the skin you can feel in the cutouts of her dress. She hooks a leg around you and you slot one leg between hers, pressing exactly where you know she needs it. 

She gasps, her manicured nails finding your shoulders, her hips immediately grinding up against your pant leg. You dip your head under her jawline, leaving open-mouthed kisses down her neck as her hips work against your thigh. 

One hand finds her ass as you murmur, “Yes.” She moans and a surge of heat boils through your blood, especially as her head dips back. It thuds against the door, giving you access to her neck. Your lips suck at the spot where her neck meets her chest, just above her collarbone. 

She moans a little louder, mumbling a choked out ‘fuck’ as she works up a rhythm against your thigh. You can feel the heat, the wetness seeping through, you want to clench your thighs together. You want to feel it. You want to taste it. 

Your hands slide up her waist, fingers settling over her chest, squeezing. She squeaks out another moan, one of her hands tugging at your roots, making you moan, too. 

You tug at her straps, sliding them down her arms until she gets herself free. You reach behind her, two hands working the clasp of her bra until you pull it off of her, throwing it on the floor. 

Fuck. “You’re so fucking sexy, Ji, oh my god.” 

“Please,” she whimpers. Whimpers. You think you might have moaned again at the sound. “I wanna see you, too.” 

You untie your top at the back of your neck, letting it fall over the front of your pants until it pools at your hips. You don’t give her a chance to compliment you back, kissing her again, and her hips pick back up the rhythm against your thigh, harder this time. 

“Shit, Ji,” you choke out, grabbing at the hem of her dress, tugging it upward, watching how she drags her panty-clad cunt over your thigh. “Yes, use me, fuck.” 

“Want you,” she mutters, thick with arousal. “Want more. Mouth, fingers, I don’t care.” 

Her panties, thin, black and lacy, you slide your palm underneath the waistband, greeted with a thick wetness, so much fucking wetness that you gasp. 

“Holy shit, you’re wet,” you marvel. 

She giggles, throwing her head back against the door again. “All for you, baby. You wanna taste it?” 

Keeping your eyes on her, you pull your hand from her panties, and bring your fingers to your mouth. Tangy sweet, her brows knit together at the sight of you shoving your fingers past your lips, tasting her, enjoying her. 

“Sweet,” you tease, and her hips jerk at the word. You want more. You want to taste all the wetness that's built up for you. 

Sinking down to your knees, she watches as you reach up for her panties, slowly dragging them down her toned, muscled legs. “Tell me…” you trail off, searching for the words. “Tell me if you like it. Okay?” 

“You know what to do,” she assures you, nodding. “But I’ll tell you, baby.” 

You throw her leg over her shoulder, fingers dancing over her soft skin, feeling the dips of her muscles as your lips press small kisses toward the apex of her thighs. Her breathing grows labored, her hips twitching toward you. 

You finally look at her core, glistening even under the darkness of the closet. You curse under your breath at the sight, so fucking beautiful, you’re throbbing, your own hips twitching, trying to get some kind of friction in your pants. 

Like a dog to a fucking bone, you bring your lips to her core, pressing one soft, steady kiss to her clit. She hisses, one hand flying to your hair and you welcome it as your tongue pokes out from between your lips, tasting her from bottom to top. 

Her moan is soft, coated in relief. It gives you a little more confidence, massaging your tongue against her clit, her fingers tightening in your roots as a sharp, gasped moan tumbles off her tongue. 

“Yes,” she moans out, hips twitching into your tongue. “Just like that.” 

You look upward, taking in her tight brows, her parted, glossy lips. She’s enjoying this. She’s enjoying you. 

One hand stays on her thigh over your shoulder, the other holds the skin just above her knee. You keep your tongue flat as she grinds herself against it, head tilting backward as she chokes out a heavy, “Fu–uck.” 

Your brows tie together, a moan falling past your lips. You wrap your lips around her clit, sucking, and you feel her spine go rigid, you can hear her toes curl against the leather of her sole, the heel poking at your back. Her hips stutter, jaw clenched like she was too aware of the noise she’s making. 

“Let me hear you,” you break away to say quickly, fast enough that you barely register that the words feel familiar. “Fuck whoever else hears.” 

“Uh-huh,” she’s nodding as you dive back into her core again, tongue lapping at her folds, flicking at her clit in a steady rhythm. 

“Holy shit,” she gasps out. “Fuck, fuck, keep doing that.”

You do, you will your head into stillness, a wall that she can fuck herself against. Her hips roll, using your head for purchase as she uses you, uses your face, your tongue. 

You can feel it, the tremor in her legs, how her hips start to lose rhythm. You keep it instead, never faltering, watching as her mouth stretches wider, as her brows tie further together. She’s close. 

Feeling, knowing she’s almost there is enough to keep your body a rock, you want to watch her come undone. Her moans heighten in pitch, breaking up in staccato until her breath gets caught in her chest, and then she starts to shake. 

She cries out your name as she comes, fingers tightening in your hair like she might rip it out of your head, but you don’t fucking care. You eat her through it, letting her shake and convulse on your face, you lick up every last drop. 

“Easy,” she finally says, breathing labored, letting go of your head. She collapses into the door, chest heaving as you sit back into your thighs, running a hand through your hair, too aware of the sweat gliding down your spine. 

After a minute of just breathing, she starts to laugh. You blink at her before a smile curves your lips, and then you start laughing, too. 

“I didn’t even know you liked girls,” she says, fixing her panties into place. “I’m learning so much about you tonight.”

The grin you give her is lazy, your head tilting, falling onto your shoulder. You wipe at your wet chin, “I’ve always liked girls, you’ve just always known me with a boyfriend.” 

She’s shaking her head as she picks her bra up from the floor. “He’s a demon.” She’s clipping it behind her back as she asks, “Can I take care of you now?” 

Your head tilts to the other side, thinking. You don’t really need more, you already got what you wanted, and the satisfaction of making her come on your face is enough. And it’s strange, different in a way you can’t pick apart, that you chose this, and you got it. And Jihyo’s still your friend. 

Your grin is coy, “I don’t really know how to say no, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or think I don’t want you or something. But I’m kinda good.” 

Her brows raise as she crouches down into her calves, almost eye level with you in her heels. She smiles like she’s amused, “You’re kinda good?” 

You laugh, grabbing for your straps, attempting to tie them around the back of your neck. “Not that I don’t… I don’t know. I’m tired.” 

“I’m sure you are,” she drawls, amused. “You just ate pussy for the first time and did an incredible fucking job.” 

Your cheeks warm. “You enjoyed it?” 

“I came, did I not?” Her brows raise before she stands up again, moving around you to help you tie your top at the back of your neck again. She presses a kiss to the top of your head after finishing off the knot, “You’re like… I don’t know. Different than you were with the demon. I really am proud of you.” 

You tilt your head backward to see her, and she’s just as beautiful upside down. “You think so?” 

“In a good way,” she nods. “You’re more comfortable in your skin. Confident. It looks good on you.” 

You beam, “Thanks, Ji.”

“Come on,” she stands up straight again, reaching for your hand. “I’m hosting, people are gonna start to notice I left to fuck one of my friends in a closet.” 

You erupt into laughter as she pulls you up, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t believe you just did that. You can, actually, because you chose to do it. You can’t wait to tell Yunho.

When you leave the closet again, everything feels brighter. It's almost as if the music is turned back on, or someone fucked with the dimness of the lighting, you aren’t sure. She keeps your fingers locked until you spot Yunho again, letting you go with a kiss to your cheek and a whispered ‘love you’ in your ear. 

Your cheeks are warm again as you approach Yunho, “You’re lucky you made it, the Uber’s out front.” 

You gasp, “You would have left me?” 

Yunho beams. “No, silly. I would’ve sent Yunjin and San home, absolutely, but I would have stayed for you.” 

“Good,” you lean into him as you sort through the mass of bodies, following behind Yunjin and San who were somehow still making out. They take a step, kiss, take a step, kiss. You look up at Yunho, “Has it been that way all night?”

“He owes me for it,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “That’s all I’m saying.” 

You laugh, then you notice your purse over his shoulder, poking into your back. It warms you all over, you think this might have actually been the best day of your life. The most affirming day of your life. Almost as if you’re really one with Unscripted. You might be getting closer. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks when you get outside, while San and Yunjin, then Mingi and Jongho pile into the minivan Uber. 

You nod, “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.” 

“I can’t wait to hear,” he says, letting you climb into the car first, then following behind you. 

You think Yunjin might’ve sat on San’s lap the entire ride home. You think they might have done more in the backseat besides makeout, but you didn’t look. Ignorance is bliss. 

You’re still in that state of bliss as you walk through the front door of his frat, climbing all the way up the stairs, and collapsing in Yunho’s bed as soon as it’s in sight. 

Yunho closes the door behind him, “Oh, she tired you out, huh?” 

“I think I tired her out,” you turn your head so you can see him, smirking at him. 

He undresses himself quickly, yawning, back arching in a stretch as his pants pool at his ankles. You kick all your clothes off, too, your pants, your top. 

When you climb into bed together, you lay on opposite sides, but neither of you feel the distance. And then you tell him everything, every detail, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. 

She covers her mouth with one hand, chocolate brows tying together above wide eyes. “Oh my god. You’re— do you have any idea what people are saying about you?” You nod, timid, body still tight. She rips her hand from her mouth while putting the pieces together, “How fucking long— I don’t even understand— you don’t sing.” 

“I don’t sing,” you repeat, still whispering because you don’t trust your voice at any other volume. 

Still holding onto the back of the couch, she lowers herself until she’s sitting on her calves, eyes still wide, jaw still slacked. She looks up at you and there’s a ghost of a frown on her lips, her voice shaky as she realizes, “You lied to me.” 

“I didn’t lie,” you’re quick to defend. “I just didn’t tell you.” 

Your name falls from her lips coated in disappointment. “You deliberately kept it from me.”

Disappointment is worse than anger. “I kept it from everyone, Jen.” 

“I’m not everyone!” she nearly whimpers, her voice cracking, strained. “This is a whole side of you I don’t know, this is— this is like a whole half of you that I know nothing about! Do you know how many episodes I listened to before I even recognized your voice?” 

Your bottom lip quivers, jaw hinged tight. Her words are like an arrow through your fucking chest. 

“I only realized because you told a story about me. I recognized my own story on my best friend’s secret fucking podcast,” she doesn’t move as she seethes, like she’s frozen in place, too. Your heart wrenches with guilt. “Don’t you think maybe you should have asked me, maybe run it past me that this exists before posting my story online?” 

You’re nodding, fumbling over your words. “I’m sorry, that’s why it’s anonymous—”

“I don’t care!” she yells, standing up off the couch. “I know it’s me, and now I know it’s you.” 

Panic surges through you with force. “Please— Jen, please don’t tell anyone.” 

She stares at you, arms flat at her sides, face twisted in heartbreak. You almost open your mouth again, ready to beg, but she cuts it off by asking, “You don’t trust me, do you?” 

You shake your head. “Of course I—”

Her voice raises again, “You didn’t trust me with your secret, and now you don’t trust me to keep it. You think I’d expose you after you created an entire double life based on fucking anonymity?” 

A double life. Is that really what Unscripted is? A different half of you? Another person detached from yourself, your own personality? Is anything about her, you? Is anything about you, her?

You try a step forward. “I trust you, Jen. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracks again, shoulders slumping, face going round. This is so much fucking worse than anger. The sadness, the disappointment… She feels betrayed. 

Your lips part, a strained, guilty noise forcing its way through. You can’t form any words, you don’t know what the fuck you could possibly say to make any of this better. 

Words you’ve said too often lately, you find them inside you again, “I don’t know.”

Now, it just sounds pathetic. A sorry fucking excuse for lying to, for hurting your best friend, your roommate, your sister. But you don’t have a reason; you knew she wouldn’t judge you, you knew she wouldn’t tell anyone, and yet you still didn’t tell her. You don’t know why. 

“You don’t know?” she repeats, like she didn’t hear you the first time. “You’ve spent months strategically hiding this from me, and you don’t know why?” 

Your lips quiver, eyes stinging, chest growing tight. She sees it, but she holds her ground, “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

You don’t trust your voice, so you shake your head. You could have gone your entire life without anyone knowing you’re the face behind the name, the voice behind the stories, the advice, the vulgarity. Tears fall. 

She shakes her head like she can’t choose which words she wants to say first. She looks at the floor. “We live together, we share everything. You know everything about me.” She looks up again, nose twitching with what you’re sure is tears trapped in her chest, “You trusted hundreds— maybe thousands of people with personal, sensitive information I don’t know about you. How is that fair?” 

“They don’t know who I am, Jen,” you blurt, your voice coated in a cry. You still haven’t moved from the door, there’s too much space between you, and it feels wider with each exchange. 

“I do!” she finally shouts, pointing at her chest, a single tear falling down her cheek. “I know you and I fucking love you, what are you so scared of? That I’m not going to love you anymore because you make up stories on a podcast?”

“I don’t make them up,” your voice drops in defense. “They’re all true, at least a piece of them is, even if they didn’t happen to me.” 

She laughs, but it’s hollow, you can hear the congestion in her sinuses. “That’s what you took from that? You think I’m calling you a liar?” 

“No—”

“Do you even understand why I’m upset?” she shouts, patience thinning. “We’ve known each other for years! I thought I knew you down to the fucking bone, and you hid something this— this huge from me. This is huge, the episode you posted today, everyone is talking about it!” 

“I know!” you shout back, taking another step forward. “I know they’re talking about it and I’m terrified! I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

“Who are they?” Her voice is suddenly calm again as she brings the heel of her palm up to her nose. “I know the tall one is Yunho, who’s the other one?” 

You pause, heart dropping. You don’t want to tell her. You have no choice but to fucking tell her. You think your heart might fall out of your ass fully as you mumble, “Wooyoung.” 

She blinks at you. “Wooyoung? Like, Jung Wooyoung? Black hair? Whore? The one I’ve slept with? That Jung Wooyoung?” Embarrassed, terrified of what her response will be, all you can do is nod. Her palms hit her forehead as she circles the coffee table, pacing. She stops again when she’s facing you, piecing it together, “So Tall is Yunho, PMO is Wooyoung. You asked Wooyoung for sex advice about Yunho because you had sex with Wooyoung.”

“No,” you answer with certainty. “I haven’t had sex with Wooyoung.”

“What?” Her hands find her forehead again. “You said you trust him, that he knows you or whatever. Fuck, I fucking knew something was weird with you two at the Penny. What the fuck did you do?” 

You look down at his hoodie still on your body, you remember everything you said to him fifteen fucking minutes ago. What did you do? Too much. Too much to come back from. 

Yunjin looks too, apparently. “Whose hoodie is that?” Your head snaps up, mouth going dry. “I recognize that fucking hoodie, he– what did you do?” 

As if it’s instinct, you drop your shit at the small table beside the door and rip the fucking hoodie over your head, throwing it to the floor like it’s on fire. It feels criminal to be wearing it, like he’s in the room with you, sharing your defeat. She watches it fall to the floor then looks back at you, then to the hoodie again like she’s buffering, trying to put pieces that you still haven’t given her together.

“Why him?” she mutters from across the room. “Why does he know you? Why does he get to know things I don’t?” 

“He doesn’t know about Unscripted,” you mutter just as quietly, chest rising and falling with every single nerve beneath your skin. 

“We’ll circle back to Unscripted,” she’s quick to fire back. “Trust me. Right now, I want you to tell me why Jung Wooyoung knows things about you that I don’t.”

You hate the words that you swear you can taste now, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” she argues, voice edged with frustration. “Tell me. Or is this something else you can’t trust me with?” 

“I don’t fucking know!” your voice raises, strained because you fucking mean it. “I don’t tell him anything, I asked him for advice about Yeonjun and now he knows things about me. I don’t sit down and tell him my fucking secrets, he just— when he says things about me, they’re right.”

“It started with Yeonjun?” Her eyes widen, hands flying to her roots again. “What the fuck? How long has this– I don’t even know what the fuck to call it. When did you hook up?” 

“The night you took me out to get over Yeonjun,” you answer without a second thought. “He found out– whatever, we hooked up in a random bedroom. We didn’t have sex, though.”

Her brows are knitted together. “Then what did you do?”

“I– he– did you listen to the episode about overstimulation?”

Her face drops. “That was him?” 

You nod, bringing your hands up to rub at your face, the words falling from your lips like water now, “That was right before Yunho, and like, literally right before Yunho. And since Yunho, him and I have been weird until I asked him for advice at the Penny, now we’re normal again and he picked me up from work because my car died and then he took me to a batting cage and a diner and then I told him I want to kiss him–”

“What?” she interrupts you, blinking rapidly. “What? Tonight?”

Your voice heightens in pitch, “Like, maybe fifteen minutes ago?” 

“What the fuck,” her palm covers her mouth again. “What the fuck?”

“I didn’t kiss him,” you whisper, cheeks heating all over again. “He said he couldn’t do that to Yunho.”

“Wooyoung said no,” she repeats like she can’t fucking believe it. You nod. “I can’t believe you were the one– since I’ve met you– what the fuck is going on?” 

“Wooyoung!” you finally yell. “Ever since I met him my life has been derailed. He knows me, but the more he knows me the less I know me, like he can see through me, I- I can’t explain it.” 

She gets quiet before she says your name, it sounds pitiful, like she feels bad for you. Your stomach fucking hurts. 

“Come sit down,” she says calmly, pointing to the couch. 

You blink at her, “Jen–”

“Sit down or I swear to god,” she cuts you off, voice stern. You jump into movement, feet carrying you toward the couch as she commands, “You’re telling me everything and you’re going to be honest.”

You’re nervous as you sit on the farthest cushion, knees pinned together, fingers curling into the plush beneath you. “What about Unscripted?” 

“I didn’t forget about it,” she sits on the other side of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But my best friend who has always been in a committed relationship is acting really out of character right now and I need to know why.”

You run your fingers through your hair as you sink into the couch, your heart split in two. But you tell her, you tell her every single detail, from the night you met Wooyoung to the night you brought Yunho home to what happened before you walked through the door to your apartment. 

“Do you remember the night you found out about Yeonjun? The basket?” she asks when you finally finish, as if she’s been sitting on the question. You nod. “I asked you if he saw you, if he made you feel special.” 

“He didn’t, he never did, I know that–”

“He seems like he does,” she dips her chin. “Wooyoung.”

“Yunho sees me,” you argue. “Yunho is good to me. I’m fucked up for wanting Wooyoung like that.”

“No you’re not,” she quickly argues. “I mean, I don’t think you’re fucked up. It's instinct. You were together the whole night, it makes sense.”

Your voice goes quiet, “He was right, though.”

“Yes, and you didn’t kiss him,” her upper body moves like she’s telling you the obvious. “You didn’t act on the impulse.” 

“Because he stopped me,” you laugh a little on the words. “If he had kissed me, I would have fucked him, Jen.” Yunjin stays quiet, thinking, chewing on her bottom lip. Your head dips backward, “Fuck, I should tell him, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yunho?” She asks. 

“Yes,” you sigh. “It’s not fair if he’s committed to me and that’s all it takes for me to jump some other guy’s bones.” 

Yunjin snorts, “I don’t think this is just some other guy, babe, but I get what you’re saying.” Her lips scrunch to one side, “Do you even want to be committed to Yunho? Do you want to be committed to anyone right now?” 

Your chest feels hollow. “I don’t know.” She nods like she was expecting that answer. “Isn’t that bad?” You lean forward a little. “I don’t– that’s not me.”

“Why can’t it be you?” She shrugs. “You’ve been in a relationship for almost all of your adult life, you don’t even know what it means to fuck around.”

“I don’t want to fuck around–”

“You sure?” she teases, a playful smile on her lips. “It sounds to me like you’re dying to fuck around, especially with Woo–”

“What’s he like?” you cut her off. Purposely. “In bed. Is it valid that everyone wants him?” 

Her lips scrunch again, “Hate to break it to you, but yeah. Absolutely. Like, two-hundred percent–”

“Okay,” you cut her off again. “I get it.” 

“This is all I wanted, by the way,” her voice is low again, serious.

Your brows tie together. “Huh?”

“With Yeonjun, when you finally let me in I felt like I understood you a little better. I love you, I want to know all of the things that make you, you.” 

You frown, heart cracking in two all fucking over again. “I’m sorry, Jen.” 

“And just to reassure you, I won’t tell anyone that you’re Unscripted,” she sits up a little, pushing herself up by the cushions. “But I will say that the more you say, the easier it is to connect you. How the fuck do you even sound like that? You barely sound like yourself.” 

“I tweak it a little,” you grin. “Just a pinch, and it’s worked for me so far.” After another pause, your face rounds out as you say, “Thank you for keeping my secret. I’ll be more careful.”

“Sannie would lose his fucking mind if he knew,” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “Like, lose his fucking mind. Yunho, too. How do you keep a straight face?”

You shrug. “I do what I have to.” 

“Scary,” her head tilts away from you. “You’re scary.” 

“Prepared,” you correct her, holding up a finger. “If you’re gonna keep your identity a secret, you have to be prepared to defend that secret with your life.” Her eyes thin out, and your returning smile is coy. “My bad. I'm referring to everyone else now.” 

The sun is fucking hot. Morning sun is different from evening sun, the air feels clearer, drier, the UV feels ripe, especially if there’s no breeze. There’s not a lick of wind brushing past you as you skip from your stairs into Yunho’s car, heart beating a mile a fucking minute, the sun stripping you as raw as you feel.

Yunjin knows, and she doesn’t hate you. Yunjin knows, and she still loves you. It should be enough to have you feeling on top of the world, relieved, light. But it’s not enough, and you don’t feel even the slightest bit relieved, because there’s more. You almost don’t believe that you have problems bigger than someone finding out you’re Unscripted, at one point you didn’t think it was possible. 

You give him your cheek when you get into his car, but he doesn’t back from it, he doesn’t mind at all. He presses his lips softly into your skin, “Morning, sunshine.”

You can barely muster a smile. “Morning,” you mutter, giving him a one-over. Blonde hair pushed back, comfortable clothes on his body, that sliver of skin out to play like it always fucking is. Damn. 

“Do you want to get coffee or something before we go?” he asks, already reversing his car out of the parking space right in front of your apartment. 

You shake your head, hands sitting politely in your lap, “No, I’m okay. I had coffee already.”

“O-kay,” he hums, pulling out of your development, onto the main road. He looks at you from his peripherals as he asks, “Are you mad at me for not answering last night?”

“What?” you ask, abruptly. “No, oh my god, of course not.”

“Just checking,” he says casually, his head shaking a little. The silence you fall back into is palpable. You’re acting weird. You’re acting fucking guilty and you know it. You try to relax, stretching out your legs, your arms, you try to let your body deflate into his passenger seat. You think you might look like a drunk baby instead, trying to take up as much space as you can.

The drive seems infinitely longer than it usually is because you can’t get your head on straight. You’re paranoid, guilty, you know Yunho can feel that there’s something off but you can’t bring yourself to fucking speak. 

Hey, just so you know, I wanted to kiss Wooyoung last night.

Before you do this favor for me, I want to tell you that I wanted to fuck your friend last night.

You shouldn’t have ever entered exclusivity with me because I’m a fucking mess.

You sigh. He feels it as he pulls into the parking lot of the gym, parking his car in the spot right next to your car. You think of last night, Wooyoung in this exact parking space, you screaming at him to unlock the door under a blanket of rain. 

You never deserved Yunho to begin with.

“Can I ask you something?” Yunho asks, turning his key in the ignition, engine going dead. You nod, sitting up a little, heart knocking against your breastplate. “Did you submit a story to Unscripted?”

You blink. “What?”

He tugs on the handle of his door, climbing out of the driver’s seat. You do the same, keeping your eyes on him the entire time. He talks as he walks up to your car, popping the hood, “Her newest episode is going viral, and it just… sounds familiar.”

You lean your backside up against the passenger side door, “How does it sound familiar?”

He ducks to give you a flat stare around your car’s hood. “Mister Tall and Dominant? Asked him to be more dominant, and he did it as soon as she brought it up?”

You reach for ignorance, at least for a little while longer. “That could be anyone, Yunho. Why do you think it’s you?”

“Because the other guy is Wooyoung,” he says, bringing his attention back under the hood. You feel like your fucking world has been swept from under your feet. How does he know that? What does he know? How is the conclusion that you submitted something to Unscripted, and not that you’re fucking Unscripted?

“He–” you start, already stumbling over your words. “Are you crazy?”

“He told me you asked him for advice, sunshine,” he sing-songs from under your hood. “He told me about last night, too. The batting cages, the diner. Can you grab the bag from my backseat?”

You’re on autopilot as you grab what looks like a black toolbox– tool bag from his backseat, talking as you lay it over the side of your car, in reach for him to go through it. “What else did he tell you?”

Yunho looks up at you. “What else is there to say?”

“Nothing,” you answer immediately. “There’s nothing else. Do you know what’s wrong with my car?”

“Not yet,” he shakes his head, lips scrunching to one side. “I’m gonna try to jump it. Do you know how to jump a car?” You shake your head no, and he smacks his teeth. “We’re fixing that today.”

He digs into the toolbag, grabbing what looks like a power bank, two thick cables. He holds them up to you, “Red and black.” You nod, moving beside him so you can see what he sees. He points into the guts of your car, “That’s your battery.”

You lean forward a little, and he lowers his finger so you can see exactly what he’s pointing at. “Plus sign, red cable,” he explains, then hands the cable-clamp thingy to you. Your brows furrow. “Attach it,” he says like you’ve done this a million fucking times.

“I’m not gonna blow up my car, right?” you ask, holding the cable-clamp thing like it’s an explosive. 

He laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen, baby.”

You squeeze the clamp, attaching it where he showed you. You look up at him for reassurance, “Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he says, then holds up the black clamp.

You pop a brow, “Negative?”

“Close,” his head tilts as he sticks the clamp somewhere else in the guts of your car. “Ground point, unpainted piece of metal or a part of the engine so you don’t blow your car up.”

Your lips make the shape before you say the word, “Oh.”

“Try to start it for me,” he says, and you nod, grabbing your keys from his car before slotting yourself in your own driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The dash lights up, but the only sound your car makes is a big fat fucking click. 

“One more time,” you hear him over the hood, so you try again. You’re going to hear the clicking in your fucking dreams tonight. You deflate, groaning as he gathers the cables back into his bag, closing the hood. “This is out of my area of expertise, I fear.”

Your top lip lifts, “But you’re Handy Manny.”

He throws the bag back in his backseat, “Sorry, sunshine. I’ll call a tow truck for you.”

You don’t answer because he’s already in fix-it-mode, his phone in his hand, pacing with the other hand on his hip up on the curb while you watch from your driver’s seat. It’s unbearably hot, but you’re too guilty to care. You just let him teach you how to jump a fucking car while you tried to kiss his friend last night. 

You tilt your head, watching him. He turns, meeting your eye through the pocket between your windshield and your open door, eyes focused. It’s unbearable. You blurt, “I tried to kiss Wooyoung last night.”

He holds up a finger. Your jaw drops. He points to his ear and mouths I’m on the phone.

“Hi, yeah, I need a tow, please,” he looks up at the sky as he speaks, and you actually genuinely wish you could fucking disappear. You sink further into the seat, running your hands over your face, into your hair, knees spreading. You wish your brain wasn’t so fucking complicated. You wish you never tried to fuck Yeonjun in Wooyoung’s bedroom. 

“Sorry, they’ll be here within the hour,” he says, sounding refreshed as he hangs over your open door, arms crossed over the top of it. “So, you tried to kiss Wooyoung?”

You lower your hands, face blank. “Yes, last night.”

“Hm,” his head tilts. “He left that part out.”

“He said no,” you’re immediately defending him, defending yourself through him. “I didn’t kiss him.”

“But you wanted to,” his brows furrow from above the door. 

You look at your lap, guilty. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

Your head snaps upward, brows tied together. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“Kinda,” you shrug, bewildered at the answer. “We’re exclusive and I tried to fuck your friend.”

His brows raise, “You said kiss.”

“I did say kiss,” your lips tighten. “I meant kiss.”

He watches you for a second, eyes dancing to the floorboard beneath you, your steering wheel, the pile of shit in your passenger seat. Finally, he asks, “Do you still want to be exclusive?”

You speak before you can think, “I like you, Yun–”

He grins. “Not what I asked.”

Your lips flatten. “I don’t know.”

He nods, “Okay.”

“Oh my god,” you gruff out, the heels of your palms finding your bare eyes. “Can you please say something else?”

He huffs a laugh, “What do you want me to say? We aren’t dating, we’re exclusively sleeping together.”

“I know,” you basically whine. “But what happens if we aren’t? I like you.”

“I like you, too,” he nods. “It’s not like I’m going to hate you forever if we aren’t exclusive, sunshine. Did you think I’d throw a fit? Call you a cheater?”

Even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. The tips of your ears run hot, “Yeah, kinda.”

He walks around the car door, bending down into his calves beside the floorboard. “I didn’t start this thinking we were gonna get married. You’ve had four boyfriends in total in your entire life. I like you, but I’m not the type to stop someone from doing what they want to do.”

“But you–” you argue. “You’re not hurt at all?”

His head tilts, exposing his teeth in a way that says well, maybe. “I wouldn’t say hurt, but I wouldn’t say I’m emotionless, either. Mingi will be excited.”

Your jaw drops, a punched laugh escaping you. “You’re thinking about Mingi right now?”

He grins, “I think about Mingi often.”

“Have you ever been exclusive with him?” Yunho makes a show of shaking his head no. You deflate into your seat again, “I don’t understand that. Sleeping with someone without having… attachments. The security that they’re into you.”

His brows furrow, “Isn’t sleeping with someone confirmation enough that they like you?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I mean, like, they’ll wake up tomorrow and still like you.”

“Have sexual attraction and romantic attraction always gone hand-in-hand with you?” he asks, and it’s honest. You nod. His face flattens out. “Have you ever wanted to fuck someone just to fuck them?”

Your lips scrunch as you look up at the roof of your car, thinking. You’re shaking your head as you respond, “No.”

He pops a brow, “Really?”

“No!” you say through a laugh. “I mean it. You know I’ve only had sex with long-term boyfriends, you’re the only exception.”

“And I’m flattered, but you’ve never seen someone walking down the street and just wanted to bang ‘em? Didn’t even want to learn their name?”

“No,” you say with a little more certainty. “The romantic aspect… It's part of it for me. The attraction.”

“So you have to really like someone in order to fuck them?” he asks, clarifying. You nod. His brows furrow, “But you don’t have to date them in order to fuck them.”

“What?” you ask, brows tied together. “No–”

“So you wanted me to be your boyfriend,” he assumes, brows raising. “That night at the party when we kissed, you were thinking in your head, ‘I’m gonna make Yunho my boyfriend’.”

“Don’t talk about yourself in third person, it’s weird.” His head tilts, face flat. You release an aggravated sigh, “Fine, no, I wasn’t thinking that about you. I wanted to sleep with you.”

He grins, “So everything you just said was a lie, basically.”

“I’m confused!” you argue, poking a flip flop at his knee. “I don’t know what I do. I don’t know!”

He laughs, smacking your foot away from him. “Okay, think of someone you want to fuck. Someone who’s not Wooyoung.” Your hands hit your face so hard they clap. He’s laughing again as he reaches up for your hands, pulling them off your face as he sits on the floorboard of your car. “I’m serious, sunshine. Think of someone that you’ve never imagined yourself dating. Someone you’re really, really attracted to, and want just one solid night of really hot, intense fucking.”

Oh, your face is on fucking fire, but you think. You think hard. You think of every single man you’ve ever met, all the guys on campus, the ones that go to your gym, none of them have ever piqued your interest enough to want a solid night of really hot, intense fucking.

But there is someone you’ve wondered about. Someone who gets the back of your neck prickling with sweat whenever you’re around them.

The answer comes naturally, “Jihyo.”

His brows raise. He chokes on a laugh, “Jihyo? Park Jihyo? Friends with Momo, Sana….?”

You nod, “Yes, that Jihyo.”

He pops a brow, “Huh.”

“What?” you immediately press, sitting up a little. “What’s wrong with Jihyo?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting you to– I wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“Are you homophobic when you literally stick your dick up Mingi’s ass?” 

His face goes flat again. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” You giggle. “Okay, Jihyo. Do you want to date Jihyo?”

Your head tilts, eyes dancing around your car again, “I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, don’t start now,” he says like you’re fucking ridiculous. “Have you thought about fucking her?”

You finally meet his eye again, shrugging. “Once or twice.”

“So everything you just said was bullshit, basically,” he says like he’s caught you, a smirk playing on his lips like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever encountered.

You gasp. “No, it was not bullshit. I like Jihyo, she’s my friend.”

Yunho leans in like he’s telling you a secret, “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

Your top lip lifts, “Yes, I've kissed Jen!”

“I mean, like, seriously,” he explains with his hands. “I really didn’t take you as fruity.”

“Maybe you have a shit gaydar,” you counter, arms crossing over your chest.

“We’re getting off topic,” he shakes his head. “Would you survive if you had sex with Jihyo tomorrow and she didn’t call you after? Didn’t ask you to be her girlfriend?”

You shrug, “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my girlfriend,” he counters.

“But we talked about exclusivity the next morning,” you fire back. 

“But what if I didn’t bring it up? Would you have fucked me again?”

Your lips scrunch, cheeks heating up. “Yeah.” Yunho gives you a look like you’re trying to bullshit a bullshitter. You moan a noise of aggravation, “It’s different, Yunho. I knew you liked me before I slept with you.”

He shrugs, “Jihyo likes you.”

“Jihyo likes me as a friend,” you raise a finger between you.

He lowers it back down again, wrapping his palm around your finger. “Have you ever asked?” You barely get your no out before he’s sighing. “What are you scared of, sunshine?”

You’re tired of that question. And people asking you what you want. And any other fucking question that you don’t know the answer to.

“Being exclusive with someone doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you, baby.” He’s still holding your fingers as he says it, frowning. “And I know you know that already.”

First Wooyoung, and now Yunho? Your body sags, head drooping forward like the weight of his words sat directly on your back. Is this the aftermath? The mark Yeonjun left on your soul? You thought you were moving on, pushing forward, that Yunho was the very physical proof of your growth. It hurts to know it’s still not enough, that there’s embers left of the fire Yeonjun lit. But Yunho’s right. Wooyoung was fucking right, too, just like he always fucking is.

You look up again, eyes cloudy, face bent up in a frown. “How do I fix that?”

The smile he gives you is soft, comforting. “You don’t need to fix it, baby. I just wish you would live.”

You pout. “Does this mean we’re breaking up?”

His grin widens, a chuckle falling past his lips. “Is break-up the term to use here? Are you asking if we can still be friends? Still sleep together? What are you asking me, sunshine?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. What are my options?”

He runs two hands over his face, laughing into his palms. “Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of fucking work.”

“In a good way?”

He shakes his head before his palms find his lap. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”

“Of course I do,” you answer, that’s a no-brainer.

“Do you want to keep fucking me?”

You blink at him, slowly nodding before you quietly mumble, “Yes.”

“Do you still like me?”

You nod profusely, “Yes, I like you a lot.”

“Then why would we stop seeing each other?” he asks, his voice light. He reaches forward, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “We like each other, the sex is great, there’s no reason to stop.”

“But if you…” you start, then trail off. A little firmer, you ask, “But if you sleep with other people, are you still going to like me?”

His face softens. “Of course I will.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “This is scary.”

“Then I’ll show you that it’s not,” he answers, reassurance lining his words. 

Almost a whisper, coated in fucking anxiety, you ask, “Can you kiss me?”

Without a word, without a second of fucking debate he’s reaching forward, palms swallowing your cheeks like they always do as he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft, just a peck of a kiss before he splits your lips, reassuring you of every word he just said, letting you feel that he’s still here, he still wants you, even if you aren’t fully his. 

He wants you to experience freedom. He wants you to be happy. He wants you to start living your life the way the raw, unshielded fucking part of you wants to live it. Everyone wants you to, apparently.

“Be careful,” he whispers into your mouth, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “If you keep going, the tow-truck guy is gonna catch us fucking in the backseat.”

All you do is laugh, and kiss him harder.

He can’t figure out why he’s so unsettled. He has pieces of the puzzle, but it feels impossible to put them together to see the entire picture. He doesn’t know why he went to your apartment that night, what he was expecting to get out of it, what any outcome would have done to benefit him. He wasn’t expecting you to kiss him– he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to deny you, but you weren’t kissing him for the right reasons. You were trying to prove his words, the very real and obvious facts he knows about you, wrong. How the fuck does he even know so much about you in the first place? Why does he give a fuck about your intentions?

He’s never considered himself to be one of those people who can read others. He’s never cared that much about others’ feelings, their emotions, their personalities. But it bothers him, how easily he can see you when you can’t see yourself. You’re transparent to him, the fake confidence, the control you work so hard to keep locked in your jaw when he knows you don’t possess a lick of it. You have the ability to, but you don’t trust yourself enough to lean into it, to step into those shoes. He wonders about you. But the more he wonders, the more he seems to understand less.

He lays flat on his back, sighing. What did he even say all of that shit for if you were just going to turn around and repeat history? What was it all for? He doesn’t care if your relationship or whatever the fuck with Yunho doesn’t have a label on it, he hears the way Yunho talks about you, he saw just last night how you two look at each other. That’s not casual, that’s so fucking far away from casual it makes him feel stupid for even attempting to help you out of the box you put yourself in. Your rules, your morals, your standards, they’re all a shield so no one sees the real you.

But Wooyoung has seen it, the you who doesn’t back down, the you who refused to let him leave, who grabbed his wrist, pulled him down by his chain. A part of him misses it, seeing that version of you, just a little. The volume of your voice, even if it’s spitting words in his direction, even if it’s reminding him he had fucking chlamydia. The nasty smirk painted on your lips, eyes sparkling with amusement, shoulders pushed back, proud when your words hit their mark. Even if both of you would die before admitting it, there was something forming, and Wooyoung can feel the loss of it. 

He kicks the sheets off his body, pushing himself up until he’s sitting, rubbing at his face with his rough, callused palms. He’s been lifting more lately, spending more time in the gym, just after dawn. He hates hypocrisy, when people say they’re one thing and act differently, he hates when people lose themselves in another person, but not enough to lose sleep over it. Not enough to think this fucking hard. But all the alone time, he and his headphones blaring music so loud he can feel his eardrums crying, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He wills his brain to shut up while he’s in his bathroom, but it refuses as he throws a tank over his head and grabs his gym bag from the floor. Headphones hugging his neck, he pulls his bedroom door open, bothered by the fact that you’re three fucking rooms over. He shakes his head, huffing a short, tight breath as he jogs down the steps, searching for the familiar itch in his chest from moving his body.

“Oh.” He hears from his left, a very you sound coming from the kitchen. A smaller, watered down version of you. “Hi. Morning.”

He glances, but only because he can’t help himself. Your– Yunho’s shirt swallows you down to mid-thigh, like that night in your apartment. Instinct wonders if you’re wearing anything beneath it, he knew that night a week ago, you weren’t. His jaw locks as he takes a few steps toward the counter, ripping a banana off the bunch sitting beside the refrigerator, then turns to leave again. 

“So now you won’t even speak to me?” The edge in your voice is back, still softer than what he’s used to. “I don’t get it. You said shit to me, I said shit to you, I thought that was our thing. Now you hate me for it?”

A huff of amusement tumbles out of his nose, but he keeps his back to you. “Our thing doesn’t exist. There is no we, remember?”

“We came to the conclusion of friendship. That, I remember.” He hears your glass of water hit the counter. “Did I hit a soft spot? See you too clearly? Now you have to shut me out, just like you do everyone else?”

Yet another thing he can’t get off his mind. How easy it is for him to see you, how transparent you are to him, he hates that it seems to be the same for you. You’ve curated your own reputation, and it’s for a reason. His lips tighten, frustration making his spine straighten out.

He turns around. “Now you’re direct? How is it that you only have a fucking backbone when it comes to me?”

Your face twists in confusion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re still fucking doing it, Virgin,” he argues, and inside himself, he can’t find a single reason why. “Hiding behind choices made for you.”

“I’m not,” you argue too quickly to have thought about his words. Blinking, cheeks flushed, you sputter like you weren’t expecting him to bring it up again, “Yunho– he and I– I’m single… we’re–”

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” Wooyoung snaps, and he can taste the lie on his tongue. “I don’t care what you do. This conversation is pointless, and a waste of my time.”

You laugh, a punched sound that has no warmth, no amusement in it. You take a step closer to him, and he can feel the heat of anger swimming toward him. “A waste of your fucking time? It was a waste of my time when you came to my apartment to chew me out for shit that has nothing to fucking do with you.”

“Exactly,” he turns back around, heading for the front door. “None of it has anything to do with me, so why are you still talking to me?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you grit out harshly from behind him, following him to the door. “I can’t believe I ever put any trust in you or valued your opinion. All you care about is yourself.”

“That’s how it should be,” he sighs, grabbing the handle. Looking over his shoulder, your arms are crossed, your skin flush with anger. “If you were a little more selfish, your ex never would have hurt you. You wouldn’t be down here arguing with a fucking wall.”

He gives it a second, warming the brass knob with the heat in his palm, but you have no argument. You stare at him, no rebuttal, no curses thrown, just angled brows and pointed eyes and arms that are either crossed in defense or hugging yourself for comfort. He peels the banana on the walk to his car, chewing hard enough to crack his fucking teeth on his drive to the gym. 

Your chest aches.

You’ve been staring at the door for what feels like ten minutes, even if you can still hear the roar of his engine down the road. It’s fucking frustrating that you can’t figure it out, you can’t figure him out– you don’t even know what went wrong. Where this all came from, why it’s blowing up in your face, why you’re hurt over someone you never cared about, and never cared about you. He’s right.

None of it ever had anything to do with him, you made all of your problems his, but he helped you. He helped solve them, even if he didn’t owe you anything, even if you never would have interacted with each other if it wasn’t for chance. You don’t like him, you aren’t friends, there are no factors in your association that hold any weight to either of you.

He’s always been a fucking asshole, but his words, his body language has never felt so angry. So mean. You wish you argued, you wish you said something to keep him here longer just to force an explanation out of him. You didn’t know what else to say, and that might have been a first for you when talking to Wooyoung.

“Morning, sunshine,” the softest voice in the world sings brightly from behind you, embedding light back into your chest, your skin. You turn on your heel and he’s shirtless, in nothing but boxers, grinning with tired eyes like he’s still half-asleep. Aware he always is, naturally, he asks, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you shake your head, meeting him halfway, swinging your arms around his middle, laying your cheek against his soft, warm skin. Comfort personified, he pets your hair, scratching your scalp lightly. You look up when he doesn’t answer, his brows furrowed like he doesn’t believe you, which he shouldn’t. You insist, “I’m fine, Yun.”

“Okay,” he says softly, lips curving. He doesn’t press it. “I didn’t know where you went. It’s early.”

“I came down to get water,” you press your chin to his chest, keeping your gaze upward. You should go home and try to map out your next episode of Unscripted, but instead you ask, “Do you have anything to do today? I’m free if you’re free.”

“My turn to grocery shop,” he says before craning his neck, pressing his lips to your forehead. “That’s it, though. Wanna come with?”

“Grocery shop on a Saturday?” Your nose crinkles. “I’d rather die.”

He uses both hands to push your hair away from your face, “I want to do something just you and I today.”

You pop a bow, teasing him, “And your idea is to grocery shop?” 

“It’s simple,” he shrugs as you peel yourself off of him. “Domestic.”

“It’s going to be a fucking zoo in there.” You move toward the kitchen again, wanting the water you barely got to drink before you were interrupted. 

“But we’ll be together.” Yunho comes up behind you as you take a long sip. You stare at the bunch of bananas on the counter, the ripped stem revealing one missing, lips scrunching to one side. His hands find your shoulders, squeezing, “I want to be together.”

You smile absentmindedly, eyes still glued to the bananas as you lean back into Yunho’s chest, “Me too.”

Turning, you reach up for his neck, pulling him down to kiss you. He makes a noise of surprise as his palms land on your hips, dipping you backward. “What is it about a kitchen that makes you so horny?”

You laugh into the kiss, reaching up into his hair, “Cutlery, appliances.”

He snorts, hands sliding down your back, squeezing your bare ass beneath your tee. “My theory is that you have an exhibitionist kink you accidentally forgot to tell me about.”

You try to trap your laughter, but fail as miserably as you always do. Your head tips backward as his lips trail down your neck, “Maybe I do and I just don’t know it.”

He hums a note, muffled against your skin, vibrating your throat. “Maybe I should help you figure it out.”

“Maybe you should,” you whisper as he kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips, holding your hips like he’s trying to make a belt with his fingers. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to see me?”

“They’re all asleep.” He looks up like he could see through the ceiling into everyone’s rooms. When he looks back down at you, his eyes have darkened, slipping into that heavy stare that makes your spine scream, your toes curl. “It’s still early enough that they won’t get up for a while.”

“You want to?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes, head tilting. 

“Why are you even asking?” His brows furrow as he bends down again. He whispers against your lips, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

When he kisses you again, it’s his pace you’re following. His body swallows yours, shifting you backward with his hands on your hips until you hit the counter, hands sliding up to your waist under your tee, hiking it up your torso. You arch into him, one leg lifting to hook over his hip, gasping as he starts kissing down your neck again. 

You grip the counter between your fingers, squeezing your eyes shut, jaw locking. Rolling your hips into his, you moan softly, “Yunho.”

“You want more?” he asks, voice heavier now, layered with arousal. “You want me to fuck you right here? Where anyone could come down and see you?”

Your stomach flips with excitement, adrenaline, arousal all bundled into one swirl in your gut. You nod, panting now, rolling your hips again. An almost-groan, quiet and short escapes him as his hand slides between your spread legs, his two middle fingers adding pressure against your clit. Even if it’s too light, even if it’s teasing and nothing more, you hiss sharply, looking up at him with brows high, a pleading look. “More.”

“Ask nicely.”

You pick your head up. “Please?”

His cheeks are pink, a short, rough noise falling past his lips. He presses harder, cracking your jaw open, brows knitting together in pleasure. “Say it again.”

“Please, Yunho,” you whine, hips rolling into his hand, grinding yourself against his fingers that he holds flat out. “Please give me more.”

He slips his hand beneath the waistband of your panties, lips parting when he feels you pooling onto his fingers. “Fuck,” he groans out, quiet but clear. “This wet for me already?”

You spot yellow in your periphery again and the reminder is starting to get on your last fucking nerve. “Inside,” you squeeze your eyes shut, reaching for his shoulder with one hand, grinding yourself into his fingers, aching to get them further, deeper. 

He slips his two middle fingers inside with ease and your body nearly bends in half. A sharp moan falls from your lips and immediately he’s shushing you, using his own body to keep you upright, your forehead on his shoulder with your spine curved in a perfect arc. 

“Gotta be quiet for me,” he whispers, keeping his fingers still while you twitch around them. 

“Yes, yes,” you whisper, clawing at his shoulder and the counter, body begging for more. “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good, please.” 

Your voice cracks on please and he starts moving his fingers, curling them into your walls, making another sharp moan fall past your lips. He uses his other hand to move your head by your jaw, pulling you upward to meet his lips, swallowing your sounds by shoving his tongue past your lips, both of your arms wrapping around his shoulders to meet the thrusts of his fingers. 

Every time he does this it renders your brain quiet. How long his fingers are, how he curls them so perfectly, like his fingers were made to hit every single spot inside you that makes you see stars. It's inconceivable every time, how much pleasure he can give you with only two fingers, he’s spent most of the last week showing you just how easy it is for him. 

You moan again when the edge of his palm makes contact with your clit, making you whisper apologies into his mouth, and his grip tightens on your jaw. Your eyes fly open as his thumb presses on your bottom lip, testing the waters like he might slide it inside. 

You watch him debate, his eyes flickering to your eyes to your mouth, the pad of his thumb pushing on your bottom row of teeth, opening your mouth wider. Your eyes tell him to do it, saliva pooling in the space behind your teeth, you want to feel it. You want him to lose that last shred of control, to give you a reason to call him sir. You want to know what it’s like, what he’s like. You want to learn.

His hand leaves your jaw to land on your waist, pushing a sharp breath past his lips, holding onto that last shred of control like his life depends on it, just like he has all week. Like there’s something still stopping him, like he’s scared of showing you who he is, what he wants. You swallow your spit, head tipping backward, bending toward him, disappointed at how empty your mouth feels, but the feeling is fleeting with the pleasure building in your gut. Your clit grinds against his palm with every roll of your hips, his fingers fucking into you now, reaching deeper than anyone’s ever been with one hand. 

“Wanna fuck you,” he whispers, then looks over his shoulder at the living room, then to the ceiling again like he could see if anyone has woken up. Slipping his fingers out, quickly he grabs at your hips, “Turn around.”

He does it for you, flipping you smoothly until you’re facing the backsplash on the wall, getting an eyeful of their toaster, two half-full bottles of whiskey. You glance behind, only catching a glimpse of him rolling his briefs down, spitting into his palm before spreading it over the length of his cock. Your heartbeat picks up, saliva pooling in your mouth again, gut rumbling with anticipation, aching to feel full.

 “Remember what I said,” he reminds you as he grabs the hem of your panties, rolling them over your ass until they fall down to your ankles. Lifting your leg up onto the counter, spreading you, he says, “If you make a sound, I stop. Okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding, feeling the cool air of the kitchen on your folds, your clit pulsing. A part of you is nervous, you haven’t fucked him yet without finishing at least once, he’s stretched you out every single time before even glancing at his own cock.

One hand holding your thigh up, he prods at your entrance, and you quickly realize you couldn’t make a sound if you tried with how wide he’s stretching you by just pushing inside. “Good,” he praises, his voice quiet but full of warmth. “Takin’ me so well, baby. Knew you could do it.”

Your face scrunches, jaw slack, the smallest squeak sneaking out because his length feels never ending. His cock is so fucking long, so thick, you felt full an inch ago, maybe two. His hand rubs at your thigh, still soothing you, praising you, “A little more, doing so good for me. So proud of you.”

The praise sets you ablaze, hips bucking backward to meet the rest, clamping a hand over your mouth to moan into your palm when he’s seated fully. “Yes,” he moans quietly. “Holy fuuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

You curse under your breath, nails scratching at the counter with your other hand, forcing the sounds clawing at the base of your throat to stay there. He doesn’t move, letting you adjust to the stretch, grip tightening on your thigh with every pulse of your walls. “I can’t–” you croak, the sound ragged, embarrassing. You grip the edge of the counter with both hands, “Move.”

He obliges, of course he does, his pace agonizingly slow. The only sound in the room is your breathing, the creamy noises of him slowly dragging his cock through your walls, setting your cheeks, your ears on fire. You can hear his smile, words coated in awe as he says, “Listen to how wet you are, holy shit.”

He thrusts back inside, sharper this time, angled perfectly, and the moan that sneaks past your lips is anything but voluntary. It’s loud, too loud, you clamp a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. He pauses, sheathed, slowly leaning over your back until his lips graze the shell of your ear, “Did I miss something, baby? Do you want me to stop?”

He sounds teasing, no, taunting, your toes press into the hardwood beneath you, gut boiling with arousal. You shake your head, stuttering, “N-no.”

“Then don’t let me hear another fucking sound,” his voice is too even, his tone too calm. You’re reeling with curiosity, you know there’s so much more under the surface than what he’s shown you, you need him to rip the Band-Aid off and show you who he really fucking is. From that first be careful after the Penny to the first night you slept together, he’s given you snippets, small tastes of what he’s capable of, what he likes. You need him to give you everything.

He speeds up, gripping your thigh tighter, hips snapping into the plush of your ass. Your breaths are staggered, chest tight with how hard you’re holding back your noises, nails clawing at the fucking counter because his cock is carving into you like there was never space for him to fit in the first place.

“Yun– ho,” you whimper, reaching behind you, the knee that’s holding you up bending, folding. There’s nowhere for you to run, the only thing you can do is take it and the pleasure is fucking excruciating. 

He catches your wrist with a tight grip, pinning it to the base of your spine. “Take it.”

“I can’t,” you cry, head dropping, the tip of your nose grazing the counter with each thrust. “I can’t, ‘s too good, Yunho. I can’t!”

You must have not realized your volume growing, your pitch, because his body bends over yours, his other hand clamping around your mouth before pulling you up to his chest in a quick, sweeping movement. Your eyes go wide, babbling apologies into his palm as he grits harshly into your ear, “You wanted to be fucked in the kitchen. You asked for this, take it like a big fucking girl.”

You curse into his palm, spine bent in half, eyes squeezing shut as he keeps fucking into you, cock dragging against your walls like he knows exactly what to touch, where to hit, what’ll make you scream. Maybe after the past week he does know. Your free hand claws at his forearm, your other arm still pinned behind your back pushing against his grip, the pleasure growing unbearable.

“I’m gonna let go of your arm,” he says coolly, but his voice is shaky, the only hint that he feels just as good as you. “Keep it there, don’t move.”

You nod into his palm, first curling and uncurling, nails digging into the edge of your palm as he swings his now free hand over your front, between your legs, drawing harsh circles over your clit. You thrash against him, babbling against his palm, the heat of pleasure turning to heavy, building pressure.

“Need you to cum for me,” he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver, hips twitching, your head still pinned backward by his palm over your mouth. “C’mon, baby, let me feel it. Cum for me.”

With a few more strokes of his tip over your walls, a few more circles over your clit, your legs shake as blinding, white pleasure steals all of your senses. Your ears ring, breath caught in your throat, your arm behind your back clawing at Yunho’s torso as your orgasm tears through your body.

“Good girl, so fuckin’ good for me, fuck, oh my god,” you finally hear when your ears stop ringing, his voice rough, heavy like he was about to finish, too. You can’t stop clenching, so oversensitive, his cock still massaging your walls with purpose, all you can do is whimper into his palm, your brain emptied of anything coherent.

He lets go of your mouth only when he pulls out, you slump over the counter with a soft moan, listening to the slick sounds of him pumping his length, his biting breaths, until you feel him paint your ass, your lower back, over your shirt, white. You don’t know how you’re keeping yourself upright, panting, hands braced on the counter beneath your torso, both your legs back on the hardwood.

Your head is still spinning, body still coming down when you hear him turn the sink on, running something under the faucet. You jump when a warm paper towel wipes at your back, your ass, between your thighs, then you hear him huff a small noise of amusement through his nose. “Good thing this is my shirt and not yours.”

“Is it ruined?” you ask, barely recognizing your own voice. Rough, battered, like he just put you through hell. You push yourself up off the counter, grabbing at the hem, twisting it around to see the streaked stains.  

“Nothing a load of laundry can’t fix,” he shrugs, throwing the paper towel away. Quickly walking back to you, he grabs you by your cheeks, holding your face up to look at him. “Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

You shake your head, or try to, your cheeks squished by his pressing palms. He smacks his teeth, “Words, sunshine.”

“No, you weren’t,” you whisper, slowly blinking. You could take a nap right now. “‘m tired.”

His cheeks are still flushed, chest still covered in splotches of red, crescents and lines of red from your nails covering his torso. He smiles like it was a job well-done, proud of himself, proud of you. He presses his lips to the top of your forehead, “Should we nap and then go grocery shopping?”

You groan, grabbing his hands from your cheeks. “Do we really have to go?”

“We can wait until later,” he grabs your hand instead, pulling you toward the staircase. 

You grab your glass of water from the counter before letting him pull you along. “I promised Jen I’d go out with her later.”

“Then we’re napping and going,” he says certainly. “You’re stuck with me.”

At the top of the staircase is Hongjoong, arms crossed, hair shooting in every direction on the top of his head. You both stop in your tracks, your heart picking up speed at the sight. He asks, “Am I free to use my own kitchen now?”

Heat blooms, skin erupting in flames. Yunho laughs, continuing up the stairs again, “My bad, you’re good.”

“Sorry,” you mumble in a small whisper as you walk past him, mortified. When you shut Yunho’s bedroom door behind you, you tear his shirt off your body, hissing, “You were the loud one, so you can’t even blame that on me.”

All he does is giggle from the bed, holding the sheets up to welcome you in.

Part of Wooyoung feels guilty. In the way that eats at him, bothers him incessantly, like a dog that won’t stop following him around, begging for a treat he doesn’t have. He isn’t completely sure why, maybe it’s because of the look on your face earlier, how obvious it was that you were reaching out for him and he didn’t let you in, not even a little. You shouldn’t be reaching for him, though. If you’re reaching for anyone, it should be Yunho. You shouldn’t need him, want him for anything, even friendship. He doesn’t need you. 

San stares at him, face completely flat and void of emotion from behind the register. “Do you know how much you’ve talked about her in the past week?” 

Fuck him. “I’ve brought her up, like, twice,” Wooyoung defends himself, immediately aggravated. He is at San’s job right now just so he could talk about it again. “It’s annoying, she won’t leave me alone, like a mosquito buzzing in my fucking ear.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe she considers you her friend?” San asks. “Also, from what I understand, she’s spoken to you literally one time since she started hooking up with Yunho. How is that annoying?” 

“I’m not her friend,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, bringing his drink up to his lips. Taking a sip, the cold coffee does nothing to cool his boiling blood. “I don’t want her to talk to me at all. Are you on her side now because you’re fucking Yunjin?” 

“Jen told me a lot about her,” San shrugs simply, grabbing the stained towel from over his shoulder, wiping at the counter below his palms just to look like he’s doing something. “Nothing crazy, just stuff with her ex, personality shit. She seems like she deserves someone like Yunho.” 

A huff of something sarcastic sneaks out from between Wooyoung’s lips, even if he knows that somewhere inside him, he agrees. “Yunho is basically the same as her bum-ass ex, San. Minus the cheating with a dude thing, although, technically, that isn’t impossible—”

San cuts him off, “Yunho would never do that, don’t even say that shit.” 

“Still,” Wooyoung urges. “You don’t know her like I know her.” San’s brows raise, pausing his wiping. “Not like that, dickhead. She’s quiet around him.” 

San stares at him for a second, blinking twice. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself—”

“Maybe she’s quiet because she’s happy. Jen said Yunho makes her feel safe, wouldn’t you want that after you caught your boyfriend cheating on you?”

“I guess, but—”

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered by it,” San finally says, like he’s pressing the real issue. “Do you even know why you’re bothered by it? Are you just irritated that your little bickering partner is too busy for you? Did you want to fuck her before Yunho got his hands on her?” 

“No,” Wooyoung answers too quickly to be convincing, and then backtracks when he realizes disagreeing is worse than agreeing. “I mean, yes, of course I did, but that’s not why I’m bothered.”

He should have known it would be impossible to get his point across without mentioning you riding his face, kissing him in your apartment. Now he just sounds jealous or something, and it might be the most humiliating hole he’s ever dug himself in. 

“It sounds like that’s why.” San’s brows raise, lips flattening like he knows something Wooyoung doesn’t. “Maybe you should think about that instead of wondering why she wants to be your friend. You could use a girl friend who’s just a friend.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need her to be my friend, I already have seven.” 

San laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “I love Yunho, and I really like Jen so I don’t want to say this, but I’ve never seen you so involved with a girl, especially without fucking her.”

“I don’t know what she wants, San, but it’s not fucking Yunho,” Wooyoung argues, heart pumping in his chest, heat kissing his cheeks. “Yunho presented himself to her, of course she’s gonna hop on it. She didn't choose him herself, she just accepted it.” 

San looks up, eyes squinting ever so slightly like he’s trying to piece it together but he can’t. “Then what does she want, Wooyoung?” San’s fists find his hips. “Does she want you? Is that what you’re getting at?” 

“No!” Wooyoung nearly shouts, exasperated. He looks around to the heads that have turned, swallowing down his embarrassment. He lowers his voice again, “You don’t get it, you don’t know the whole story.” 

“I don’t think I need to,” San laughs a little, smirking like he knows enough. His smirk drops almost immediately like realization hit him, replaced with an expression much more grave. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, but Woo, just because your parents—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wooyoung raises his finger, cutting San off completely. “Don’t bring them up.” 

“There’s a reason you’re talking to me,” San crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the only one that knows that shit and you’re here, talking to me. Why did you come here then?”

“I made a mistake coming here,” Wooyoung grits out, anger clear in the hinge of his jaw. “I told you that in confidence, not for you to bring it up whenever you fucking want. Forget it.” 

“Wooyoung—”

He’s already turning around, making for the front of the shop, angry at the fucking jingle over his head when he pushes the glass door open. He left his fucking drink inside. He’s sure as hell not going back in to get it. 

Fuck that. Absolutely fucking fuck that. It was pointless going there, if he can’t figure his own shit out himself, then how could he expect someone else to do it for him? San is so fucking far off the mark it’s laughable. He swings open his car door, throwing himself into the driver's seat, and barely waits for the engine to roll over before he’s tugging the gearstick into first. 

Picking up his phone, there’s a text from Sana on his lock screen. An invitation, short and sweet, most likely the outcome of liking some of her old Instagram pictures while he wasn’t sleeping last night. And even though he’s not one to fuck the same person twice, it feels like a gift from god, divine intervention, exactly what he fucking needs to put his head back on straight. He texts her back an equally short response, eyes half on the screen, half on the road, and turns down a side street that’ll take him to her house.

There’s a part of Wooyoung that feels like maybe stepping into a house where six women live, especially when he’s slept with five of them, is kinda like walking into a lion’s den. Maybe he doesn’t have the sense to care, or maybe he’s so frustrated that he’ll fuck whoever looks at him first upon walking through the front door. It’s likely that all five would fuck him again, and if he’s really honest, he’ll be happy if all five do fuck him as soon as they see him.

Parking out front, walking inside like he owns the place, he quickly learns that Sana is the only one home. Not that he’s disappointed about it, because fucking her does exactly what it’s supposed to: it takes the edge off, makes him forget his anger, his frustrations, she even tires him out after two rounds. Two. Laying on her bed, still there after she showered for some reason, too tired to get up and join her, she jolts him out of his almost-slumber by announcing, “Get up. I’m going out and you’re coming with me.”

Wooyoung huffs his amusement. “You could have just told me to leave, I’m about to head out anyway. Did you know your bed is hella comfortable?" 

Butt-ass naked, she rests her hands on her hips. “The girls are out, we’re meeting them. You’re being weird and I think you need to get drunk.”

His brows furrow. “Weird?”

“I feel energy radiating off of you,” she shivers, rolling her shoulders as she walks toward her closet. “Don’t argue with me. Put your clothes back on.”

Wooyoung might be more tired than he thinks he is, because he gets up and changes back into his jeans, his hoodie that it’s too warm outside to wear. It’s comfortable. He doesn’t know what ‘energy’ he’s giving off, but he’s too tired to think about it, laying flat on his back on her bed again while she does her hair, her makeup. He thinks he might have fallen asleep when she yells, “Jesus Christ Wooyoung, what is wrong with you? Get up.”

He snaps in half, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m awake, damn.”

She’s in a tiny little skirt, a tiny little top. His dick doesn’t even jump. He should really go home and go to bed.

Hands on her hips again, she tells him, “You’re driving, I don’t feel like waiting for a ride.”

“You said I needed to get drunk,” he argues.

“Then leave your car there,” she shrugs. “I don’t care. Let’s go.”

He’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes when his engine turns over, he doesn’t even know when it got dark outside. He’s confused, exhausted, but he’s comfortable, and he keeps fucking driving all the way to the Penny. 

It’s busy when he trails inside behind Sana, busy enough that he pulls his hood over his head, not wanting to be bothered by anyone’s eyes or offers. He’s not in the mood, and it might actually be a fucking first for him. 

He follows Sana toward the bar and buys her a drink just because he fell asleep in her bed. The first sip of his beer goes down like shit, so he takes another gulp just to make it easier, trailing behind her to a tall table that’s full of women he’s fucked. Probably. He doesn’t even really look. 

“Ladies,” he announces, his only form of greeting accompanied by a short nod.

No one pays him any mind except Yunjin, “You look like dog shit.”

He curses under his breath, blinking his eyes open, actually paying attention to who’s at the table now. Sana, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Nayeon, Momo, the dark-haired girl he shared a car with that one time, there’s a space between her and Yunjin, a half-drank martini on the table. Great. Cool. 

“Thanks,” his lips tighten, feeling regretful already. “Is Sannie here?”

“Girls night,” she answers, tipping her beer toward him. He tips his back and takes a swig, sighing when the bottle meets the table in front of him.

“Is anyone gonna mention why he’s here and hanging out with us? Or are we just gonna ignore it?” The dark-haired girl asks the table, refusing to even look at him. He doesn’t care enough to make a snarky response.

“We had sex,” Sana points to him with her thumb. “He seems miserable and I feel bad for him.”

“Jung Wooyoung can feel emotion?” Chaeyoung taunts with an evil grin. 

He shoots her a fake, irritated smile, “Ha ha.”

“Why are you miserable?” Yunjin cuts in again. “Sannie mentioned you were down, but wouldn’t tell me why.”

San’s real as fuck. That just made Wooyoung at least thirty-five percent less pissed at him. He shrugs it off, “I’m fine.”

“What the hell?” he hears, still far enough away that his head perks up. You approach the table with your brows furrowed, your jaw locked, top lip lifted in disgust. “They let dogs in this place?”

The table laughs. Wooyoung’s eyes thin out, but part of him feels just a little satisfied that you’re still insulting him. Sana says your name like a warning, “Be nice.”

Your brows tie together as you sip your martini, arming yourself for a response, but Wooyoung beats you to it. “I’ll go.” He grabs his beer from the table, bidding everyone a nod in farewell. “There’s gotta be women in this bar that I haven’t fucked yet, right?”

“Good luck,” Yunjin calls after him. “Don’t catch chlamydia again!”

He curses under his breath, already walking toward the bar. He should just leave, go home, go to bed. He should go. He chugs the rest of his beer before leaning over the bar in a rare, open space, flagging down the bartender for another. He should go home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He groans out loud this time, rubbing at his face with his palms before turning his head. You’re standing there, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He looks you up and down before saying, “Nothing. Go back to your friends.”

“You didn’t fight back,” you press, wiggling into the space between him and another guy waiting for a drink. “You always fight back, why are you being weird?”

“Fuck, I’m not being weird, why does everyone keep saying that?” he spits out, grabbing the beer he doesn’t even really want from the bar, taking a long gulp. 

“Because you fucking are,” you argue, leaning your side over the bar, trying to put yourself in his peripherals. “Why are you here? Where are the other guys?”

“I came with Sana,” he points behind him, mumbling. “They’re not here.” He turns to look at you after a second of silence, no response. Your brows are still tied together, staring at his sleeve like there’s something on it. “Go back to your friends.”

“No,” you say with certainty, finality. “Not until you tell me why we’re weird. Did I do something?”

“No, Virgin,” he groans out, bored with the conversation. 

You press him anyway. “Something had to have happened, Wooyoung. I don’t get… ever since that night, you’ve been off.” He doesn’t need to ask which night. He twirls his beer bottle, staring into its mouth while you keep talking. “This is what we’ve done since we met. I say shit, you say shit, we banter, we bicker, that’s our routine. Is it because I kissed you? I was out of my mind–”

“Shut up, Virgin,” he cuts you off, looking at you. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to stop acting like you fucking hate me,” you urge, voice raising.

He meets your volume, “I don’t hate you!”

“Well, you’re acting like it,” your shoulders shrug. 

He sighs, long and heavy. “I don’t hate you, I’m just– you piss me off.”

“And you piss me off, I thought that was normal,” you laugh a little, but it’s a clear reach for normalcy, ground to stand on when there is none. “Can you be a little more specific with the current anger?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you. Instead, he shrugs it off. “I don’t fucking know, Virgin.”

You cross your arms over the bar, still standing beside him. He wishes you would just fucking leave.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” you offer, voice strangely soft. “If what I said upset you.”

“It didn’t upset me,” he counters, and at least that’s honest.

“It’s unfair that I acted like you were wrong, and got mad at you for it,” you mutter so quietly that he can tell it’s killing you to say it. He swallows. “But I meant what I said, about valuing your opinion, trusting you. Even if it might make me stupid for doing so.”

“Stupid for trusting the sex guy with sex advice?” he asks, a slice of humor in his tone. “That might be the only smart thing you’ve ever done.”

You laugh. He turns his head, confused, just to see you smiling, head tilted while you play with the silver ring on your finger, fully amused. You look up at him, still half-smiling, “I need your advice again.”

“Don’t tell me it’s about Yunho.” You nod, lips tightening in a grin. He groans, “Come on, are you serious? You’re not even dating the guy.”

“Shut up, Wooyoung,” you smack your teeth, nudging his elbow with yours. “It’s sex-related.”

“This is what we’re back to? Sex advice?” his brows raise.

Your lips scrunch to one side. “Apparently trusting the sex guy with sex advice is the only smart thing I’ve ever done.”

He takes another long swig of his beer, and finally, it’s refreshing. “Hit me.”

“He’s dominant,” you say, like it explains everything. Wooyoung nods, waiting for the rest.

When you don’t continue, he pops a brow. “Okay?”

“Did you know that?”

“I’ve always known that.”

“Fuck,” you cover your first with your lips. “Okay. He obviously… is into that, but I feel like he’s holding back with me. Like he won’t be who he is, or do what he wants.”

“What do you want?” Wooyoung asks, and the question is like instinct for him at this point.

“I just told you,” you say simply, blinking at him.

“No, you told me he won’t do what he wants,” Wooyoung explains, shifting so he’s leaning his side into the bar, facing you. “What do you want?”

You groan, head tipping backward before you mimic his stance, defeated as you lean into the bar. “You know what I fucking mean, don’t start with this shit again.”

Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Your mind is fascinating, Virgin.”

“Can you just help me?” you throw your elbow onto the bar, leaning your head into it, and it just makes Wooyoung laugh more. When you scowl, he apologizes, straightening himself out.

“Okay, what do you mean by holding back?”

Your cheeks flush, eyes dancing around where you stand, checking for listening ears. Your voice lowers, leaning closer, “For example, earlier, he wanted me to be quiet. He was about to put his fingers in my mouth to… shut me up–”

“To gag you.”

“Fuck you. He didn’t do it, he stopped like he was scared or something.”

His head tilts, thinking on it. “So you want him to put his fingers down your throat?”

You smack your lips together, deadpanning. “I want him to not have to think about doing what he wants. I want him to just do it if he wants to do it.”

“You just fucking did it again,” Wooyoung fires back, standing a little straighter, he feels like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. “I just asked you what you want and you told me what he wants.”

You blink at him. “Is that not the same fucking thing?”

He tugs his hood down, running his hands through his hair. He takes a breather, forcing his heart rate into submission by taking a long sip of his beer. Thankfully, you’re silent, if you spoke he thinks he might have actually ripped all of his hair out. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks, leaning against the bar again. You nod. “Did you think this fucking hard before we hooked up?”

Your eyes go wide, shushing him, looking around like you’re praying no one heard him. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Also… no, but that was different.”

“How am I different?” 

“Because you just are. We didn’t fuck.”

His brows furrow, because that makes no fucking sense. “That doesn’t mean– Virgin, you didn’t give a fuck about what I wanted when we hooked up.”

Your lips part, offended. “Yes I did!”

“No you didn’t,” he laughs a little, like it should be obvious to you. “You pulled my hair hard enough that I thought you were gonna rip it out. You were riding my fucking face like you didn’t care if I could breathe–”

“Wooyoung!”

“Which I couldn’t, by the way, but I like it like that. My point is that you took what you wanted from me, you didn’t wait for me to give it to you. You won’t even talk to him about what you want. Are you sure you even want what you think you want?”

Your brows furrow, thinking about it. You look longingly at the table you left, your friends, “I should have brought my drink over here.” He hands you his beer, which you take happily, throwing a long gulp of it back. After wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you ask him, “Does it not sound like I want it?”

“It sounds like you don’t know what you want. From what I’ve experienced, you aren’t the type who can be tamed, you’re the kind of person who needs someone who can handle you. Someone with really healthy, strong hair who can hold their breath for a long time.”

You snort, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He grins, “I wish I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that to me. I would have, like, at least five bucks by now.”

“You could buy three beers with that kind of money.” You cross your arms, turning until your back is leaning into the bar. “I don’t know what I want, Wooyoung.”

“I know, Virgin,” he crosses his arms over the bar, trapping his beer between them, sighing. It sits with him that you finally said something he can’t argue with. “You’ll figure it out one day, though. Maybe.” 

You reach for his beer, stealing it from between his arms, taking another long gulp. “I know I just drank all your beer, but you should really buy me another martini for insinuating that we weren’t friends this morning.”

Wooyoung’s head drops, chin meeting his chest as laughter sneaks through his lips. “You’re right. We’re friends, Virgin.”

“Yes we are,” you nod, satisfied. “You’re definitely buying me that drink, though.”

Possibly the worst part about the most devastating night of your life is that your alarm still goes off at exactly 8:00 a.m. the next morning.

A pathetic groan scrapes its way out of your throat as you roll over. Pain blooms behind your eyes, your head still throbbing from hours spent crying until there were no tears left. Wincing through swollen, burning eyelids, you fumble for your phone and silence the alarm, squinting at the lock screen in the dark of your bedroom. 

No texts. No DMs. Not even any Amazon updates.

You didn't even hear San stumble back into the dorm last night. Considering it's barely eight in the morning, he, Yunho, and Yeosang are likely still sleeping off whatever alcohol they'd drowned themselves in the night before.

Your friends have the luxury of sleeping in, but unfortunately, you don't. 

Today is Professor Choi's optional practice exam. It doesn't count towards your official grade, but it's designed to mimic the exact structure, timing, and question types of the upcoming final. For naturally gifted students like Yunho and Mingi—who basically have passing grades guaranteed—spending a Sunday morning in a review session is unnecessary. They can easily skip out on it. 

You, on the other hand, need every scrap of an advantage you possibly can get to pass this class.

You don't bother taking a shower, brushing your hair, or covering the dark circles under your eyes with makeup. You drag your exhausted body out of bed, still wearing the same hoodie you'd slept in. Grabbing one of San's unworn winter coats off the kitchen table, you shrug it on and head out the door, almost forgetting to grab your laptop. 

The bitter winter air whips against your face throughout the entire walk across campus, stinging your cheeks, but frankly, you barely even notice. You feel just as numb and frozen on the inside as the icy pavement beneath your boots.

Before you know it, you're sitting alone on a small bench just outside your Korean classroom, staring blankly at the illuminated screen of your phone. 

Your thumb hovers over Hongjoong's contact. You open your text exchange, your heart increasingly beginning to race. Slowly, your trembling fingers type out three desperate, pathetic words into the text box:

You: Can we talk?

You stare at the blinking cursor.

Just hit send, you try to convince yourself, your teeth sinking into your chapped lower lip. Beg him to talk to you. Apologize again. Fix what you broke.

But the second your thumb drifts toward the blue arrow, the horrifying memory of him flinching away from you flashes behind your eyes. He'd recoiled from your touch. Twice. And you were the one who'd driven him to that, the one who'd turned what he thought was his one safe space into a humiliating lie, and the one who'd taken something precious and made him question whether any of it had been real. 

Your hand drops into your lap. With a defeated sigh, you press the backspace button, holding it down and watching the words disappear one letter at a time until the text box is empty once again.

You can't bring yourself to reach out. You don't want to ruin Hongjoong's morning, too. 

Clicking it off, you shove the phone into the pocket of San's coat and lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes against the nauseating spin of your own toxic thoughts.

Is that it? you think, your throat tightening. Are we just... over? Just like that?

When you finally shuffle inside right at 9:00, you find the classroom practically empty. Only three other students are scattered across the rows of desks—faces you vaguely recognize from your morning lectures but have never actually spoken to. You figure it makes sense, really; most college students spend their Saturday nights out partying, not studying. By Sunday morning, they're sleeping off hangovers, not taking practice exams. And when they wake up, most of them certainly aren't wondering if they've ruined their relationships for good.  

Professor Choi looks up from his laptop at the front of the room, offering the four of you a polite nod before returning to his work without a word. 

You sink into a seat near the back. Seeing that the other students have already logged into the class portal, you follow suit, pulling out your laptop and entering your username. A string of random capitalized letters and numbers is written across the whiteboard—clearly the exam password. Your numb fingers tap it into the text box. When the practice exam finally loads onto your screen, a small wave of relief washes over you. The bold text at the top of the page notes that it's an automatic, self-grading test.

Good, you think, letting out a shallow breath. That means multiple-choice and simple fill-in-the-blank questions. Nothing overly complicated, nor anything that will require much critical thinking. 

You scroll down the page. The progress bar on the right side of the screen indicates that the exam is much shorter than you expected—only about thirty questions. You take a steadying breath and quickly get to work, embracing the distraction from your thoughts. 

Question 4: Choose the correct color term to fill in the blank based on the picture. 저는 오늘 _____ 셔츠를 입었습니다. Today, I wore a _____ shirt. 

You look dully at the attached stock photo of a little boy wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. Your thumb trembles on the trackpad, frozen over option B.

하얀색. White.

Suddenly, all your mind's eye can see is the golden morning light spilling across Hongjoong's bedroom floor, the morning after you finally confessed your feelings for each other. You still feel his sheets draped over your bare body, remembering how you waited there in his bed, watching as he pulled that oversized 하얀색 hoodie from his closet. The moment he saw you in it, he gave you the softest, most unguarded smile you'd ever seen and told you to keep it.

That same hoodie is still hanging in your closet with no intention of ever returning to its owner. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and click option B, quickly scrolling down. 

Question 13: Look at the map provided and choose the correct direction. 우체국에 가려면 학교에서 _____ 가세요. To get to the post office, go _____ from the school. 

오른쪽으로. To the right.

Your stomach twists at the embarrassing memory of the very first time you and Hongjoong met up outside of the Language Center. You'd been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the library, preparing for the upcoming week's lessons, when you'd reached the vocabulary word for direction—쪽—and accidentally pronounced it as 'dick' in Korean, right to his face.  

You remember how he froze, his professionalism shattering into an awkward, breathless laugh. The rosy pink dusting his cheeks as he nervously explained your mistake. The mortifying second when your eyes had flicked downward to his lap. You know he caught it, because even now, you can still picture the way he turned his head away to hide his smirk.

You feel your cheeks flare as you choose option A. 

Question 28: Fill in the blank with the correct particle. 제 이름____ 스티브입니다. My name is Steve. 

은. Because 이름 ends in a consonant, it needs the particle 은.

It's one of the most fundamental grammatical rules in the entire curriculum, something Professor Choi had covered on the very first day of class. But staring at the disjointed sentence pulls you back to your first official tutoring hour at the Language Center, to the first time you heard Hongjoong speak in his native tongue. You'd frozen, completely missing your cue to respond, staring at him wide-eyed and struck by how dangerously attractive his voice was. 

You've been helplessly captivated by him ever since. And sitting here now, staring at your screen, you realize your entire vocabulary is in his voice.

Every word, every sentence structure, and every syllable you've learned over the last semester have been filtered through Hongjoong. You can't even read an exam without hearing his voice in your head, as if he's the one answering for you. 

Fresh tears blur your vision again. Blinking them away, you numbly click option D and scroll down to the final questions. 

Mercifully, the last two questions are basic enough to spare you any further trips down memory lane. Relief settles into your body as you reach the bottom of the page. You're finally done. You can slam your laptop shut, escape Professor Choi's line of sight, and bury yourself back under your blankets. 

But as your eyes scan the bottom corner of the screen, your stomach flips. 

The little blue button doesn't say Submit. It says Next.

Anxiety floods in almost immediately. There must be a second section of the exam. No wonder no one else has gotten up to leave yet. Your fingers hover over the button, trembling, before you force yourself to click it.

When the new page loads, the text spanning the top of the screen makes you want to throw up right then and there.

Part II: Free Writing (50 points) Instructions: Write a brief, three-paragraph essay in Korean discussing a personal experience where you learned about the Korean language and culture outside of the classroom.

Your heart sinks as you stare at the white text box waiting for your input.

For any other student in this room, this prompt is a godsend. For you, however, it's a nightmare. Because every single memory you've accumulated over the last four months comes rushing back with one singular face attached: Hongjoong. 

He's the only reason you know anything about this language. He's the only window you've ever had into this culture. Your mind claws through the semester, searching for a single vocabulary word or cultural fact that didn't originate from his lips, but you come up empty.

You remember the two of you wandering through the narrow aisles of Yoons' grocery store, standing side-by-side as he explained the ingredients of the traditional stews his mother used to cook for him and his brother when he was a child. You remember sitting in the dark of his bedroom, listening to his hushed, nervous voice explain random formalities while Parasite played on his TV in the background. You remember sitting across from him in the Language Center, staring at his lips as he patiently sounded out every pronunciation your tongue just couldn't quite master. 

Every single piece of Korean you know comes from Kim Hongjoong.

You can't do this. You can't write about him, not after what you did. 

A silent sob catches in your throat as you look up at the ticking clock on the classroom wall. Thirty-eight minutes have already passed. That leaves you with exactly twenty-two to write this entire essay. 

With horribly shaking, clumsy fingers, you bring your hands to the keyboard. No matter how badly you want to close the laptop and run, you can't bring yourself to leave a fifty-point section blank, so you piece together the most generic response you can think of. Through the threat of scalding tears, you hammer out a few sentences about how you've been watching K-dramas in your free time this semester to practice your listening skills.

It's terrible. It lacks a single specific detail, carrying zero depth and absolutely zero heart. Your fingers repeatedly slip off the keys and leave glaring typos scattered throughout every paragraph. The grammar is broken, a mangled mess of elementary tenses and incorrect particles that do nothing to prove the months of progress you've made with Hongjoong. There isn't a single personal thought or a single scrap of real insight in the entire text box.

It is, without a doubt, the worst essay you have ever written—in Korean or in English.

Your finger slams down on the trackpad, hitting the Submit button before your eyes can even think about reading over the humiliating paragraphs you just produced. You can't even bear to look at it. 

But before the class portal redirects you back to the home screen, an automated score flashes at the top of the summary page for Part I. 

98.

You freeze, the air abandoning your lungs. For a moment, you think it might be a mistake.

A 98. You practically aced the entire first section. It is, by far, the highest score you've ever achieved on a Korean exam this semester. 

A sudden thud shatters the quiet of the classroom, making your head snap up. The door at the front of the room is clicking shut, and when you listen closely to the silence, you can hear the muffled sound of footsteps fading down the hallway. A frantic glance around the room confirms that the last student just left, leaving you alone with Professor Choi. He's sitting behind his desk, seemingly engrossed in whatever he's working on. He isn't paying you the slightest bit of attention. 

Nevertheless, you feel yourself begin to panic. You know exactly what a failure that essay was, and the thought of him opening your file and reading it while you're still in the room makes you feel queasy. With shaky hands, you shove your laptop and its charger back into your bag, not bothering to wind the tangled cord. You yank the zipper shut, sling the strap over your shoulder, and grab San's coat, ready to bolt for the exit. 

But just as your boots hit the floor, taking your first step into the center aisle—

"____씨."

Of course.

Your muscles lock mid-motion, catching you in an awkward half-crouch. For one ridiculous second, you consider pretending you didn't hear him.

But you know by now that the habit of trying to be the perfect student is far too ingrained inside you to let you leave. 

You let out a defeated breath and straighten, adjusting the bag on your shoulder as you slowly turn toward the front of the empty room.

"네," you call out. Yes?

Professor Choi's expression is perfectly, unreadably neutral. He motions toward the two chairs sitting directly in front of his desk. "Come sit down for a moment, please."

Your legs feel like literal lead as you numbly shuffle down the tiered steps of the aisle and slide into the chair, facing him. 

Without uttering a word, he clicks his mouse and spins his laptop around so the screen faces you.

Your heart sinks once again.

Your essay is pulled up on the monitor.

"Read it out loud," he instructs.

You blink at him through your swollen eyelids, both confused and mortified. "What?" you breathe, your gaze darting between your professor and the screen. "Why?" 

He merely raises an expectant eyebrow. "I'd like to hear what you intended it to sound like," he says evenly. "Please, whenever you're ready."

You look back down at the screen, a cold sweat breaking out across your palms. Your throat is so dry you have to swallow three times just to gather enough moisture to open your mouth. 

"저는..." Your voice comes out weak and pathetically unsteady as you read through your first paragraph. "저는 한국 드라마... 좋아해. 많이 봐요. 한국 드라마가 아주 좋아요... 저는 봐서 재미있어요." 

You hadn't even managed to conjugate half the verbs properly into the polite, formal endings you've spent weeks drilling into your memory. Instead, you're reading out basic, fragmented clauses that sound like they were generated through a broken prototype of Google Translate. I like Korean drama. I watch many. K-dramas are very good. I watch because fun. As you stumble into the following sentences, your pronunciation begins to fall apart. Without Hongjoong sitting across from you to correct your intonation or guide your tongue, you sound like a clumsy, malfunctioning robot.

In fact, you sound exactly like the kind of student who hasn't bothered to pay attention in class this entire semester.

Your voice finally cracks on an incorrect particle choice in the middle of the third paragraph, trailing off into a defeated whisper. You stop, unable to force another humiliating word past your lips, and stare down at your hands twisting together in your lap.

Professor Choi lets out a sigh. He reaches out, turning his laptop back toward himself, and closes the lid before folding his hands on top of it. 

"I have to admit," he says quietly, "I am very disappointed."

Your heart crumbles in your chest. 

Disappointed.

"You've been doing quite well in this class," he continues. "I've been tracking your progress, and I've seen clear improvement—not only in your quiz grades, but also in your confidence and class participation. And while you did exceptionally well on the first section of this practice exam, your essay does not reflect that growth whatsoever."

He falls quiet. You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, eyes burning relentlessly into your hands because there is no possible way you could meet his eyes like this. 

Professor Choi lets out another weary sigh, leaning forward. "When I created the peer tutoring program, I hoped it would help my students build confidence in speaking with someone closer to their own age, outside of a formal classroom setting. I thought that was what was helping you. But now, I'm not so sure." He pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Your tutor cancelled on you last week, correct?"

Your head snaps up. "I—well, yes," you stammer, your throat tightening. "Yes, he did, but—"

"You don't need to make excuses for him," Professor Choi interrupts, a dismissive flick of his hand cutting you off. "The fact of the matter is, I don't believe he's a well-suited tutor for you. I've been noting my students' learning habits and in-class performances for years, and it's become rather easy to spot a pattern. You are the type of student who requires structure. You need a tutor who is reliable, who adheres to a strict schedule, and who shows up consistently—not one who cancels a mandatory session simply because he doesn't feel like being there." He shakes his head, a line of frustration creasing his brow. "Honestly, I shouldn't have excused you from submitting last week's recording. But because you'd been doing so well, I didn't think it would become an issue. Now, looking at this essay, I see that my leniency was a mistake."

He opens one of his desk drawers, pulling out a folder labeled with the peer tutoring roster. Flipping it open, his eyes scan the printed spreadsheets.

"Your tutor is Kim Hongjoong, correct?"

"Y-yes," you confirm. You want to explain to him that Hongjoong didn't cancel because he was lazy or careless. That he's been tutoring you on his own time, off the clock. That he's given you more of his attention, patience, and care than you ever had the right to expect. That he's the best, most dedicated teacher you've ever had.

But you don't say a word.

Professor Choi doesn't look up, his fingers shifting through the papers until he lands on a different sheet. "I'm reassigning you. For the final week before the exam, you'll be working with Lee Eunkyung."

You don't even register the name through the roar in your ears.

"I believe I miscalculated, and I apologize for that. I don't think you and Mr. Kim were as good a match as I originally thought, especially considering he's cancelled on you twice. Ms. Lee is much more rigid with her lesson plans, and she has never cancelled a tutoring session for any reason. I expect her structure will bring you back up to speed."

No, your mind starts to scream. No, please, don't reassign me. Your hands twitch with the need to slam them on his desk and confess the truth: your confidence does come from Hongjoong. You'd be failing this class without him. You only bombed this essay because your heart is so shattered that you couldn't bear to write about your memories with him. You need him to succeed. You need your tutor. You need your boyfriend—

And suddenly, your thoughts go blaringly quiet.

What right do you have to call him your boyfriend anymore? 

After what you did to him last night, are you even anything to him at all? 

If you defend him now—if you admit that you skipped the official session to study together in the library—you wouldn't only look like a liar, but you would inevitably invite a line of questioning. Why did you need to work in the library? What was suddenly insufficient about the Language Center? Why did the two of you need to be entirely alone in a private study room? If you defend Hongjoong, your relationship could be exposed. Professor Choi could find out that you violated the university's rules. Hongjoong would be fired on the spot, and who knows what other academic consequences would follow.

You've already broken his heart; you don't want to be the reason he loses his job, too.

Maybe… maybe this is for the best. 

"O-okay…" you whisper.

Professor Choi nods once, shutting the folder. "I'll have Ms. Lee reach out to you via email this afternoon. I certainly hope your final exam goes better than this practice one, ____." 

You swallow. "T-thank you, Professor."

You push your body up from the chair, turning away from his desk before he can see the first tear slip down your cheek. You hurry out of the classroom, not waiting to see if he has anything left to say to you.

The second the door closes behind you, hiding you from his sight, the tears finally break loose. They blur the hallway into a watery, gray abyss as you sink onto that very same bench, realizing you may have just severed your very last tie to Hongjoong. 

For the rest of the day, time drifts by unnoticed. When you finally glance at the time in the corner of your screen, it's already three in the afternoon. You're buried beneath the covers, paralyzed in the same spot you crawled into almost six hours ago, likely leaving a permanent indent in the mattress. Your eyes are starting to burn from hours spent staring at your phone. 

You know you should get up. You need to be productive. You should be checking off homework assignments, studying your vocabulary lists, or practicing how to rewrite that essay into something passable before the real final next week. 

But instead, with a tired sigh, you roll onto your stomach and open your message history with Hongjoong. 

You scroll backward through the weeks, reading through a cluster of texts he sent you just a few days ago—fragments of unedited lyrics for a new verse he's been working to finish. You tap on a saved voice note, holding the speaker close to your ear. His voice fills your room, a little shy and yet so incredibly sweet as he sings a short melody he wanted your opinion on.

A small smile tugs at your lips before disappearing just as quickly. That soft voice captured in the audio file is a stranger compared to the cold one that flinched away from your touch last night. 

You let the phone slip from your hand, falling onto the sheets as you roll onto your back and stare blankly up at the ceiling. Did you really just manage to destroy your relationship with your boyfriend and your position with the best teacher you've ever had in less than twenty-four hours?

Your phone buzzes. You decide to ignore it, dragging a pillow over your face and waiting for the sound to stop.

But then it buzzes again. Then again. And again.

Letting out another sigh—one born more of annoyance than exhaustion—you reach out and flip it over. 

Yeosang: ____, what time are you and Hongjoong coming over? Yunho: WOOOHOOOOO San: good morning Yunho: Morning??? It's 3 in the afternoon, San San: Huh San: Oh San: Shit San: I got back later than I thought I would Yunho: Yeah, because neither of us could find you to take you home. What time did you leave?? San: uhhhhhhh San: I don't remember  Yunho: Where did you even go??? How did you get back??

You watch the screen, waiting for the grey bubble to pop back up, but for some reason, San doesn't reply. The group chat falls silent for a beat before Yeosang cuts back in. 

Yeosang: Anyway. What toppings does Hongjoong like? Is he vegetarian? Gluten-free? Let me know so I can place the order soon.

As you stare at the notifications, your fingers don't move an inch. Why is it so humiliating to type out the words? Why can't you just tell your best friends the truth? 

But deep down, you already know the answer.

They warned you. They quite literally told you at the café that you have a lying problem, saying that nothing good would ever come from choosing the comfort of a secret over the vulnerability of the truth. That sooner or later, it would collapse under its own weight. 

...So why not lean into your "lying problem" a little more?

It makes you sick to realize how effortlessly your mind starts building the next cover-up. Why is it so much easier to hide what you've done than to ask anyone to look at it with you?

Your thumbs move over the keyboard on autopilot, choosing the coward's way out once again.

You: Hey, Hongjoong forgot he has a project due tomorrow, so he'll be working all night. And I woke up with a migraine this morning. We'll have to reschedule, sorry.

You hit send.

Before you can watch the responses roll in or give yourself a chance to regret lying again, you shove your phone under your pillow. Exhaling, you pull the blankets over your shoulders, close your eyes, and try to force yourself back into a dreamless slumber.

But just as the pull of sleep begins to drag you under, your bedroom door handle clicks.

"____?" San's hesitant voice slips through the narrow crack. "Can we come in?"

You tighten your grip on the duvet, yanking it all the way over your head and burying your face into the mattress. "No, San," you mutter, your voice smothered against the sheets. "I'm trying to take a nap. Close the door."

But the hinges whine as the door swings open anyway, flooding your dark bedroom with warm light from the hallway. You hear the squeak of rubber soles stepping inside, followed by two other sets of footsteps behind. And that's when your brain finally registers the pronoun he just used.

We.

You bolt upright in bed, your eyes narrowing as Yunho and Yeosang file into your room right behind San.

"What are you guys doing here?" you snap, pulling the covers tight against you in the hope that they'll conceal the disaster written across your face. Your throat feels raw from crying, and even without a mirror, you know your eyes are red and swollen. "I told you I have a migraine. Get out."

The three of them exchange a glance as Yeosang calmly leans against the edge of your desk, holding up his phone with the pharmacy charge already pulled up.

"For someone who lies this much, you're pretty terrible at it," he says evenly. "Remember when you used my card three days ago to pick up your prescription? Qulipta?" He raises an eyebrow. "You never get migraines when you're taking it."

You stare at him, stunned. A prickling flush of embarrassment rushes to your face as you mutter, "How the hell did you even think to look that up?"

Yeosang gives you a small smirk, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his sweats.

San and Yunho cross the room toward your mattress. They sit down carefully on the edge of the bed, intentionally leaving enough space so you don't feel cornered, but surrounding you all the same.

Yunho leans forward, his eyes scanning your undeniably tear-stained face, swollen eyes, and frowning lips. "Hey," he asks gently, "did something happen with Hongjoong?"

You look away, fixing your stare on the corner of your mattress. Humiliation gathers thickly at the back of your throat; you don't want to talk about it. You don't want them to know. 

"I told you," you say quietly, your voice tight. "He has a project to work on. He's busy tonight." 

None of the boys move.

"____," Yeosang says from your desk. Against your better judgment, you glance up, and he's staring right at you, all traces of playfulness gone from his face. "Tell us the truth."

You hold his gaze for one long second before something inside your chest breaks.

Why do you do this to yourself? Why is lying the first place your mind runs to? What is so fundamentally broken inside you that the second you lose control of a situation, your first instinct is to construct a wall of deception around it—even from the people who care about you enough to walk straight through it?

A tear slips down your cheek.

Yunho crawls up onto the mattress beside you without hesitating. Before you can scoot away, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side-armed hug. You swipe the tear away almost angrily with the back of your hand, trying to pull yourself together.

"I— we—" you start, but your voice gives out as your tears come faster. Embarrassed, you press both palms over your face to hide the pathetic tremble of your lips.

San stretches across the tangled covers, his hand finding its way between your shoulder blades to rub in slow, soothing circles. "It's okay, ____," he murmurs. "It's okay. You can talk to us."

You sniffle wetly, wiping the dampness from your cheeks with your hoodie sleeve before forcing in a breath. 

"Last... last night," you begin, your voice thin, "after you guys left... I didn't go to Hongjoong's apartment."

They don't interrupt you.

"He wanted to see my place," you continue, swallowing the lump in your throat. "And I knew you guys would be gone all night, so... so he came here. We were just studying. And everything was good. Everything was norm—"

Your voice breaks. You stop, squeezing your eyes shut against the memories and taking another deep breath.

"But then Wooyoung showed up."

San's hand stops moving. His fingers stiffen against your spine.

You drop your red-rimmed eyes down to your lap, your fingers uselessly twisting and pulling at your sweatpants. "He wanted his jacket back. The leather one that none of us would touch." A weak laugh escapes your throat. "I said I didn't know where it was. I told him to come back when San was home so he could get it for him, but he... he forced his way in. He said he needed the pocket to hold his camera... something about taking a lot of pictures last night."

Beside you, San sucks in a sharp breath, his body going rigid.

Across the room, Yeosang finally pushes himself away from your desk. Without saying a word, he crosses to the bed and lowers himself to the foot of the mattress, listening intently. 

"He... he didn't say anything direct," you explain, the memory making your stomach churn all over again. "But he implied everything. Every single thing that happened between us. He said terrible things to Joong. And when he left... Joong put the pieces together on his own."

Yunho's arm tightens around you, pulling you against his chest. Over the top of your head, he exchanges a worried look with Yeosang. San slowly pulls his hand back from your spine, letting it drop to his lap.

"I tried to explain everything," you mumble into Yunho's t-shirt. "But he said he didn't care that I was ever with Wooyoung. All he cared about was that I lied. He... he asked me if I would've ever told him the truth if Wooyoung hadn't shown up last night." You swallow hard, tears welling again. "And... and I couldn't answer him. Because I don't think I would've."

A few tears soak into Yunho's shirt. Embarrassed, you press your palms against his shoulders to pull away, not wanting to ruin his clothes, but he refuses to let you go, holding you in place and burying his chin in your hair.

"He left after that," you breathe so quietly that you're not even sure San and Yeosang can hear you. "And now... on top of everything else, Professor Choi reassigned me today. I have a new tutor. I don't even know if I'll ever see him again—"

"Hey, hey, stop," Yunho interrupts, his voice gentle against your hair. "Of course you'll see him again. This is... it's a fight, ____. It's a bad fight, but that doesn't mean it's over."

But you shake your head.

"I don't see how it could be anything less," you say. "He's never been in a relationship before. He’s never trusted anyone the way he trusted me... and I... I think I hurt him a lot." Your fingers curl into Yunho's shirt. "Just like I hurt Wooyoung."

Yunho's chin remains resting against the crown of your head. He doesn't object to your words, doesn't tell you you're wrong, and quite honestly, his silence hurts more than anything he could've said—it confirms that you're right. You broke Hongjoong's heart. 

"Well..." Yeosang carefully speaks up from the foot of the bed after thinking things over. "In all honesty, this might actually be for the best. Hongjoong was bound to find out you lied eventually—"

"Yeosang, not right now," Yunho mutters a warning, tightening his grip around your shoulders.

"Just listen," Yeosang insists, sitting up straight. "You were never going to be able to keep this a secret from him forever, ____. Either you were going to have to confess because the guilt would eat you alive, or he was going to find out on his own, which he just did. I think it's good that the band-aid got ripped off now. You're already together, he already cares about you, but it's still early enough in the relationship that it shouldn't feel like a complete, irredeemable betrayal—"

"But that's exactly what it was," you object, tilting your head away from Yunho's chest to look Yeosang in the eye. "That's why he left! I told you, he doesn't care that I slept with Wooyoung. He cares that I lied about it."

"I understand that. I'm just saying, realistically, this will actually work to your benefit when he forgives—"

"Yeosang, enough."

The bickering stops. Yeosang's lips press into a thin line as he looks away.

Yunho sighs, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. 

"Look at me," he says, and you do. "You know I'm not going to sit here and tell you that you did nothing wrong, because we both know that isn't true. You absolutely should've been honest with him from the beginning." He pauses, his voice softening as he watches another tear track down your cheek. "But you are not a bad person, ____. You... you get this idea in your head. You think you have to be perfect for people to love you. I just wish we could make you realize that we all love your flaws. We love you, not the edited version of you. And... and I know Hongjoong does, too. That's why I'm telling you I don't think this is the end."

"But you weren't there," you whisper, the memories of the previous night threatening to choke you. "You didn't hear the things Wooyoung—"

"Fuck Wooyoung."

The sudden disdain in Yeosang's voice makes you blink through your tears. 

"What he did last night isn't a reflection of you, or even of what you did in the past," Yeosang says, his jaw tight. "His pride has been shattered since the day you rejected him. He wanted to make sure that if he couldn't have you, he was going to ruin your chances with the guy he thinks you chose over him."

Yunho nods. "He's right. And I really think that with a little bit of time and space, Hongjoong will understand why you felt like you needed to hide things from him."

But you aren't so sure if your friends are right this time. You drop your eyes back down to your lap, your thumb aimlessly tracing the stitching on your sheets as you bite your lower lip.

"I don't know, guys..." you whisper. "I... I don't know."

Your bedroom falls quiet as they realize their words aren't reaching you. Yunho slowly resumes rubbing your arm again, his shoulders slumping as he seems to accept that none of their logic and comfort can make this any less unbearable for you.

Minutes pass without anyone saying a word. The four of you remain exactly where you are, suspended in a silence that feels like everyone is waiting for someone else to speak. Yunho's hand keeps grazing your arm. Yeosang sits at the foot of the mattress, his gaze lowered in thought.

Suddenly, you feel San shift beside you. He draws back just an inch, barely moving at all, so subtly that no one notices it but you.

Usually, when you're in pain, San is the loudest person in the room. He's the one who paces around, threatening to kill anyone who hurts his friends. He's done it regarding Wooyoung every time.

But as you sit there, you realize that his soothing circles on your back ceased minutes ago. San hasn't uttered a single word since Wooyoung's name left your lips. 

You shift within Yunho's now-loose embrace, turning your head to peer over your shoulder at the other side of the mattress.

"San?" 

He doesn't look at you.

But your breath catches the second you finally get a clear look at his face. All drops of color have drained from his skin, leaving him a sick and ghostly pale. His hands are trembling in his lap, his fingers twitching in fits against his thighs. He's staring down at the floor, so still that you're not even sure if he's blinking.

"San?" you ask again, worry cutting through your numbness. You reach out a hand, letting your fingers brush his knee. "San, what's wrong?"

Beside you, Yunho releases his hold, sitting up straighter as he follows your gaze. Across the crumpled covers, Yeosang’s head snaps up, his alert eyes locking onto San's bloodless face. 

At the sudden touch of your fingers, San flinches, jerking his leg away from your hand, and before you can process what's happening, he's scrambling backward off the mattress. His sneakers hit the floorboards hard as he stumbles several paces away from the bed.

You yank your hand back against your chest. A scalding wave of embarrassment rushes up your neck and floods your cheeks: San rejected your touch, just as Hongjoong did last night.

"San?" Yunho slides off the mattress quickly, taking a cautious step toward him. "What's going on? Are you having a panic attack? Hey, it's okay. Just breathe in and—"

San cuts him off by slapping a hand over his own mouth. He doesn't look at Yunho; his wide, horrified eyes stay locked on you.

You freeze. "San... what...?"

"I didn't mean to," he whispers from behind his palm. "I'm so sorry, ____... I—I didn't mean to..."

"Didn't mean to what?" Yunho asks, deep creases of confusion furrowing his brows. He stops walking, as if something in San's voice warned him not to come any closer.

San shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, ____... I can't believe I let..." He trails off, his shoulders rising and falling too fast as he struggles to drag in air.

From the foot of the bed, Yeosang slowly stands. "San," he says, his voice terrifyingly calm. "What did you do?"

San drops his hand from his mouth. "Fuck," he whispers hoarsely. "Fuck, I... I shouldn't have gotten so drunk." He drags both palms over his face, then buries his fingers deep into his hair. The ghostly pallor of his skin is suddenly overtaken by a splotchy red creeping up his neck. "I shouldn't have," he breathes again. "I shouldn't have—"

"Where did you say you went last night?" Yeosang cuts him off.

San squeezes his eyes shut. He can't seem to stop shaking his head. 

"He didn't respond," Yunho slowly answers for him, his gaze flicking between the three of you. "But what does that have to do with—"

"I didn't know!" San bursts out, his hands dropping from his hair as he takes one desperate step toward you. "____, I swear to fucking god, I didn't know. If I had known he'd just fucked everything up for you again, I would've killed him." His voice cracks. "I swear, I would've killed him."

Your body goes completely still beneath the covers.

"What?" Your head spins as you look from Yeosang to Yunho, searching their faces for some sort of explanation, some missing piece you don't understand since you weren't with them last night. But they look just as lost as you are. "San, what are you talking about? You... you saw Wooyoung last night?"

All the color drains from his face again. His throat works around a hard swallow, but no words come out.

Yeosang takes a cautious step closer to him. "The last time I saw you at the party..." he starts quietly. His voice is calm as ever, but you can see it happening—he's arranging the details of the night in his head, one piece sliding into place after another. "You went looking for the bathroom. But then you never came back to the kitchen."

Yeosang casts a brief glance over his shoulder at you, but you can only offer a blank, helpless stare back. You have no idea what's happening. 

"Where did you go, San?"

San buries his face in his hands. "Fuck, I... I walked in on him," his muffled, guilt-ridden voice confesses. "Someone told me the bathroom was the third door down the hall, but... I don't know, maybe I heard them wrong? Maybe they gave me the wrong door? Maybe I was too fucking drunk to count? But... but when I opened that door, he was right there."

Yunho and Yeosang exchange a fleeting look across the mattress, but you can't take your eyes off San. Your mind is beginning to spin out of control. They were at the same party? The party Wooyoung needed his jacket for was the same one your friends were at?

"He... he was with two girls," San winces, his hands dragging down his face to reveal skin flushed with red. "When ____ said he needed the jacket because of his camera... it was set up in the corner of the room." He swallows hard. "I think he was filming it."

A wave of nausea rolls through you, and for a moment, you think you might be sick. Thatwas what Wooyoung meant? That was why he forced his way into your dorm? That was the reason he ruined everything between you and Hongjoong? Just so he could go film himself having a fucking threesome?

"When he saw me, he... he just smirked," San mutters, grinding his teeth together. "Like a fucking asshole. I was so drunk, I wanted to punch that look right off his face. Just thinking about all the shit he's pulled, I lost it. I shouted at him. I think I scared the girls, because they ran out of the room, but... all I remember is screaming. Calling him a disgusting piece of shit. He started yelling back, and... and I punched him. Right in the jaw."

He stops, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stares down at the floor. You look from San over to Yunho, and then down to Yeosang. For one strange second, the three of you seem to share the exact same expression: confusion.

"Okay..." Yunho says slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "So... you fought him? San... uh... that makes sense. Honestly, we all want to punch him. Why are you freaking out? You were defending ____."

San shakes his head, burying his face back into his hands. "Because... because..."

The three of you wait, suspended in a state of bewilderment. Why? Why would punching Wooyoung leave San this distraught?

"Fuck," San mutters under his breath. He wipes his palms down his face one last time before forcing himself to stand up straight, bracing his shoulders. "I... I need to tell you guys something."

Yeosang's eyes narrow in immediate suspicion. "...Okay."

"San, you're scaring me," Yunho says, his anxious eyes darting between everyone in the room. 

You stay silent, your eyes glued to San's deathly pale face.

"This was always supposed to stay a secret," he whispers, his voice shaking as he burns a hole into the floor. "Especially... especially after everything that's happened with ____." He takes a deep breath, his knuckles clenching at his sides. "Wooyoung and I... we..." His face twists with shame. "Shit. Okay. Fuck. At the beginning of the semester... Wooyoung and I used to hook up."

The whole room goes still.

What the fuck?

You stare at San.

San, who is now incapable of meeting your gaze.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears before it suddenly starts to boil.

"You what?" Yeosang's voice cracks. The sound is so rare, so unlike him, that you flinch. His eyes are wider than you've ever seen them, horrified by the words that just left his best friend's mouth. "You used to hook up with Wooyoung? The Wooyoung I introduced you to?" 

"What the fuck?" Yunho sputters, his jaw dropping. "What—San? I thought... what the hell?" He takes half a step back, staring at San like he's looking at a stranger. "But everything he did to ____... him? I—I thought you were fucking straight!"

"Well—I wouldn't go that far," Yeosang says automatically, though his eyes remain blown wide and his voice still shakes with disbelief. "But, San—was this... was this happening often? Because the three of us were always together at the beginning of the semester."  

San swallows nervously, his throat working around a hard lump as his eyes stay glued to the floor, refusing to land on any of you. "I mean... shit. Yeah? A few times? Just... secretly," he adds quickly. "Only when we were drunk. It... it was never supposed to be a thing, okay? It was just—fuck. It was embarrassing. We were all supposed to be friends, and I didn't know how to tell you guys, so... I didn't. But.. yeah." He exhales, his voice bleeding with shame. "Yeah, it happened." 

You feel your stomach drop straight through the mattress, the bed frame, the floor, down through every level of your building, until it finally hits the concrete lobby below. You stare at San in shock, numbness prickling all the way to the very tips of your fingers.

"San..." you breathe, the memories beginning to flash before your eyes. "That night... when he was here, in our dorm... he said he came to see me. But... but you two... were you...?"

"No!" San shouts immediately, shaking his head so hard his hair whips across his forehead. "No, ____, no! I was confused why he was even here! I was trying my best to act normal because... because by then, we hadn't done anything in—what? A month?" His eyes finally meet yours, pleading. "I promise, it was over. I swear."

But your mind is already racing backward, recontextualizing every interaction you've witnessed between them over the past few weeks. 

When the three of you were here, in your living room, fighting over your phone, Wooyoung laughed and said he'd never seen someone so desperate to keep a hookup a secret. He sneered about never seeing someone fight so hard to protect their reputation. You remember the unreadable look that passed between them right before San defended you, telling Wooyoung you weren't 'that kind of girl.' And you remember Wooyoung's response—that people could be more than one thing—and San's response that not everyone was. 

In the alleyway outside the bar, when a drunk Wooyoung started threatening to reveal everything you liked in bed, San exploded, yelling that not everything was about who's fucking who, and that sex was the only goddamn thing Wooyoung ever thought about.

That same night, right before Wooyoung walked away, he stopped dead in front of San and told him he wasn't there for him. You remember San growling back that Wooyoung's manipulation might've worked in the past, but he wasn't going to let it work on you. 

Every protective word. Every time San threatened to kill Wooyoung on your behalf.

It hadn't only been about you. 

"That night—Yunho's birthday party..." San's voice suddenly drops. "That was the last night we were ever really... normal around each other. Friends. He was the one who drove me home, and we... we talked. We hadn't hooked up in a while by then, and I told him that I didn't want to do it anymore. Ever. I told him I hated keeping secrets from you guys." A humorless huff of a laugh scrapes out of him before his jaw clenches. "He didn't care, obviously. He doesn't fucking care about anything except sex." 

He spits the words out so bitterly that Yunho and Yeosang quietly exchange another loaded glance. Your mind races faster, your stomach twisting around a new thought. 

Was it more than a hookup for San?

"And then..." he continues, his voice shaking with repressed emotion. "Then we found out everything he did to you, ____. And I cut him off for good. I was so fucking furious with him. I knew he was an asshole, but I didn't know he was that bad." His face crumples. "I hated his guts, and I still do, I swear. I wanted nothing to do with him ever again, and I... I just didn't want you guys to know. I didn't want you to know that I'd ever..."

He trails off, unable to finish. His eyes finally lift from the floor and meet yours.

They're burning with desperation.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I should've been honest with all of you. But especially you, ____."

And that's when the final piece clicks into place.

You realize what's happening because right now, San's mind is operating exactly like yours. You know firsthand—from the still-smoldering ashes of your relationship with Hongjoong—that San wouldn't be standing here voluntarily revealing his most guarded secret unless something else had already caught him in a much bigger, much more dangerous lie.

The truth hangs in the dead air between you and San. You know. And from the way his face burns when he looks at you, he knows that you've figured it out, too.

"San..." you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Last night..."

He breaks eye contact, his chin falling to his chest.

"After I punched him, he was so angry," he says hoarsely. "At me, at you, at... at Hongjoong, I don't even fucking know. He swung back, and we were both so drunk, we couldn't stop fighting... and then we just..." His face twists with self-disgust. "I don't even remember most of it. It just... it just happened. Right there, in that room."

He gulps hard as he looks away, staring at the wall.

"And his fucking camera caught all of it." 

All three of you go horrifyingly silent. 

"I don't know why the hell I did it," he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his welling tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not who I am. I was so drunk, and so angry, and the entire time... the entire time, he'd just left your apartment. He'd just ruined your relationship with Hongjoong... and I fucking slept with him again."

His hands fall from his face, and when he looks at you again, it's with a face wrecked by guilt.

"There's no excuse. I'm the worst friend in the world," he whispers, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry, ____. I'm so fucking sorry."

Beside your bed, Yunho and Yeosang remain frozen. Their jaws are slack, their faces caught between horror, confusion, and a borderline disgust neither of them can quite manage to hide.

You can feel the anticipation humming in the room. Everyone is bracing themselves, waiting for you to explode. Any second now, they expect you to scream, to start throwing pillows, to kick San out of the dorm, and to sob about how this is the worst betrayal he could've possibly committed.

And maybe you should. 

Wooyoung—the very person who talked you into things you never truly wanted, who drunkenly cornered you in an alley, who forced his way into your dorm and just ruined your relationship with Hongjoong—was tangled in the sheets with one of your best friends a mere twelve hours ago. At the same time your heart was shattering, your roommate was in bed with the cause of your misery.

By every conceivable law of human nature, you should be furious.

But as you sit there beneath the covers, staring at San, taking in every guilty word he just confessed... the anger never comes.

"____," Yunho says carefully, his voice laced with panic as he waits for your reaction. "Hey... are... are you...?"

"I'm not mad."

Every head in the room snaps toward you. San pulls his hands away from his face, staring at you like he misheard what you said.

"What?" he breathes, practically choking on his own shame. "____, you—you should be. I... what I did was fucking disgusting—"

"I'm not mad, San," you repeat flatly. Slowly, you sink back against your pillows, finally tearing your eyes away from him to stare blankly ahead of you. "I get it."

He looks at you as if you've lost your mind.

Yeosang's brows draw together. "You... get it?" 

"Yeah." A bitter smile pulls at your lips. "I get it."

Yunho blinks at you. "____, I... I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings here, but..." His bewildered eyes dart from you to San, then back again. "What the fuck?" 

You just shake your head weakly. "He kept it a secret because he was ashamed," you say. "And because after all the shit Wooyoung put me through, San knew it was too messy, too wrong, and too late to ever admit the truth without changing the way everyone looked at him."

San flinches, but you keep going, your voice strangely calm.

"Then last night, he was drunk and angry, and he lost control. He gave in to an impulse and did something he regrets. And now the evidence of it is apparently caught on camera. Wooyoung's camera, no less. He knew we were probably going to find out about it eventually. Which means he knew he was trapped."

You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around your shins.

"I did the same thing," you whisper. "I lied to Hongjoong. I chose to keep everything a secret. I dug a hole so deep that it also became too messy, too wrong, and too late to ever get out of it." Your voice lowers, becoming even more distant. "But the difference is, I waited. I let everything collapse on top of Hongjoong because my proof showed up at the front door. San realized his proof could come out someday, so he chose to confess before it did."

You swallow, looking down at your knees. 

"Wooyoung was my proof. And apparently, he's San's too."

All three boys stare at you.

"I'm really not mad at you, San. Because if I'm mad at you for this... what the hell does that make me? I'm just as bad, if not worse. At least you told us before we found out on our own."

"____, stop," Yunho says suddenly. The mattress shifts as he slides back onto the bed, his hands reaching for your shoulders, trying to pull you back into his arms. "Don't say that. Don't do that to yourself."

But you resist his hug, your body stiffening beneath his hands.

The fact that you aren't angry terrifies you. What kind of person are you becoming? Have you always been like this? Are you so desensitized to deception, so deeply entrenched in the instinct to hide your imperfections, that you can look one of your friends in the eye after he slept with the worst person you know and calmly say I understand?

What is broken inside you that makes betrayal and lies feel familiar instead of wrong?

Maybe Hongjoong was right. Maybe it was all just an exam to you. Maybe you've spent your whole life treating everything around you like a test to be passed: school, friendships, your reputation, success, failure, control... and now, even love. Every mistake had to be hidden before anyone else could see it. Every flaw had to be corrected before it could be judged. Everything you presented to the world had to be controlled.

You tried so hard to be perfect that you stopped trying to be honest, and now, you've lost Hongjoong because of it. 

"I think you guys should leave," you whisper into your knees.

"We're not leaving you here like this," Yeosang argues, sounding uncharacteristically worried.

"Please." Your eyelids fall shut. "I just... I want to sleep. I don't want to talk about any of this anymore."

No one answers. For several grueling minutes, you can feel them watching you, unsure of what to do, but you refuse to open your eyes again. 

Eventually, the mattress shifts. You hear the rustle of clothes and the reluctant sound of footsteps moving toward your bedroom door. One person lingers behind for a long time, standing near the edge of your mattress. His breath hitches in his throat over and over like he's trying to find the right words to say, but it seems he never does. Soon, the door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the dark.

For a while, you don't move. You sit there, curled in the ruins of your own making, knowing that while San's confession should've made you angry, should've given you someplace else to put the hurt... all it did was hold up a mirror.

Your phone is still buried beneath your pillow, and it's been silent since your friends arrived. No messages. No sign that Hongjoong is anywhere close to wanting to hear from you. 

You didn't lose him because of San, and you didn't lose him because of Wooyoung.

You lost Hongjoong entirely because of yourself, and now, you realize that getting him back might not be the same thing as making it right.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

You love your life. 

You love that you can wake up whenever you want, and that you have no set schedule to live by. The only deadlines you have to worry about are the ones you make for yourself. You love your beautiful apartment that you didn’t need anyone else’s help to get, and that it is so close to everything in the city. You love not worrying about money anymore. You get to live however you deem fit, taking life one day at a time. Everything in your life is by your own design. Honestly? It’s a dream. 

And it’s easy money, giving men a fantasy for the night. 

That’s what you sell, the idea of you. In everyday life, you don’t pout nearly as much as you do on camera, nor do you talk as sweetly to strangers. Some of them, though, aren’t strangers to you anymore. You recognize their usernames and their donations, especially the ones who have been fans of yours since you started, and the ones who pay for your highest tiered subscription. Twenty-five dollars a month just to jerk off to your exclusive content. Ah, men. 

Your fanbase has grown and grown, skyrocketing somewhat recently when you convinced Yeosang, your hot guy friend, to join you in one of your videos. He’d worn a face mask to protect his identity, but it had been so obvious that he’s attractive even with it on. The black tank top left little to the imagination as your audience watched the muscles in his arms flex as his strong hands fingered you over and over again while he talked you through each orgasm. It was a rather simple video, with no actual sex. Regardless, that became one of your most viewed videos even though it was an exclusive, and the video that ended up paying for this apartment. Men and women alike scrambled to type in their credit card information to see it, boosting not only your ego, but your bank account as well. You gave Yeosang a decent sized chunk of your earnings, seeing as he was in the video too.  

His whole face had turned red when you showed him the number of views, hiding behind his hands for good measure. He’s always been shy, it was a damn miracle you even got him to do it in the first place. 

Since then, you’ve been living quite comfortably. Yeosang, too. Despite your efforts to convince him to create his own account for people to subscribe to, he’s maintained his ‘innocence’. However, recently he’s been asking you more and more about the details and dynamics of running an account like yours. You’re almost afraid to jinx it, like if you ask him outright if he’s thinking about it, he’ll forget the whole thing and never do it. Who are you to potentially accidentally deny the general paying population of your hot friend? 

He may become even more popular than me, you think to yourself, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

You glance at your laptop, its camera trained at a specific angle towards your empty bed, and you peek at how many people are waiting for your livestream to start. Friday nights are always good to pull in larger crowds, and tonight is no different. 

Nine hundred, and climbing. 

Whoa.

You let out a low whistle at the number, the highest you’ve ever seen it just for the amount of people waiting. You’re not even due to start for another ten minutes. The number shifts around a couple times, losing some, and gaining more every minute. For the first time in a while, you start to feel a little self-conscious. This newfound fame is still just that: new. Even though you can’t see the audience you’ve gathered, you still feel that there are nine hundred pairs of eyes on you in your bedroom. There’s a nervous flutter in your chest that you can’t seem to shake off in the dwindling minutes before your stream begins. 

With only two minutes left, you flit around your room, double checking how you look in your mirror, fixing your hair and makeup, and adjusting one of the straps to the lingerie you picked out for the evening. You sit prettily on the bed, taking a few moments before you start to center yourself, taking deep breaths and focusing on getting your head clear for tonight’s performance. 

A ‘performance’ is basically all it is.   

Your fingers hover over the trackpad of your laptop, counting down the seconds until there are none left, and you click “Go Live”. 

As usual, you allow about ten seconds to go by, waiting for more to join once they get the notification that the stream has started. You read the sudden influx of chat, smiling when you see familiar usernames and knowing that rent will be covered for the next couple of months, just by their presence here. If you wanted something, all you had to do was ask for it. Someone in the chat will gladly donate however much you need – and then some – just for the chance to hear you read their username and thank them in your sweet voice. 

So easy.  

You saturate your greeting with honey, looking up into the laptop camera, eyes round and innocent. 

“Hi, everyone,” you sing, giggling for all of the people vying for your attention. Each comment is sent with the hope that you’ll read it out. Some send tips already, small amounts mostly in the single digits, but there are a couple of doubles sent your way already. The tip counter in the upper corner of the screen increases steadily with each donation as they come. Compliments, questions, requests, and general niceties move up the screen in a constant staccato, making room for the next. 

You lean back on your hands, pretending that you don’t know what you’re doing with this angle. The camera is angled down, providing an almost perfect POV shot for the audience. The fantasy begins immediately. You uncross your legs, feigning shyness. 

“My day was okay, thank you,” you purr, knowing you just made someone nearly cream their pants by answering their question. “But… I’ve just been so lonely.” 

You pout, right on cue to accompany your words. Instantly, the comment section floods with volunteers to cure you of your loneliness. Each one promises they can fix it, that they’ll be there for you, that they’ll never leave. It’s flattering, but none of them really mean it. Maybe they think they do, but again none of them really know you. You doubt most of them want to get to the very root of you and figure you out. No, most if not all just want to get into your pants to say that they have. Bragging rights. 

[user75846] will yeo be joining you?

You read the comment aloud, shaking your head in quiet defeat. “No, it’s just me tonight.” 

Some comments beg for his return, others are happy that it’s just you – the jealous types – and the rest are simply impatient to see your body. Your hand trails across the hem of your flimsy, sheer tank top you chose to wear for the evening. It leaves little to the imagination. The quiet pinging of more money being donated motivates you further. You sigh, looking up into the camera again. 

“I’ve been so sad and lonely all day… you guys will help me, right?” 

You pull your shirt down just a little more, showcasing your cleavage while keeping your face as innocent as possible. The comments spike again, but you don’t pay attention to them anymore. Your hand travels farther up to your mouth, fingers threatening to slip between your glossy lips. Twelve hundred people watch and wait. You hum, parting your lips slightly but not quite giving them the visual they want. Not yet. There’s no rush – not for you, at least. But one comment catches your eye because of its impatience.   

[mntn3000]: start.

Very blunt. You don’t recognize the username as one of your regulars or subscribers. Whoever this is must be new. You’ve run and maintained a rather strict program with your subscribers when it comes to what they say in the live chat – politeness being one of the main rules. The lack of a ‘please’ to sweeten the demand nearly twists your face into something less angelic. Maybe whoever this user is is already close, unable to finish his sentence before he finishes himself. You bet once you take your shirt off he’ll blow his load and leave. It happens. For now, you’ll have fun with him. Teach this newcomer some manners. 

You dip your fingers in, tongue peeking out to greet them into your mouth. The amount of comments slows just a little, silently telling you that some of your viewers are beginning to work themselves up along with you. 

“Oh dear… ‘mntn3000’ just said ‘start’. No ‘please’? Will someone let him know how this works?” You keep your voice sugary, making sure everyone knows you aren’t hurt or being stuck-up, but that you’re rather amused at the comment. 

Almost immediately, upon request, you see one of your regulars tag the newcomer in a message explaining the chat rules. 

“Thank you, Woo,” you hum, lifting your shirt up even more, just for him, to show your gratitude. Your hand lingers near your breast, a small shudder running through your body as you graze your nipple. 

‘Woo’, your nickname for him from his username, has become somewhat of an anonymous friend to you. He’s subscribed to your highest level tier and the VIP extras that you offer, including private shows and a group chat on Discord. He’s always the first to step in if someone says something out of line or disrespectful in any way. Your own personal guard dog. 

Whoever he is, ‘mntn3000’ doesn’t say anything to Woo’s message. 

Fourteen hundred people now. 

You hum again, resisting the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You love the attention. And after doing a rough estimate in your head how much money you’ll make tonight, it just makes you want to put on an even better show. 

“If you want something…” you purr, taking your shirt off completely. The comments erupt. “Ask nicely~” you tease, giggling to yourself.

A donation pops up immediately, the sum of which nearly makes you gape.   

[mntn3000] has donated $500 

Well… that’s certainly nice. 

[mntn3000]: start, kitten

That’ll do it. 

You’re quick to control your reaction to the generous donation. However, now you can’t help but feel like you’re performing under pressure. Some of your other patrons comment on it, but you’re on autopilot now. 

One more deep breath in and your tight little shorts soon join your shirt on the floor. 

You exhale audibly, turning the breath into a quiet moan as your hand continues to explore your own body. This time, you don’t tease when your fingers come back up to your mouth, accepting them immediately. Your free hand finds its way to your neglected chest, kneading the warm skin. It’s easy to pretend that the touch belongs to someone else’s manipulation. 

It’s more than just a little confusing for you to immediately imagine it’s Yeosang, if not friendship-wise. The two of you have mutually agreed that you’re platonic. The collaboration was just… a friend helping a friend. Moreso than the views and money you earned from it, you’re thankful that there is no awkwardness between you two in the aftermath of it. When you had switched the camera off, he had even joked about graduating to another level of friendship, or something like that. You can’t remember exactly right now, you’re a bit preoccupied. 

You pry your eyes open to read the chat, wanting to know if they’re enjoying the view so far. 

[user92834]: i keep expecting yeo to show up ㅠㅠ  i miss him

You whine, only able to nod once or twice. “I miss Yeo, too.” 

Now you’re playing with fire. Multiple people in the chat remind you of their personal favorite parts of that video, giving you a much needed visual to get yourself off. Is it wrong? To use memories of your best friend ‘platonically’ overstimulating you for the better part of an hour? Maybe. You think you just need to get laid soon. Admittedly, it’s been rather long since you have been. Longer than most of your viewers will ever believe.  

“I wish someone was here to help me,” you blink slowly into the camera, pouting again. 

Your artificial patheticness is like a siren call to these men. It seems that every single one of your viewers suddenly comes alive, flooding the chat and your donations box all at once, each claiming that they should be the one to help you next time. That they have what it takes. 

Except one. 

You haven’t seen that ‘mntn3000’ guy’s username pop up since he sent the generous donation earlier. You wonder if he’s still watching. Maybe he’s embarrassed from earlier. 

Whatever. He’s more likely just another background viewer. You probably won’t hear from him again. 

Pushing the thought away, you start to finally trail your hand down your stomach to lightly circle your clit. Your hooded eyes flicker up to the screen, making sure everything’s in view. Satisfied with what you see, you resume touching yourself, continuing to loudly suck on your fingers for good measure. 

[user82392] has donated $5

[user01743] has donated $20

[puppyu.u] has donated $50

[mars9843] has donated $50 

[puppyu.u] has donated $100

You can’t help but smile, watching the silent competition between your viewers. Every time someone ups the amount they’re willing to drop on you, there’s dozens more who are willing to match it. You feel like you’re at auction. Who will win in the end? Usually, it’s one of your regulars, the ones with access to the private Discord, who come out on top. You’re betting on ‘puppyu.u’ tonight. He seems like he has something to prove. 

No one’s quite willing to match ‘mntn3000’’s five hundred dollar starting offer just yet. 

You get the feeling that everyone who regularly competes here silently agrees to just… ignore it. Everyone here spoils you, of course. But dropping five hundred dollars straight out the gate is a blatant power move that seems intent to undermine most of the others in here in one fell swoop. 

But he’s quiet now. Maybe he spent all he had in one go. It happens sometimes. Rarely, but sometimes. 

You’re not sure why you’re so hung up on this random user. You’re not used to being caught off guard like this. Closing your eyes so no one can see you roll them, you decide to not think about him anymore. 

And you have just the thing for it. 

While they spend money to achieve imagined dominance over the others in the chat, you reach just offscreen to grab your favorite dildo. It’s a fan-favorite as well. You scoot a little farther back on the bed, finally taking your fingers out of your mouth and replacing it with the head of the dildo. You sigh around it, like you’re content, grateful to have something in your mouth again. In reality, this is just so that it goes inside of you easier.   

This time, you don’t make them wait. 

The blunt head of the toy slips inside easily, and you fight to keep your head up so everyone can see your reaction to it. Halfway in, you give up. Head back, a visible shudder runs through your body that has the donation notifications ringing like crazy. Around this point in your little show, you’ll pay less and less attention to the chat, only focusing on the pleasure you’re creating for yourself. 

But this time, something’s off. 

No matter what you do, you can’t seem to find that specific angle that makes you cum. Not even playing with your clit seems to be any help. You try to relax, to see if maybe you’re too tense to feel anything, but it’s quite hard to relax when you’re this frustrated already. You’re not about to let the audience know that, but it’s discouraging. You don’t like to lie, but again, it’s all part of a performance. A fake, tailored show to sell a fantasy version of you. The one who always comes for whoever is watching, the one who is just so insatiable for each individual person watching.  

At one point, you obtain false hope. You hit an angle that nearly does it for you, getting you closer than you were before to that sweet edge. It’s so close you can almost taste it, quickening your pulse and electrifying every vein in your body. There’s an ache in your wrist that is starting to become strained and uncomfortable, and your eyebrows furrow together to try and maybe will an orgasm into existence. And yet the payoff evades you completely.  

You make a sharp, high-pitched noise out of frustration, which hopefully comes across as ecstacy instead. You’re not even enjoying it anymore, and your hand begins to slow down the pumps of the dildo as your fake moans increase again. There’s a trick you know to make your legs look like they’re realistically shaking from an orgasm – learned by ego-boosting one too many failed relationships and one night stands in the past – and you use it now. 

Ugh. 

The toy slips out of you, and you blearily toss it next to you on the bed. You let the audience watch the slowing rise and fall of your chest as your breaths even out. 

What the fuck was that? You think to yourself, tilting your head back to hide your look of confusion. You’re kind of nervous to look at what people are saying in the chat, worried that they somehow caught onto the fact that you faked it. Without any proof, you conjure up images of cancellation, accusations, name-calling, every possible and yet unrealistic bad thing that could potentially happen. 

Steeling yourself as best you can, you straighten and take a look at the chat. 

All worries melt away at once as soon as you notice the heart emojis that flood the comment section. You’re not sure when this started, nor do you know who began the trend, but it has turned into something similar to applause at the end of a stream. A cute signal that they enjoyed the show. You smile at the screen, even laughing a little from relief. Time and time again, you’re proven to be loved no matter what. 

There are a few more donations, although they’ve slowed down now that you’re done. You push your hair back, taking the time to slowly breathe in and out as you read the comments. Most of them tell you how hard you made them bust, which earns you a few more dollars. Still, there’s one username you’re stuck on that you’re not seeing. Not yet. You hope you’re not being obvious, waiting for it to reappear. Maybe with some manners and patience this time. Your eyes stay locked on the corner of the screen.

It’s after you blow a puff of air up towards your hair to move it out of your face that he reappears. Maybe your impatience was received loud and clear to him. 

He only sends one word. Four letters. 

[mntn3000]: cute 

[mntn3000] has donated $1000

[mntn3000] has left the stream

Huh. Your spinning head almost registers that. A good thing about streaming is that you’re not exactly on a time limit. You can take as much time as you need to to calm down and regroup before addressing your audience again. Most will leave during this time, and that’s alright too. Your devoted viewers will stay, still seeking out your attention, praise, and appreciation. You always thank them for watching and of course, donating. 

“There’s thousands of others you could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for choosing me. I hope I made it worth it.” 

In the middle of catching your breath, you manage a small grin into the camera. With a whispered, ‘goodnight’, and a kiss blown straight to your audience, you end the live and flop backwards on your bed. Another job well done. Another year of rent earned. 

You force yourself to move after five minutes, showering, changing into new, comfier clothes and taking your makeup off in the bathroom until it’s just you in the mirror, and not the character. It’s not until you’re brushing your teeth that you realize how tired you are from that live, nearly drifting off with the toothbrush still in your mouth. Head about to hit the wall, you jerk back to stand upright and finish up quickly. You can practically hear your bed calling your name.   

A text from Yeosang lights up your phone, halfway buried underneath a pillow. You pull it out and stand by your bed to read it. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: another successful day at the office?

You can’t help but grin, burying yourself under the covers and texting him back quickly. 

[y/n🌸]: another small fortune 🥱

[yeoyeo🌻]: still wanna hang out tomorrow?

[yeoyeo🌻]: or is the princess too tired 

[y/n🌸]: stfu 😂

[y/n🌸]: yes pls i miss you :( 

[yeoyeo🌻]: fine fine 

[yeoyeo🌻]: i’ll be over at noon 

[yeoyeo🌻]: you better be awake -.- 

[y/n🌸]: goodnight pretty boy!

[yeoyeo🌻]: 🖕🏻

[yeoyeo🌻]: goodnight 

Exiting the messages app, you reach over to the nightstand and grab your laptop from its perch, keen on transferring your earnings into your bank account as soon as possible. Luckily, the site you use makes it rather easy, just a click of a button, but this time around, you take a second to look at the number in the corner. 

$14,601. 

You whistle lowly at the sight of it. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars for thirty minutes of ‘work’. If you spend and save wisely, you’ll never have to set foot in an office for as long as you live. 

Laptop set aside for the time being, you make a mental note to try and fit in some pilates tomorrow morning before Yeosang comes over. There are certain things you try to do to maintain your beauty and health, especially if the rewards look like this number. The sore muscles, cutting off sugar, and time spent trying to match your wing eyeliner are worth it. Almost… you do miss sugar quite a bit and are prone to cheat if tempted.  

You quickly do the math in the calculator app to see how exponentially your bank account is about to grow once the transfer is complete. The total makes you smile ear to ear. Already, you’re thinking of more ideas, ways to keep everyone interested… but also… maybe a vacation. A first class flight to anywhere in the world seems more than desirable. Maybe tomorrow you’ll ask Yeosang if he’d like to come too. The thought excites you, making you want to stay up and look at potential destinations. 

Closing out of the calculator and banking apps, you’re just about to go on TikTok to look through your ‘dream vacay’ folder, when a notification directs your eyes upward. It’s from your email, but it's no promotional message from one of the many stores you shop at, nor is it spam. 

The sender is simply ‘H.J Kim’, accompanied by three words in the subject line: ‘Exclusive Collaboration Offer’. 

That certainly piques your interest, although it could just be a scam. Since you don’t have an agent, you’ve learned the hard way how to filter out those who just wish to take your hard-earned – well… earned – money away from you. When you were just starting out, you had to change numerous passwords more than once. You’re on a first-name-basis with your bank. Usually, you ignore emails like this, but something draws you to it. In what you can see of the preview, the sender doesn’t use more words than he has to, and the word choice seems rather official. Not as scammy as you’re used to. 

Hesitant, but intrigued at what this offer could possibly entail, you click on it to see what the rest of the email says.

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

I hope you are doing well. My name is Kim Hongjoong and I am a Talent Agent with Afterdark Productions, representing Choi San. We have been admiring your work for a while now, and would love to extend an offer for a collaboration between the two of you. 

If accepted, I will be more than happy to disclose more information regarding the details of the shoot as well as beginning the process of arranging transportation and accommodation. Please feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will respond as quickly as I can. 

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to the possibility of working together. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

You sit up, suddenly needing more air. 

Choi San. 

Just his name makes your thighs clench together under the plush comforter.

You make a noise somewhere between an exhalation and a laugh of disbelief. You reread it a couple more times, making sure you’re reading it correctly. There’s simply no way someone like Choi San knows you exist, and if he does, then how? Sure, you’re gaining popularity on cam platforms, but you didn’t think the industry on the other side of the coin would take notice. Maybe you’ve just been naive. It’s essentially the same thing but without a script or team involved. You do everything yourself — the lights, the camera, the action. The idea of even attempting what ‘Afterdark’ is known for is quite daunting. The thought of potentially meeting San even more so. 

Everyone knows Choi San. 

Somewhat of a respected micro-celebrity, he is currently revolutionizing the stigma around adult videos and being an adult actor. Breaking stereotypes, barriers, and backs. Impressive. It also helps that he has adonis-like features and a smile that can universally melt hearts. Very helpful, indeed. 

It’s still not fully clicking that you’ve been offered a chance to work with him. Not yet. Most likely, it’ll hit you in the morning when you check your phone for the millionth time, making sure you didn’t just dream this all up in a post-orgasmic haze. Each time you reread it, the words stay the same. The name jumps out at you. 

“Fuckin’ hell…” you whisper, pressing your palm to your mouth, reading the email over just one more time. That’s what you tell yourself anyway. 

A collaboration… you assume that means on his turf. On his side of the industry, anyway. Your mouth dries. Are you even up for this? 

A visual learner all your life, you find yourself opening a private browser and looking up a porn site you know has posted a couple of San’s videos. For research. Literally. Your thought process is to refresh your memory, imagine yourself in the actress’ place and discern whether or not you think you can handle what this offer entails. You pick the very first result after you enter his name in the search box, and settle back against your pillows, nervously biting your nails as the video begins. 

It starts off like many others of its kind, a flashy montage of what’s to come – pun unfortunately intended – to entice viewers to keep watching. You skip ahead, like many do, not caring for whatever ‘plot’ has been thrown together to justify why these two hot people are sleeping together this time. Although, from the clips you do see as the video jumps ahead, inching closer to the real action, you have to admit he’s a decent actor. You stop skipping through it towards the end of their conversation, landing at the proposition and steadily rising scripted passion. 

San steps closer to the actress, really getting into her space, and holding eye contact the whole time. The type that would make any girl melt. It’s not fiery or intimidating, no, it’s something much worse. 

Desire. 

He mumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch, too focused on how his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her in closer. What startles you is how… almost vulnerable he looks. Attentive. His head tilted down slightly, looking at her through his eyelashes, enchanting her so effortlessly as his hands gently wander. You cross an arm over your chest, eyes still fixated on the phone screen. You’re getting affected this much just watching him look at her like that? How the hell will you possibly be able to handle it in real life? The short answer is: you probably won’t. 

Because the next time you skip, impatience gnawing at you to just see and know what he does, you’re thrown right into the fray. 

The camera is almost cinematic, capturing precise angles where everything can be seen, the lighting low and sensual. They’re on a large bed, and San has taken the time to place one of the pillows under her head as well as her hips. A blindfold covers the actress’ eyes, but you can tell right away she’s been steadily crying through the fabric. Her hands tighten in his hair, his mouth latches onto one of her breasts, and his hand between her legs where quiet, constant, wet sounds are being drawn from. Still, he looks earnest. Genuine. Like he cares about her pleasure, and wants to make sure she’s getting just as much out of this experience as he will. At this point, you’re sure the script is thrown out the window, because the way he talks to her, so soft and sincere, praising her closer and closer to the edge, is something that no scriptwriter could come up with. No, this was pure San. 

When she’s close, she tells him immediately and he changes nothing. He whispers the same praises, keeps his hand at the same pace and angle, reaching deep and curling up over and over, coaxing her body to release. The automated subtitles are no help, so you turn the volume up just a bit more, so you can hear him clearly. He must’ve been edging her because she starts begging him, trying to not pull his hair out at the roots. He simply covers her mouth with a free hand and leans over her, giving her permission to let go for him. 

She shudders violently, thighs pressing into the sides of his body to prevent him from moving. He's not going anywhere, though. That infamous dimpled smile appears as he watches her come undone beneath him. 

Your thighs clench. That’d be you. 

His voice drifts languidly from your laptop speakers, melting your brain even further. “Yes, baby, that’s it. There you go… such a good girl.” 

A girlish squeal gets stuck in your throat and you press your lips together to ensure you don’t let it out. You haven’t even said yes yet. There could be conditions you don’t agree with, payment arguments. He could be an asshole for all you know. Or this could all be a very elaborate and convincing scam. 

Still, just in case it is real, and for the sake of ‘research’, you keep watching. 

He kisses her chest, slowly making his way up her throat, her jaw, until he reaches her lips. He takes his sweet time, like he knows no one would dare look away. She sighs into his mouth, quiet whimpers leaving her every so often while he gently rubs her clit, just enough to keep her stimulated as she gets used to the feeling of being empty once again. You wonder what it’s like to kiss him. Your hands itch to reach for your phone and text Yeosang to tell him everything, however, you’re rather busy holding them still at the moment.  

You appreciate how he doesn’t move onto the next thing immediately. Too many times have you seen other actors in his industry not giving their partner a bit of a breather after such an intense orgasm. Granted, some may like that, the overwhelming and constant stimulation, but the way San allows her to take her time, silently encourages her to follow the deeper rhythm of his breathing, and how he holds her hand and places slow, soft kisses all over her body, it all adds up to make you crave a slower pace. An intimate interaction like this. 

San checks in with her quietly, and with a nod from her and another peck on the lips, he’s positioning himself between her legs. Stars in her eyes, she reaches down and strokes his length, whimpering softly. He gently brushes her hair back, admiring the look of nervous anticipation on her face. When he finally pushes inside, the two of them moan at the same time. Buried the way in, he smiles down at her before kissing her deeply. All dimples. A broken moan of his name tumbles from her lips, and you’re almost sure she didn’t realize she even said anything. She’s staring up at him like he’s a deity. Like he’s come down from heaven just for her. And she’s not acting. 

One thing you know for sure: you’d be stupid to decline the offer. 

You consider your mind made up. 

Reluctantly exiting the video, saving it for later, you reopen your email app. Part of you wonders whether or not two in the morning is an appropriate time to email someone, but another part of you simply doesn’t care. It’ll be in Mr. Kim Hongjoong’s inbox first thing when he wakes up tomorrow. Your reply is enthusiastic yet professional, expressing appreciation for the offer in the first place. You thank him and San for taking notice of you and offer praise of his work as well. Wrapping up with the same politeness the original sender used, you sign off with your name. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a minute before adding a kiss emoji to the side of your name. Before you can second guess that choice, you send it off. 

Needing to expel some of these nerves, you get up out of bed to scavenge your fridge for a well-past-midnight snack. Maybe yogurt or something. Standing in the white light of the fridge, you realize food may not be the best choice. Nothing jumps out at you to want at two o’clock in the morning, stomach already doing flips and tricks as it is. You settle on a mini carton of strawberry milk that you may or may not finish and walk back to bed a little too fast. Quicker than your usual leisurely pace. 

You glance at your phone, laying face down on your bed like what you just watched on it made it shy. You want to text Yeosang so badly, to get his take on all of this, but you should let him sleep. Just because your sleep schedule is fucked doesn’t mean you have to ruin his as well. Your fingers absentmindedly tap the carton, only two sips deep in your drink. Hm. 

You’re just starting to flirt with the idea of calling Yeosang anyway when you get a notification that effectively snaps you out of your thought spiral. Whoever or whatever it is has just unknowingly saved Yeosang’s REM cycle. 

Not expecting a response so soon, your eyes widen a bit when you see that you’ve gotten a response back already. The quickness makes you a little wary. Scams usually are quick to respond back too. 

Or, this ‘Hongjoong’ guy may have a sleep schedule quite like yours. After all, you responded rather quickly to his first email. 

__________________________

Hi Miss Y/N, 

Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer. 

The next steps in moving forward are rather simple. I will ask you to fill out a form – which I have linked to this e-mail – and send that at your earliest convenience. It is your basic questionnaire, really, and a chance for us to get to know you as well as your preferences for the shoot and scene. 

 After you have sent that and we go over it, I would like to meet with you – either in person or through video call – for both our safety and to finalize all arrangements. If you choose to meet in person, I will gladly bring along a female member of my team in an effort to make you feel more comfortable and safe.  

As always, please feel free to reach out if you have any questions, comments, or concerns. Looking forward to hearing from you again. 

-Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

| Attachment: 1 File

__________________________

‘We’, he wrote. 

‘We are thrilled to hear that you are accepting the offer.’ 

At first, you assumed he was just referencing the production company, but the specific use of it catches and holds your attention. Did San… ask for this collab to happen? Scrolling up to reread it again, the second line of the first e-mail you were sent strikes you: ‘We have been admiring your work for a while now…’ Not just the company. ‘We’ as in… 

You swallow hard, setting the strawberry milk on your nightstand and shrinking back against your pillows again. Your phone burns your eyes in the dark, but you can’t stop reading this new message. There’s so much to unpack, even though it’s so straightforward. As of right now, in regards to meeting with Kim Hongjoong, you’re leaning towards just a video call. You’re still not quite totally convinced this isn’t an elaborate prank of some kind. Maybe a weird fan who wants this to happen but there’s no truth to it. But again… you don’t get that vibe. Not from how professional this seems. And a crazy fan wouldn’t offer to bring along another woman to make you feel more comfortable, he’d insist on meeting alone, under the guise of ‘protecting our privacy’. 

And if it is real… then it is really happening. Moving forward, as the talent agent said, a collaboration in the early stages of planning. With Choi San. 

Dammit, Yeosang, why can’t you be awake right now, you think and you huff dramatically, burying your face in your hands. He’ll certainly get an earful of all of this tomorrow afternoon.   

But you decide you need to talk this through to somebody right now. Or some people. 

Even though you just went live, you’re quick to open your Discord app, not even bothering to send a warning message to tell your exclusive members that you’re going live again. This time, just for them. You know they’ll come. They always do. 

Once you have your laptop adjusted and headphones on, you’re ready to go. You click the microphone button and wait.  

As expected, four of them join immediately. You regularly wonder how they’re all able to drop everything to watch you, no matter what time you go live. Two others join soon after, but they rarely comment in the chat. Silent viewers with open wallets are never unwelcome here. 

“Hi guys! I have big news,” you smile into the camera, reading all the messages as they pop up. 

[woogoesthere]: tell ussssssss!!!!!

[fix0nmi]: 👀?

[mars9843]: what is it cutie?

[puppyu.u]: hi baby why the secret meeting?? 👀

You take a minute to let them get all their guesses out, increasing their desperation to know what you’re hiding from them. Hopefully they’ll take the news well. As far as you can tell, none of them specifically come across as the parasocial jealous type, but you don’t know for certain. However, they seemed to handle your previous collab with Yeosang pretty well. That gives you some more confidence to confide in them about this. 

“I’ve been offered to do a collab with someone from…” You pause before saying the company name for dramatic effect. “Afterdark.”

You’re a little surprised by the lack of comments right away, even worried a little. The thought of them being the parasocial jealous type crosses your mind again. Especially Woo. For a split second, you worry that you may have just angered your most loyal – and charitable – fans. The abrupt absence makes your heart plummet to your stomach. 

It takes a full minute before anyone says anything. The longest minute of your whole life. 

[woogoesthere]: are u telling us ur collabing w choi san?!!??!?!?! :0

Leave it to Woo to ease any worry you may have. You mask your relieved exhale under a light laugh. 

“Should I be worried?” you half joke. 

The immediate responses in the comments are overwhelming and collective:

[puppyu.u]: yes!!!!!! 

[mars9843]: be afraid, be very afraid 

[fix0nmi]: he’s gonna wreck you lmao 

[fix0nmi]: icw to watch 🤪

[puppyu.u]: same 😭😏😭

[mars9843]: if you could barely handle yeo………

Your confident smile fades slightly, the corners of your mouth dropping back down as you read the multiple comments confirming what you’ve been wondering. 

[woogoesthere]: guys stop ur gonna scare her ㅠㅠ

You try to laugh it off, looking off camera to grab your strawberry milk again. The action gives your hands something to do as worry begins to settle in your chest. Of course, Woo tries to ease your growing anxieties in the chat as you lift the bottle to your lips, eyes still scanning the messages… or rather, the warnings. 

[puppyu.u]: well it’s true 

[woogoesthere]: we should be encouraging tho >:( 

[fix0nmi]: yeah or else she won’t do it 👀

[mars9843]: … 

[mars9843]: y/n we’re just kiddinggggg

[fix0nmi]: you’ll be fine~! >:) 

[woogoesthere]: -.- 

[puppyu.u]: drink lots of water beforehand! 

[woogoesthere]: you pervs are so annoying

“I can do it!” You try to regain your previous confidence. 

A shroud of doubt begins to creep up over your shoulders, weighing you down. You’re able to hide it well, but you go quiet. Quieter than usual when you’re live. You don’t like silences that last too long. Unfortunately, your sudden silence is noticeable. 

[puppyu.u]: babyyyyyy 

[puppyu.u]: don’t listen to us we’re just teasing 

[fix0nmi]: haha sorry baby

[mars9843]: you’re gonna be great, pretty girl 

[fix0nmi]: can’t wait to see it ;) 

[woogoesthere]: you ARE gonna be great

[woogoesthere]: choi san has no idea what an honor this is fr ㅠㅠ

That last message brings your smile back, tugging at the corners of your mouth until you give into it. ‘Woo’ is right. You have to remember who the fuck you are. Choi San sought you out specifically. There’s no need to be nervous about anything. It’s a different side of an industry that you’re already accustomed to, that’s all. You just have to adapt to however it operates for one day, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to do it again. And hey, you’ll get to say you’ve had that first and only experience with San of all people. 

What a debut. 

Your loyal fans must notice the confidence boost you’re experiencing because they’re quick to praise it in the chat. 

[fix0nmi]: there she is :) 

[woogoesthere]: ugh ur too cute 

[puppyu.u]: fr that bastard has no idea how lucky he is ㅠㅠ

[mars9843]: he better be nice to u >:( 

“Aww, you guys are so sweet,” you giggle softly, enjoying their attention and their praises. Your nerves are somewhat settled for the time being, though you can’t promise they won’t return once you open your eyes tomorrow morning. You wonder what Yeosang will say about it. 

Leaning back against your headboard, you exhale deeply – maybe even adding a little hint of a whine-like noise to keep them entertained. ‘Pervs’, as ‘Woo’ put it, indeed. Not that you minded. 

You hum to yourself and mention how much better they’ve made your night, and they eat it up. 

“Thank you all for your love and support. Truly.”    

You talk with them for a while longer, reciprocating their interest in you by asking them about their days and what they’re doing tomorrow. One of the silent viewers goes offline, and you can’t say that you blame them – no one should still be awake at this hour. You’re not sure if you’ll fall asleep quickly after you log off, so maybe that’s why you linger here and continue to talk with them. The minutes continue to go by and you start to feel guilty for keeping them all up this late. You know it’s their choice to stay and talk, but still. Odds are that at least one of them has to be up early tomorrow morning. They won’t leave until you do. 

“I’m gonna go to bed, guys. Thank you for staying up and chatting with me.” You smile, watching all of their usernames simultaneously start typing again. 

[mars9843]: goodnight cutie

[fix0nmi]: night babe ;)

[woogoesthere]: aww have a good night jagi <333 

[puppyu.u]: sweet dreams baby <3

[puppyu.u]: <3333

You giggle, noticing ‘puppyu.u’’s competitiveness. Before ‘Woo’ can start a war to see how many 3’s they can add to their hearts, you quickly blow them all a kiss and end the call. 

The silence of your apartment comes back quickly. Naturally, so do your racing thoughts. You place your laptop on your nightstand and crawl back under the covers, hoping against hope that you can smother your thoughts with your pillow. 

Your phone vibrates against your thigh and you sneak a quick glance at it, half-expecting another e-mail, only to find a Venmo notification. It’s from Woo. Your exclusive members have the username of your ‘business’ Venmo account to send you money outside of cams, if they choose to. The message he attaches to the money makes you laugh: ‘i’m not losing to puppyu.u so easily. goodnight<333333333333’ 

Oh, man. 

Make that $14,751 now. 

You wince as you notice the time in the upper lefthand corner of your phone screen. Yeosang was very clear in his text: you better be awake by noon. Knowing how late you usually sleep until, it’s not looking good. Hoping it will help, you set several alarms on your phone. Surely one of them will wake you up. You switch your phone off, refusing to check it again until tomorrow morning. 

Without your phone to distract you though, all you do is replay that video you watched of San and that actress. The memory of it projects against your eyelids and you can’t look away. A shiver runs through you when you picture how his hands held her with such gentle strength, and the addictive moans he wasn’t afraid to let out. The same thought echoes until you finally fall asleep: that’ll be you.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Against all odds, and seven missed alarms later, you manage to wake up – albeit, exhausted – around ten o’clock. Plenty of time before Yeosang is due to come over. 

After you eat breakfast, you decide to spend the morning researching San, watching more of his videos, listening to interviews, stalking his Instagram, anything you can find to get to know him better. Or at least, to get a better grasp on what you should expect. Hongjoong never clarified if it was going to be just you and him at this future meeting or you, him, and San. You want to be ready. 

From what you can find, you’ve come to the tentative conclusion that he appears smart, funny, well-traveled, and handsome. That last one is a given to anyone with eyes, though. It seems like he could’ve succeeded in any field of his choosing, but his candor is notoriously present and blunt whenever he gets asked why he’s gone into this profession: “I like sex. I happen to be good at it, so why not?” 

You get it. Easy money. 

His Instagram is mostly pictures of him in exotic locations. It seems you and him have dream destinations in mind for the future as well. Nine million followers strong – and counting – he has his comments turned off to them on every post. There is also no message option anywhere. He completely cuts himself off from being accessible. A part of you is a little jealous, but at the same time you like the closeness with your fans. It feels more intimate, it gives you a reason to be punctual and come back and care about what you do. Although some, like that ‘mntn3000’ guy, can sometimes be quite rude in the chat. You have your chat open to all, and your public Instagram is the complete opposite of San’s. Thirst traps, a highlight on your profile for song recommendations, and the ability to comment and message you. Not that you answer most of them. Most are gross, obnoxious, frankly misogynistic men who choose the most unhinged, disgusting words to express their… ‘desires’. You’re thankful for Woo and fans like him. Still… you find yourself wondering if you should limit your accessibility as well. Your popularity is rising. Maybe now is the time. 

You still find yourself looking for everything and anything that has to do with him online. Everyone wants to be him or be with him. One of those guys. Of course. 

You rest your head in your hands, groaning to no one in particular. After all the women he’s been with, you hope you can meet his expectations. A worthy costar. Same industry, different department. 

By the time Yeosang knocks on your door at a quarter past noon, your mind is so far away he has to call you to let him in. 

“Hey, sorry.” You apologize, ushering him in and locking the door behind him. 

“I knew you wouldn’t be awake,” he grins, making himself right at home on your couch. “Is going live for thirty minutes really all it takes to make you catatonic the rest of the day?” 

You roll your eyes, swatting his shoulder as you sit down next to him. “Shut up, it’s not because of that. Well… not exactly.” 

Yeosang quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on, then. What’s up?” 

You pull out your phone, ready to show him the evidence to back up what you’re about to say. The original email is still unchanged as you glance down at it, which is encouraging. Another reminder that you didn’t make this all up in your head. It didn’t happen in a dream, there’s hard evidence staring you in the face. 

Well, now or never. Out with it. 

“I, um… I got an offer to work with Choi San.” Your voice toes the line between excitement and cautious optimism. If anyone’s opinion matters to you at all, it’s Yeosang’s. 

Yeosang’s eyebrows raise at the name. “Like… the Choi San?”

“The Choi San, yes.” You nod, confirming it’s exactly who he’s thinking about. 

Handing your phone over to him, email ready to be read by a fresh pair of eyes, you watch his reactions closely. You find yourself biting the side of your thumb nail, a habit you keep thinking you’ve grown out of, only to be proven wrong in times like these. 

Yeosang’s face is serious as he reads it. You can tell he’s searching for any indication of this being a scam first and foremost before he digests the rest of it. Finding no blatant or well-hidden tricks, he pays more attention to the general message.       

“Are you gonna do it?” He asks, handing your phone back to you. His voice holds some reservation to it that you clearly pick up on. You take no offense, though. He’s just worried about you. It’s more… public than you’re used to. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, answering him honestly. “I’ve done my research on him and already sent them an email back saying that I was interested and wanted to know more, but… do you think I should?”

You truly value his opinion. Yeosang has been such a good friend to you for the past couple of years. The two of you had met in your second year of college and became fast friends. When you moved to the city, about a year after he did, he helped you find your first apartment, got you a job, and checked in on you to make sure you knew you had a friend here. He made everything easier. He still does.  

Yeosang shrugs, “Doesn’t matter what I think. If you feel confident about doing it, then go for it. If something is telling you to not do it, then don’t.”

He makes it sound so easy. Should it be? 

“Yeah, but… I value your opinion.” You mumble, not outwardly saying what you’re thinking. But he reads your mind anyway. 

“Y/N, it’s not gonna change my view of you if you decide to do this. If I had a problem with my best friend being a mattress actress, I would’ve told you a long time ago. Y’know… before I collabed with you.” 

At this, you can’t help but laugh, knowing he’s right. A pressure you didn’t realize was weighing on you is alleviated off your shoulders, making you feel lighter. He grins as you let out a small sigh of relief, glad that he eased some of your worries. Now, to tease you about it. As best friends do. 

“I’m just worried that you won’t survive the experience,” Yeosang says dramatically, covering his eyes with his arm and sneaking a smile your way. 

“Stop, what do you mean?” You push him, playfully. 

“You said you researched him, right?” 

You nod, wondering where he’s going with this. Is there something you’ve missed? You feel like you’re the only one left out of a well-known inside joke. You try to think back to the videos you’ve seen of him. Sure, you haven’t watched his whole filmography, but nevertheless, you’d like to believe you know roughly what to expect of him when the day comes. 

“Did you watch the ones he’s done for ‘Fantasy’?” Yeosang smirks. 

You blink, trying to remember if you did. To be totally honest, you weren’t really paying much attention to which company was posting the videos. Just that San was in them. 

“I don’t know… maybe?” 

Yeosang shakes his head, already seeming to know the answer. “You’d know if you did,” he says definitively. “If you wanna know what he’s really capable of, watch some of those.” 

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, frustrated that no one will just tell you what they’re talking about. You only have one guess, that it may be due to the fact that you’ve only ever been with two guys before. They each taught you the basics, but everything you bring to your livestreams, you learned all on your own. And it’s not like you’re clueless when it comes to the different kinds of sexual encounters one can experience. You’ve watched porn before – hell, you do a type of it for a living. So why does everyone keep underestimating you? What does San possibly do to make everyone think you won’t survive him? 

A part of you kind of doesn’t want to know. You don’t need to give your creeping self-doubt any more ammo. It had taken you a long time to beat it far back enough in your mind for it to not invade every time you hit a little snag in life. A resurgence would make you question everything, make you back out of this quickly. You don’t want that. No, you’re determined even more so now to see this through. To prove everyone wrong. More importantly, though, to prove it to yourself. 

“Sounds like he sought you out though,” Yeosang says. His words almost make you jolt. Not only do they pull you out of another spiral, it reinforces something you were thinking in passing last night. Maybe you aren’t reading too much into it after all. “Kinda seems like this Hongjoong guy and San are fans of yours.” 

You hide your face in your hands and groan, making Yeosang laugh at your rare display of shyness. It’s frustratingly unclear to you why the idea of him watching your content makes your cheeks burn so much. You’re obviously comfortable with people seeing your body and earning a profit from it, but you like the anonymity of the people watching. You simply don’t want to know. Perhaps it’s because he’s about to not be a faceless viewer anymore. Rather, a colleague of sorts. 

Also, in a way, you tend to view cam’ing as more… intimate than porn. The sole focus of the audience is on you. No fake plot, no costar, no distractions. Just you, reading the chat, and existing and getting off in real time. 

“Sounds like it,” you agree. “I must’ve done something he likes to pique his interest.” 

Yeosang shrugs, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Or he saw the collab and this is all just an elaborate ruse to get to me.” 

You’re grateful to relax enough to laugh again. “Oh, I bet.” You say, playing along. Though, part of you does wonder for a brief moment if San had watched the collab and that’s why he thought you’d be a good partner for his next project. It’s definitely plausible.    

“So,” Yeosang leans back against the couch, crossing his legs, “what do you have to do now?” 

Remembering the phone in your hand, you look down at it, visualizing that attachment Hongjoong sent you. Yet to be opened. “There’s a form I have to fill out, I think it’s some kind of consent form.” 

He nods, “Yeah, that’d make sense.” 

There’s a small silence between you that follows as he watches you stare down at your phone. You have the most recent email pulled up, analyzing it again. He watches you bite the inside of your cheek, a habit you have that comes up when you’re thinking a little too hard about something.  

“Do you want me to go through it with you?” He asks, though he thinks he knows what you’ll say. 

“No, I’ll do it myself. It’s gonna ask like… in depth questions,” you insinuate, almost shyly. 

Yeosang doesn’t press you on it, which you appreciate. But you know he’s probably thinking there’s not much he doesn’t know about you. After all, he was fingering you to high heaven in front of a camera only a week ago. Still, he doesn’t push your privacy or your boundaries. It’s one of the many things that makes you feel safe with him. 

Breezing past the subject, knowing you probably need to relieve some stress, he picks up one of the gaming controllers on your coffee table. 

“Rematch?” He asks, referring to a game of Mario Kart fairly won by you, though his opinion of the event is rather different. Something to do with you ‘innocently’ bumping into him, causing him to almost drop his controller, and giving you the lead in the race. His win streak is much cleaner than yours. 

“You’re on,” you agree, playfully narrowing your eyes at him as he scoots away from you on the couch. 

There’ll be no ‘accidents’ this time. But maybe you’ll think of something.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

The rest of the day is light. 

Little by little, the weight of uncertainty you feel fades into the background, instead transforming into unserious frustration as Yeosang beats you in Mario Kart six times in a row. You win the seventh round, but you highly suspect he let you. He had several speed boosts and red shells that would just disappear from his screen the next time you looked, wondering when he would fire one of those shells at you. 

You order in, opting to stay inside and just be lazy today, and the two of you eat on the couch. When the sun eventually starts to set late in the afternoon, he takes a nap while you scroll on your phone, half-watching a K-Drama on your TV. Neither of you bring up San or the form still laying in wait in your inbox again. He wakes up around eight o’clock, yawning and stretching as he gets up to go home – he mentions that he promised his friend he’d go out with him tonight. Though he extends the offer, and part of you does want to go, you decide to be responsible and take the night to go through the form with a somewhat clearer mind than last night or this morning.   

Almost as soon as Yeosang leaves, you’re back in bed and pulling everything up on your laptop. The attached file on the most recent email takes just a second to load, bringing you to a Google Form sheet, ready to be completed. 

But first, you think about what he said about San. You want to know what everyone else already seems to. At least one video. Just for research purposes again. 

In another tab on incognito mode, you hesitantly type in the search for ‘choi san redfantasy’ and bite the inside of your cheek as the page loads. The typical ads pop up before you’re able to see any actual content, avoiding the scams and viruses with practiced ease. Trying to not overthink it, you just click on the first video that comes up. In fact, you barely look at the title. It’s in all caps, a bunch of buzzwords and tags jammed together to get as many eyes on it as possible, but his name is always put first. That’s the seller right there. Audiences are in the market for Choi San. 

There is no plot this time, at least none that you can discern. The lighting is darker, as well as the mood. There’s less build up, the action begins almost straight away after the company logo screen fades away. 

Your chest constricts at the very first shot. A rather pretty woman, on her knees in the middle of a room. Her bare knees dig into the plush carpet beneath her and she looks up at the man in front of her, tilting her head up with a firm hand in her hair. 

San. 

“...didn’t you?” You barely hear him say to her, and you quickly turn up the volume on your laptop, rewinding the video ten seconds to hear the full question. 

“You misbehaved today, didn't you?” He purrs, nodding once to give her permission to speak. 

“Yes, sir.” She replies, obediently. 

The hand in her hair is taken away, and yet she never takes her eyes off of him. You imagine that’s probably what she was instructed to do… but you’re starting to think a director wasn’t involved in this. Everything seems more intimate, less corporate. Like San just set up a camera in this expensive looking hotel room. A step above amateur porn. 

San stalks around her, humming to himself as if sizing her up. The camera cuts to a slightly different angle, farther away, and you only just now realize that her hands are tied behind her back. The multiple static angles all but confirm your theory: everything in this video is by San’s design. 

He then sits down on a rather large, black leather couch, facing her. The camera caresses his features, letting you see every detail of the tailored suit he’s wearing that fits him perfectly. The suit itself is probably more expensive than five of those couches. Wordlessly, he beckons her closer with two of his fingers. He almost looks bored. But you think bored is the wrong word… curious actually. Like he’s just taking his time, waiting for her to act first. His tempo is carefully curated and well-calculated. He reacts, even though he knows they’re both just enacting what this company wants to see. Like this isn’t just for the cameras. Every scene is serious to him, and yet it doesn’t come across as corny or too much. You wonder why he doesn’t go into acting. He seems more than able to convince people of real chemistry between himself and his co-star each and every time. And with a face card like his, you doubt he would’ve had many rejections. 

Then again, you imagine it’d be rather hard to make a smooth transition into becoming a serious and respected actor after being in adult films. 

She manages to make her way over to him, knelt in between his knees, waiting for further instruction. And he makes her wait. The camera cuts a couple of times, documenting the power dynamic from several angles. It’s evident a long time has passed because she keeps shifting her weight, knees never quite finding relief on the floor.   

A small whimper leaves her, and it earns her a sharp smack across the cheek. You gasp at the same time she does, not expecting that at all for an action so miniscule. In almost the same motion, San’s grip returns to her hair, pulling her closer to his clothed crotch. 

“Be actually useful for once, baby.” He says sweetly, like he’s praising instead of degrading her. “Earn it.” 

You can tell she’s holding back another whimper, trying to be good. San guides her further down, until her face is pressed into the front seam of his tailored pants, and holds her there until she realizes what he wants her to do. Rather pathetically, she mouths at his dick through the fabric. He’s not even hard yet. No, he fully expects her to do all the work for him, including getting him ready. 

While she’s… busy, he lazily takes off his watch, setting it aside and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to just above his elbows. You’ve seen him naked about a dozen times in these types of videos, and for some reason, this is what sends an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Almost on sight, you feel how wet you’ve become, panties starting to cling to you. 

His face is stony, refusing to give away what he’s thinking. That’s privileged information. But the harder he gets, the more motivated she becomes, tilting her head to the side to attempt to wrap her lips around his length as best she can. And yet, he never says anything. No praise, no degradation. He lets her actions speak for themselves, lets it burrow into her mind on her own. Pathetic. She doesn’t bother looking up at him for reassurance anymore. He’s not giving her anything to work with. 

Abruptly, he yanks her back by the hair, just to see if she makes a noise. She does. Another sharp crack against her cheek makes you squeeze your thighs together. She takes three more slaps until he stops, his hands leave her entirely and one grips himself through his pants, sighing like he’s bored. Or rather, disappointed. From what you can discern from the print against his pants, he’s only half-hard. 

“You don’t want it that badly, do you?” He asks like he’s already decided her answer. 

Frantically, she shakes her head, denying his assumption. “No, no sir, I do want it. Please, I want it so–” 

Unfortunately for her, his mind is already made up. 

San rises from the couch, picking her up into his arms easily, like she weighed nothing. The camera cuts, now facing the bed, and San lays her down onto it. He then goes about tying her down to it, on all-fours. The girl’s face presses into the pillows, muffling any noise. San ties her ankles to the bedposts, leaving her spread open for him with no chance of closing herself off. Fully exposed, at his mercy. Or lack thereof. 

San then loosens his tie before wrapping it around her throat, fashioning it into a makeshift collar and leash. He tugs it once, testing its reliability. Satisfied, he lets it go for the time being, no doubt planning on using it later. For now, he stalks around the bed, admiring his work, and assessing the best way to deal with the girl tied up in front of him.

“Since you couldn’t wait and just had to touch yourself before you came to me, I’m gonna teach you some patience.” 

As if the last few times weren’t enough, an involuntary sound escapes from her lips. Soon enough, her ass is red and bruised, San’s hand quick to punish her for making noise. 

“Be quiet,” he reminds sternly, “or you get nothing.” 

That’s good motivation. Suddenly, you feel like you can’t make a single noise either. 

He disappears offscreen for a while, the camera cutting a few times to capture how the anticipation makes the girl very nervous and wet at the same time. Impatient, you skip ahead thirty seconds and San pops back into frame, holding something. 

There’s no warning, no telling her what it is. Only he and the audience (you) know. He holds the vibrator wand right up to her pussy, mere centimetres away and pauses. Her toes curl in an effort to stop the rest of her body from squirming. He waits for any minuscule movement. It’s when she cranes her neck, attempting to look back to see what he’s doing, that he turns it onto the highest setting and presses it against her clit in one swift motion. 

Poor thing gasps and screams at the intense, unexpected vibrations, earning her another brutal round of spanks. 

“Shhh,” he hushes her softly, “be quiet. Don’t move.” 

Your pulse stutters, eyes wider than they were before, and your hand starts to drift downwards, underneath your clothes, to find your clit. The relief is immediate, like scratching an itch. You work yourself up alongside her, trying to follow San’s instructions yourself. Breaths turning shallow, you press your lips together to keep from making any sounds. If you really wanted to immerse and challenge yourself, you’d grab your own vibrator from the drawer, but you can’t tear your gaze from the screen. You don’t want to miss anything, and you feel like pausing it would disrupt the experience. If this is potentially what’s in store for you, and she doesn’t get a break, you don’t get one either. 

Her fists tighten and grab at nothing, still bound behind her back. You can tell she’s losing the fight to follow through with his instructions. San notices this too. He moves the vibrator up and down, grinding the head of it harder on her clit before moving it away again. You have no idea how she’s managing to hold on. 

San hears it the same time you do, not a gasp or a noise per se, but a hitch of her breath, just audible enough to hear. At the same time, her legs begin to shake, out of her control to stop them from doing so. 

He takes the vibrator away, switching it off. 

Her toes curl again, burying her face deeper into the pillows to silence any sounds. Your hand stops dead, even though all you want to do is keep circling your clit. 

“See what I have to do?” He sighs, trailing the head of the vibrator down the back of her thighs. “If you just waited for me, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t have to waste my time teaching you to be patient.”

Damn. Have you ever heard him talk to any of his scene partners like this? The San from the first video you watched as part of your ‘research’ seems a million miles away. A completely different person. 

Eventually, the vibrator is returned to her clit, humming at full power. You resume your own administrations as well. San kneads her ass with his free hand, eyes glued to her body, waiting for her to fuck up. Any excuse to take the pleasure away again. An excuse comes when she’s forced back onto the brink of an orgasm, and he switches the toy off again. But he keeps it pressed against her pussy. On instinct, her hips rock backwards, trying to chase the pleasure, and you can’t help but groan out of frustration as you take your hand away. This time, he doesn’t administer spanks to her ass, but right on her pussy. And she can’t help the high-pitched yelp that leaps from her throat. San spanks her pussy until she shuts up. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the uncomfortable pressure in your throat forces you to inhale deeply. 

The girl shudders after the last smack but doesn’t move or say a word. You’re both rooting for her and secretly hoping she’ll screw up again, just to see what he does. Also, you want to see if he’ll actually fuck her. 

Rather impatiently, you skip ahead a couple of minutes, needing to know if he’s the type to punish by leaving her empty the whole time. It takes only a second for the video to buffer and when it does, you see that he’s added another toy, keeping it pressed deep into her pussy, right up to the very base of it. The vibrator never leaves her clit. The skin of her ass is bright red and already bruising in some areas. It looks rather painful. She’s moaning but it’s muffled and barely audible – you can imagine San gagged her in some way to keep her quiet after failing over and over again. Possibly with his tie. He doesn’t move the toy at all, instead just forcing her to feel the thickness and weight of it buried deep inside of her, no doubt pressing right up against her g-spot. 

If he denies her again in this state, you’ll really be scared of him. 

And that, he does. 

This time, she wails through her gag, her whole body locking up and then quickly deflating in defeat. But the time in between denials is no longer merciful. San waits maybe ten seconds before starting again, placing the vibrator back where it belongs. 

God damn– you think, becoming wetter as your fingers find your clit again, your own pleasure building. The poor girl shrieks into the pillows, incoherently pleading with him to stop. Instead of listening to her cries, San taps the vibrator against her pussy, driving her – and you – even more crazy. 

“I’m doing you a favor,” he says flatly, not caring that she’s essentially begging for mercy. “You should be apologizing for making me waste my time to teach you basic manners.” 

Your mouth drops open at that. He’s so mean, and yet if you were in her position – which you may be soon – you’re pretty sure you’d start apologizing right away. But she can’t, at least not properly. Not with a gag in her mouth and her face half-pressed into the pillows. You imagine after being denied what must be nearing ten orgasms at this point, her mind is also going a bit blank. 

He presses the vibrator harder against her, making her back arch. “Tell me how sorry you are and maybe I’ll stop.” 

That grabs her attention. Muffled, garbled, and barely full sentences immediately tumble from her lips, on the off chance that he’ll take pity on her and stop this edging torture. Her body shudders violently, cutting off her voice entirely.  

Rather surprisingly, he does let up. Both toys disappear at once, and he watches her body collapse onto the bed, burning muscles unable to hold herself up any longer. But he doesn’t let the relief stay for long. His hand twists in her hair, yanking her upright until her back is against his chest. With the other, he rips the gag out – which was, in fact, his tie. 

“I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth,” he mutters in her ear, his other hand lingering dangerously close to her sore mound. “Did you just cum without permission? Yes or no.” 

A sob tears itself from her throat, knowing that she’s been caught. 

San pulls her hair again, causing her to yelp again. “Answer me,” he hisses, “and don’t you dare lie to me.” 

“Y-yes, sir,” she whimpers, honest. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t let her go. He just makes her stay with that feeling of guilt, the shame of being caught, and the foreboding knowledge that he’s going to have to punish her again. With his free hand, he runs the pads of his fingers through her soaking wet folds, collecting the evidence for himself. To humiliate her even further, he shoves those fingers into her mouth, pressing on her tongue. She whines around them, which he rewards by shoving his fingers deeper, into her throat. Tears flow down her face and neck, already utterly fucked out and he hasn’t even touched her himself, really. He’s still fully clothed, for fuck’s sake. 

San sighs, thinking aloud, “What should I do with you, hm?” 

Busy choking and spluttering around the intrusion in her throat, she can’t answer him at all. He probably doesn’t want an answer, though. You have a feeling he knows exactly what he’s going to do with her. 

Once again, you’re proven correct when he lets her go and pulls his fingers out of her mouth. He watches her gasp for air and cough violently for a fleeting moment of relative peace before dragging her back towards the edge of the bed. 

“Fucking useless slut…” he mutters to himself, just audible enough for her to hear. “You wanna cum so bad? Fine.” 

A new toy is brought into frame, this one looking more daunting than the other two. You can tell it’s one of those two-for-one types, and your heart goes out to her. It slips inside of her easily, though it’s thicker than the previous dildo, all but confirming once again that she did cum without his permission. This time, there’s no mystery or question about what he’s going to do to her. She knows. The knowing is almost worse than the not-knowing. 

He switches it on without much ceremony. She does her best to not move or make a sound, but another orgasm builds rapidly. Too fast, too soon. 

For seven straight orgasms, he just watches her. He doesn’t even touch himself even though you can tell he’s hard beneath those tailored pants. Her pleas fall on deaf ears, like he’s not even in the room. You’ve barely managed to keep up with her, coaxing two weak orgasms from your own body with just your fingers and already feeling exhausted. Fuck, maybe everyone’s right… 

You tap the screen to see how much more of the video is left, and your eyebrows raise when you see there’s still ten more minutes. You decide to skim through, just curious if he ever does let her have his cock.

Spoiler alert: he does not. 

In reality, the only thing he changes is that he jerks himself off, getting off on her screams and pleas for him to turn the toy off, that she’s had enough. For the last two orgasms he forces her through, he adds his thumb to her clit, circling it mercilessly. 

“One more, come on. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To cum?” 

Through her tears and scratchy voice, she warbles, “W-want– wanted you t-to fuck me…” 

He only laughs at her, and it sends such a blow to your psyche. 

“Did you really think I would?” 

She screams again, mixing with her sobs and choked groans as the final orgasm rips through her worn-out body. The only act of kindness he gives her is removing the toy and kissing her back, in between her shoulder blades. 

He takes his time to untie her ankles from the bedposts, his hands smoothing over the skin where the rope had been. Wrecked and twitching, she curls into a ball on the bed, pussy sore and swollen. Knowing this, San drags her back down towards the foot of the bed, forcing her legs apart again. Her hands weakly try to push him away, but he ducks down, licking a near-fatal stripe up her folds, sucking harshly on her clit. Voice basically gone, her scream is broken and breathy. 

That’s a habit he has, you’ve noticed. Or maybe just a signature thing. No matter what, when he’s done with his scene partner, he gives their pussy one final lick. As if he’s sealing the deal. Something they’ll feel long after the cameras stop rolling, along with the ache of their inner walls. 

San chuckles, patting her inner thigh with his hand before pulling her onto the floor, back down onto her knees. He doesn't say anything more as he jerks off in front of her, aiming his cock right at her face. He lets her suck on it, much to your surprise, and he eventually comes. Some of it inside of her mouth, and the rest, he smears across her face. The final act of humiliation for her. 

You slam your laptop shut. 

Holy. Shit.       

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You come back to the forms after a cold shower and a half an hour long pacing session in your living room. 

With a somewhat clearer head, you decide to take it one question at a time. 

At first glance, you can’t help but feel like you’re filling out the forms you’d normally get in a doctor’s office. It covers everything. Height, weight, age, consent for Afterdark to inquire upon certain medical history to ensure the prevention of any diseases or illnesses, and payment information. On the next page, it goes deeper, and you almost want to take another lap before you dive in and check off any of the boxes. 

There’s a checklist of kinks, each one with a box to check if any are ‘hard no’s’ or ‘hard yesses’for you. You gotta hand it to Afterdark, they’re very thorough. At the very top, just above this checklist, you notice two more boxes simply labelled ‘Rough’ and ‘Gentle’. 

Ah. 

This must be the reason that every video with San feels different. Not just because of whatever context they provide in the beginning of the video, but he never exactly has the same go-to way of fucking every time. Except of course, that parting move he’s so accustomed to doing. With some women, he takes it very slow, gentle and caring with lots of praise, and with others, like the one you just watched, he is ruthless and mean, denying orgasms and spanking them until their skin turns an alarming shade of red. They’ve tailored their own experience with him. That makes you feel a bit better actually, gives you more of a sense of control. You’re not just walking into this with no say in what he does to you, nor will you be blindsided. Actually, you’ll have a pretty good idea, and no worries that he’ll do something you’re uncomfortable with. 

The empty boxes still taunt you. Which version of him do you want? 

After much consideration, you eventually let fate decide. You pick both options. Rough and gentle. Let’s see what he does with that. 

Moving on, forcing yourself to breathe slower, you continue down the list of kinks. Again, it’s very thorough, even asking for locations that you’d be okay filming in. You check off ‘hard no’ on most, if not all of the ‘bodily fluids’ section of the kink list. All except creampies, crying, and squirting. You wonder if he’ll be able to make you do that. If so, you don’t want to discourage him from it. You’re okay with toys, cunnilingus, fingers in your mouth, body worship, hair pulling, hickies, clothed sex, light bondage, the traffic light system, and spanking, just to name a few. You also mean to check off a hard ‘yes’ to aftercare. Aftercare is a non-negotiable for you. One of your exes never did that for you, and it’s been a dealbreaker ever since you got out of that relationship. You dislike feeling used after-the-fact. Discarded. It’s an ugly shock to your system, one that you’d like to avoid if possible. 

Double checking everything on this page, you go to the third and final page. 

In the top half, there’s an interactive calendar so you can input dates and times when you’re free to do the shoot. You’re pretty much free all the time, if you’re being honest. You just have a family wedding to go to in late August, two months from now. Though you’d rather do the shoot later in the day, not wanting to risk sleeping through it with your terrible sleep schedule. So, you mark every afternoon and evening as ‘available’. 

In the bottom half of the page, there’s just one last question, accompanied by a text box: ‘Tell us about yourself, and what we can do to better tailor this experience for you.’ 

You have to admit, you weren’t expecting this kind of question to come up. They want to know about you? Tailor this opportunity for you? 

Huh. 

Your mind goes blank at first. What could they possibly want to know? What are they actually looking for? There’s really no telling. 

Slowly, you type out a vague summary of where you grew up, why you started doing cam-shows, and that your favorite color is purple. When it comes to writing about how they can improve on this collaboration, your fingers hover over the keyboard. Stuck. You could just straight up not say anything, or just put ‘N/A’. But your inner professional tells you to answer it. You search yourself, wondering if there’s anything that would make you feel a little more comfortable while there. You assume they’ll provide a robe for you, or something to cover you up when you’re not filming, but you’ve also heard how ‘fucking cold’ porn sets are kept. Not exactly wanting to show up with a blanket from home, you decide that’ll be your one request. 

‘If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like a blanket while on set. Thank you! :)’ 

You double – triple – check each form page, making sure you didn’t accidentally check something off or type in your information wrong. After you confirm that everything is accurate and spelled correctly, you click on the ‘submit’ button. A ‘thank you’ screen pops up, and you quickly exit the tab, not wanting to think about it anymore. It’s out of your hands now. 

But speaking of the hands it’s now in, you have to set up a meeting time with this Kim Hongjoong guy.  

Right. Okay, onto the next step. 

In a new email, you type out all the dates and times you’re free – you may have made yourself sound busier than you actually are – and send it off to him. Glad to have everything done, you flop back against your pillows and groan. You replay all the images you’ve seen. All the things he’s done to multiple women. 

You wonder what on earth he’ll do with you. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

It’s the next day that ends up being the meeting day. 

You opt for a virtual meeting, reasoning that it’ll probably be quicker and easier for both of you. From what it sounds like, being employed by Afterdark and Choi San keeps Hongjoong rather busy. 

You do your makeup and hair, wanting to look presentable. It’s the shirt that gives you a headache. You’re rather unsure how professional you should look. What does someone wear to a meeting like this? You look down at your chest, trying to mentally calculate how much of it is appropriate to show, and choosing a shirt based on that. Eventually, you just pick a nice triangle lace cami. Kim Hongjoong will just have to excuse the fact that it’s summer and hot in your apartment in the afternoons. You’ve been meaning to figure out how the air conditioning works. It’s hi-tech in a way that truly baffles you. You’ll get Yeosang to figure it out the next time he comes over. 

Moving your laptop into the kitchen for the natural light, you try to shake the nerves out of your hands as you walk around the kitchen island. You grab a cold water from the fridge and drink half of it before forcing yourself to sit down. The meeting is set for two-thirty, just a few minutes away. You kind of want to scream into the pillows on your couch. This will be the final stage until you actually go through with this whole collaboration. The last buffer until it happens. 

In the upper right hand corner, you see an email notification from Hongjoong, providing you with a link to a video chatroom. For a full sixty seconds, you pretend you haven’t seen it yet. But when that minute is up, and you have to be an adult, you take one more sip of water before clicking on the link and sneaking a glance at yourself in the reflection of your laptop as the camera loads. 

There’s a small boop sound from your laptop, signalling that the call has been connected and you brace yourself for a scam. Your hand hovers above the trackpad, ready to hit ‘end call’ at a moment’s notice. When his camera finally loads, you breathe a little easier. He’s in an office based on context clues of what you can see around him, and he’s rather handsome himself. That admittedly takes you aback. He has short, dark brown hair, round eyes, and a charming smile once he sees you on his screen. He pushes his glasses further up his sharp nose, and leans forward in his seat a little bit. 

“Miss Y/N! It’s so nice to talk with you today, how are you?” 

“I’m doing well, thank you. Are you the one I’ve been emailing?” You ask when he doesn’t introduce himself by name. You just want to clarify. 

He laughs to break any awkward tension, “Yes, that’s me. My apologies, I’m San’s agent, Kim Hongjoong.”

“Okay, good.” You smile back, shoulders relaxing a little more. His dress shirt makes you feel a bit… well, underdressed, but when you notice that the top two buttons are undone, it makes you feel a bit better. He’s clearly not going for ultra-professional right now either. Off camera, in your lap, you play with one of your rings, giving your nervous hands something to do. 

Unexpectedly, the first ten minutes are spent just making small-talk, especially after finding out you and him grew up around the same area. He asks you how you like the city, and you find yourself telling him about how much you love it, and that you never want to leave. Turns out he shares the same sentiment. It’s starting to feel less like a rigid job interview and more like a casual interaction. Nothing to be afraid of. You feel much more comfortable than you did ten minutes ago, that’s for sure. 

Hongjoong eventually looks over to the side, where his desktop computer is and starts clicking around, the light reflecting off of his glasses. And you realize that it’s time to actually start talking about the collab. You fix your earring for no real reason, just to give yourself something to do.  

“So, I’ve received the forms you completed – thank you for doing that, by the way – and I was wondering if you have any questions for me about them?” 

You pause before you answer. Now’s the time to ask, and with the right person, too. Humming to fill the silence, you think about a good question to ask first. 

Hongjoong picks up his phone when it starts vibrating incessantly, and looks at the screen for only a few seconds before placing it face down on his desk. Someone must be trying to get in touch with him, but he doesn’t bother with replying right now. You know it must be important, whatever it is, so you appreciate him keeping you the center of his attention right now. 

“I guess I’ve been wondering about… like… if I check off certain boxes will we do all of that? Or…?” 

Very eloquent. 

Luckily, he doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “Oh, no, no. Usually what happens is we take a look at it, figure out which ones would work best together and with you and San, and take it from there. It’s just to see what you’re comfortable with and to see which direction you want this collab to go.” 

That makes sense. And now that you think about it, what if someone puts a ‘hard yes’ next to something that San would check off as a ‘hard no’, obviously they wouldn’t do it. It’s a mutual agreement. They find the things that match between you two and take it from there. 

“Actually,” Hongjoong says with a small grin, still scrolling through the forms on his computer. “You two are pretty similar. It wasn’t hard to match up.” 

You hear it but your brain doesn’t process what it means yet. 

“Oh, really?” You say, not knowing how else to respond. 

Hongjoong just hums, nodding once. He pushes his glasses up again before turning back to you. 

“Regardless of that, though, I wanted to also let you know that if at any point during the shoot you feel uncomfortable and want to leave, you can, and you will be paid in full, no questions asked. Obviously though, if you leave before, or if you don’t show up at all, we can’t really do anything to pay you. We have this in place because we don’t want you to feel trapped once the scene starts. Does that make sense?” 

You nod quickly, “Yes, it does.” 

“Perfect,” he says. “So, with your schedule that you sent me, if you’re okay with it, we can set the date relatively soon. Is this coming Friday, at six o’clock alright?” 

Friday. As in… Friday, two days from now, Friday? Your mouth dries instantly. Two days from now. Is he not busy? You assumed this wouldn’t happen for a couple of weeks, at least. A delusional voice in your head tells you that maybe he cleared his schedule to be with you sooner rather than later. Oh, sure. Yeah, right.

Still, it baffles you. 

And yet you hear yourself say, “Friday’s good for me!” 

Well, now it has to be whether you’re ready or not. Your hands itch for your phone, needing to text Yeosang immediately, even though you know he’ll probably find your dilemma rather entertaining. You also need to book a waxing appointment and get your nails done ASAP. Maybe even a facial, too.

Fucking hell, Y/N, the things you get yourself into. 

Hongjoong lights up, quickly typing something on his keyboard, scrunching his nose once or twice to keep his glasses from moving down again. A few more clicks of his mouse, and it’s done. 

“Okay, perfect. I’ve got you booked for six o’clock this Friday. If you could email me where you’d like our driver to pick you up, that’d be great. Otherwise, do you have any other questions, comments, or concerns for me?” 

Your lips part. Driver? Someone from Afterdark is going to bring you to the set? Your right hand grips your phone, turning it over and preparing to call Yeosang as soon as you hang up with Hongjoong. 

Fuck, okay. Sure, why not? 

“Oh, um–” you suddenly remember one thing he hasn’t mentioned at all. “Is there a script? Like, do I need to know any lines before…?” 

Hongjoong answers right away, “Ah, this shoot will be unscripted. It’ll feel more natural that way.” 

More natural. Your heart feels like a brick in your chest. To be honest though, you’re really glad there is no script. However, a rubric would be helpful as well. You nod, acknowledging that information. So it really will be like the videos you watched. That’s the experience you’ll be getting. 

“Okay, cool,” you reply, desperately needing another drink of water for your dry mouth. “Thank you.” 

Hongjoong smiles politely. “No problem. Alright, well if everything sounds good, we’ll see you on Friday! Thank you for taking the time to speak with me today.”

We. 

Again, he’s probably just talking about the company, but Yeosang’s words from yesterday are stuck in your head. Your secret delusions and Yeosang’s smart mouth are never a good mix. 

“See you Friday! Thank you.” You reply politely, the very picture of calmness and professionalism.  

And once the call disconnects, you’re slamming your laptop shut and calling Yeosang to tell him everything.   

He picks up on the third ring, yawning and obviously not fully awake just yet. You forgot he went out with his friend last night. Still, it’s definitely time for him to be awake now. 

As expected, once you rattle off every detail of the call you were just on, Yeosang laughs his ass off. 

“Oh man,” he says with an audible sigh, “you’re fucked.”      

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Part of you wishes that the driver will somehow get hopelessly lost on the way to the set. 

You’re sure he’s been there multiple times before, but you pray for a random dose of amnesia anyway. It’s not that you’re second-guessing the decision – not at all – you just weren’t expecting the day to come so soon. It’s crazy how forty-eight hours now seems like no time at all. You shake out your hands as you step out of the car, and look up at the building. It’s rather unassuming, blending seamlessly into the numerous ones around it. Nothing about it screams that this is where adult films are produced. Not that you really expected it to. 

The driver parks with the hazards on, and gets out as well to let you into the building via a keycard. You thank him quietly as he holds the door open for you. He must’ve told you his name, but for the life of you, you cannot remember it. He points you in the direction of the elevators, and confirms that he’ll see you later to drive you home.

Then, you’re alone. He gets back into the car and drives it around the building, to an underground parking garage you assume.

You take a deep breath in the lobby, finding the elevators quickly and starting towards them. Hongjoong said the shoot is on the eighth floor, so you press the ‘8’ button once in the elevator car. 

As soon as the doors shut, the silence and gravity of what you’re there to do settles in immediately. You force yourself to take a deep breath, really dragging out how long you exhale to try and ease your heart rate. The second floor comes and goes, as does the third. But the higher you climb, the tighter your throat becomes. On floor five, you think of bailing. Past the sixth floor, already almost there, Yeosang’s custom text ringtone startles you. Glad to distract yourself, you immediately read the text.  

[yeoyeo🌻]: don’t let him intimidate you, you’re the one he wanted for this 

[yeoyeo🌻]: remember he’s literally just some guy and you’ll be fine 

[yeoyeo🌻]: you’re gonna be great :)    

You can’t help but smile, and you roll your shoulders back to stand taller. He’s right, as always. Choi San is many things, but at the end of the day, he is just a man. You have to view this as a very elaborate hookup rather than a career opportunity, just to calm your nervous system if anything else. 

When the elevator doors open on the eighth floor, someone is already waiting for you on the other side. 

Hongjoong. 

You don’t realize until this moment how relieved you are to see a somewhat familiar face. 

“Miss Y/N,” he greets, extending his hand out for you to shake, “it’s so nice to meet you in person.” 

You smile warmly, returning the greeting and hoping that your handshake is up to par. Before you have time to possibly overthink such a small thing, he asks if you need anything. 

“Oh, um…no, not at the moment, thank you.” 

“Of course,” he nods once. “If you do need something at any time, please let one of us know.” 

You assume that ‘one of us’ probably means the team of people you’re about to meet and be fucked in front of. Forcing another deep breath, you manage another easy smile and thank him again. 

He motions for you to follow him, and you have to look down at your feet to get them to move. You beg yourself inwardly to get a grip and soon. 

Hongjoong leads you down a long hallway, deeper into the Afterdark floorplan. You’re surprised by how nice it smells in here, like someone is burning incense somewhere. The walls are decorated with miscellaneous artworks and some awards, as well as headshots of the actors and actresses signed with them. At the end of the hallway, there are two huge double doors, and he pulls one of them open with ease, letting you walk into the gigantic room it reveals first. 

When you finally enter the large set, you can instantly feel the drastic temperature drop. Just as you had been led to believe, they must have turned down the thermostat in the room, making it several degrees colder than the early summer weather outside, and you rub your arms to try and warm them up. 

No more than five seconds after the two of you enter, Hongjoong is suddenly flanked by a young woman with a clipboard. A sticky note flutters as she keeps pace with you and him, and she mutters something to him that you can’t hear. 

“No, that’s alright,” he says quietly, “I think he’s good without her right now, but double check for me, please.” 

You keep your eyes on the floor, pretending that you didn’t hear anything, but your mind races. Who is ‘she’, you wonder? As quickly as she appeared, the assistant scurries off, past the camera and lighting crews, and over countless miscellaneous wires with practiced ease. 

While the two of you walk, you’re rather relieved that no one is staring at you as you go by. You’re just another actress to them, and right now, that’s okay with you. And luckily, the path Hongjoong is taking you on is relatively close to the perimeter of the set, so you’re not exactly the center of attention right now. A part of the wall juts out, making it look like a closet, but once he opens the door, you see it’s a dressing room. Complete with vanity lights, a full bathroom, and a brand new silk robe for you to wear on set, hanging up by the door. There’s also a small, plush couch up against the wall next to the vanity that you have a feeling you will be texting Yeosang on as soon as you’re left alone. 

“This is all yours for the day,” Hongjoong says, “someone will come around in a minute to help with hair and makeup, and then we’ll start.”

You nod, swallowing down as much of your anxiety as possible. 

“Will you, um–” you ask before you can stop yourself. Hongjoong pauses before he heads out, waiting expectantly for you to finish your question. “Are you gonna be on set the whole time?” 

His expression changes into something akin to surprise. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting you to ask anything about himself. He doesn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to try and understand why you’re asking that. You can almost see the professional within him piecing together a corporate response in real time.

“We try to limit how many people are in the room to those who are absolutely necessary. I usually stay close in case someone needs me. Why?” 

You wave your hand, trying to brush everything off. “No, I was just wondering. Nevermind. Thank you!” 

Hongjoong looks like he’s about to say something, but ultimately leaves you alone, gently closing the door behind him. 

As soon as it clicks shut, you’re moving to sit on the couch, ready to call Yeosang, but you stop yourself at the last minute. You’re acting crazy, you do realize that. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll tell you the exact same thing. 

Instead, to satiate your need to call him, you reread his last three texts of encouragement. 

Lock in. Remember who the hell you are. Now. 

You put on some ego-boosting music so you’re not just getting ready in silence, and quickly undress before hair and makeup arrive. Folded neatly on the vanity, is your outfit for the scene. A tight, cropped black lace cami, and a plaid mini skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. 

No panties anywhere in sight. No bra, either. Total and easy access. 

Your lower stomach starts to heat up, already envisioning how San might go about undressing you. From what you’ve seen, rarely does he let girls undress themselves. No, he wants to be the one to do it. Like he’s unwrapping a present, just for him.  

After you throw your hoodie onto the couch with the rest of your pile of clothes, you turn back to the vanity, noticing a small army of mini water bottles lined up and waiting for you if need be. You’re almost positive that if you look in the vanity drawer, you’ll find snacks as well. Maybe you can get used to this. But you’ll wait to give your final verdict after the job you came here to do is done. It’s best to wait. 

You’re only waiting for a minute or two before there’s a light knock on the door. Two women wearing face masks enter the dressing room, bowing to you and introducing themselves. You try to remember their names – Youngmi, you think is the makeup artist, and Rina, the hair stylist – but your brain is elsewhere, working double overtime to try to calm you down. Luckily, the Britney Spears song in the background is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Youngmi and Rina are quick, and good at what they do. Rina makes you laugh by scrunching her nose and singing along to the song as she brushes through your hair. Youngmi only rolls her eyes at her colleague, but it’s all in good fun. 

By the time they’re done, you no longer feel like the scared outsider that doesn’t look the part. They made you even more beautiful. 

There she is, you think as you admire yourself in the mirror. 

You sigh in relief, feeling much more confident than before. And not only that, you feel ready. It’s not the easiest thing to turn your nervousness into excitement, but somehow, this time, you manage to do it. So many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now – or, in your skirt. You had kicked your shoes off next to the couch. 

You make sure to thank Youngmi and Rina before they bring you out, not knowing if you’ll have a chance once you’re on set. With one more spritz of your perfume that you brought with you from home, and a last minute decision to bring the robe out with you, you finally follow them out towards the set. Just mere feet from where you’ll be… ‘performing’. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

As you’re walking and looking around, you start to wonder if San makes it a point to surround himself with equally beautiful people. Or maybe it’s a company requirement. 

Sure, maybe Hongjoong, Youngmi, and Rina are just coincidences, but even the camera and lighting crew are arguably just as pretty. Speaking of Hongjoong, you look around, noting that he isn’t anywhere to be found at the moment. He’s probably with his talent right now. 

When you’re introduced to the director, you almost say something about it. Everyone in this room is attractive. Conventionally, unconventionally, and everything in between. 

“Hello Ms. Y/L/N, I’m Choi Jongho, I’ll be directing you two today.” He introduces himself, bowing politely and shaking your hand. 

You bow your head and reply, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” 

He offers you a chair to sit in while everyone waits for San to come out, and you take it gratefully. You don’t know how long he’ll be. Youngmi and Rina excuse themselves, heading off in the other direction together, walking with purpose. You drape your robe across the back of it, unsure if you’re supposed to give it to someone or take it with you onto the set. 

“Would you like anything to drink, Ms. Y/L/N?” The director asks, noticing that you don’t have anything with you ready for any breaks. 

Director Choi only refers to you as “Ms. Y/L/N.” Very professional, cordial even. Makes you feel like more than an object his star is about to fuck on screen. You’re being treated with real respect, which is a pleasant surprise in comparison to what you had expected from the porn industry. 

You look around yourself, only just now realizing you didn’t take one of those mini water bottles from your dressing room like you originally planned. 

“A water, please–” you start to say. As soon as the last syllable of ‘water’ is spoken, an assistant hands you one. You didn’t even see him standing next to you, much less holding a bottle. Then again, you aren’t really paying attention to whether or not people are carrying water bottles or not right now. Damn.   

You try to warm up your arms by rubbing them, now that you’re virtually wearing next to nothing in this arctic-like room. Only a few moments later, a blanket is handed over to you wordlessly by another assistant, a quick bow following the action. You tilt your head down as a responding bow, shocked. You didn’t even have to say anything. 

Is this what San is used to? Everything given to him at once, on a silver platter with no questions asked? You imagine every single thing handed to him accompanied by hopeful, round eyes looking at him for his approval, only to be ignored or thanked by a small nod. You’re so used to doing everything yourself, this type of treatment makes you feel… stuck up – and every fiber of your being screams at you to make sure none of the staff think that of you. 

“San will be out in just a moment,” Director Choi says, but his heart isn't in it. He checks his watch and glances towards San's dressing room with nearly well-concealed impatience. It is rather late in the day, and you only just now think about the possibility that they may have been here since early morning. Maybe even shooting San with someone else. It’s entirely possible. You can imagine they all just want to get this last one done and go home. None of them would ever let that show, though. No, you have to admit everyone here is quite professional. 

Your hands absentmindedly twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you zone out. At least for now, you can zone out with a blanket wrapped around you. 

The air shifts just moments later.

It’s like a sudden pressure drop where everything goes still for only a second. That one second feels like a lifetime as you turn your head to see what’s going on. Though, in your heart you know exactly what it is without needing to look – it’s the arrival of the main attraction. 

From where you are, leaned back in your chair, you can’t see him too well. He’s surrounded by a team that moves with him like a clump of cells, or maybe in this case, like sheep in a herd. Finishing touchups by Youngmi and Rina, an assistant by his side carrying a medium-sized leather bag and holding his coffee cup when San hands it to him, and other miscellaneous characters that float around the star. Everyone wants to be near him in some way. 

Hongjoong stays at the back of it all, looking down at his phone as he walks. 

The team finally disperses one by one, revealing more of Choi San to your eyes. 

When San finally gets close enough to you, whatever air in your lungs is promptly sucker-punched out of you at the sight of his refreshing beauty. It’s even more pronounced in real life. You’re not entirely sure how to greet him, or what he’s used to. But you remember Yeosang’s encouragement again: He’s just a guy. Don’t let him intimidate you. You’re gonna be great. 

He’s just a guy. You’ve dealt with those before. It’s just that this guy in particular is crafted like an apology for creating men in the first place. And a couple of days ago, you were watching him make a girl cry on a bed that looks quite similar to the one on set right now. 

You stand up, smoothing down your skirt and standing still, hands clasped in front of you. 

“Hey Jongho, sorry we’re late,” Hongjoong calls over, pocketing his phone. He side-eyes San, who bows his head in apology as he walks.  

The director waves him off, clearly used to his tardiness and the apologies that follow. “It’s alright,” he says, “you’re actually earlier than we thought you’d be.”   

“We need to go over the rules with her,” San says once he’s close enough to you and the director, sounding tired. You wonder if he just woke up. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he speaks, and catches you looking. You don’t see it when you quickly avert your eyes, but his whole demeanor changes. No longer lethargic, he becomes awake and alert at the sight of you. 

Director Choi nods and grabs a clipboard from his own director’s chair. You nervously roll your ankle, hearing it crack quietly in the interim.  

“Right, number one rule is consent. If at any time you want to stop, just say the word. No questions asked. Second rule is to keep all details of this shoot private, including any conversations with each other,” At this, Director Choi looks up at you. “Third rule is health and safety, but Hongjoong said you covered that with him, and when you sent in the form,” Again, his eyes flick up from the clipboard to glance at you. “Fourth is to be respectful at all times – there’s no room for ego here. And lastly, don’t look at the camera unless told to, otherwise keep the illusion.” 

You go over each rule in your head before you forget. Consent, confidentiality, feel safe, be respectful, and don’t look at the camera. Simple enough. You keep your chin up, and shoulders back. You force that annoying inner voice of self-doubt to mumble the lyrics of the Britney song from earlier. 

“Follow these, and we’ll have a great shoot day. We should be ready to go in just a few minutes.” Director Choi offers both of you a quick smile before he turns on his heel and walks towards the cameraman, getting everything finalized and ready to shoot. Your heart pounds underneath the robe. Hongjoong steps closer to San, muttering something to him before walking back towards the dressing room. 

You’re just about to walk over to the set to get used to it and be ready to go whenever they are, when San steps right in front of you, effectively blocking the way.  

Out of the blue, he crowds your personal space, and you have to really dig deep to make yourself stay put. Right where you stand. Don’t be intimidated. At the end of the day, you’re both here to do the same job, and both of you are successful in your own rights. He’s just a man, you remind yourself again. 

San towers over you, his shirt opened just enough for you to see his perfectly toned and tan chest right in your face. You keep eye contact, even though all you want to do is look away. It’s much easier to be confident and independent on your own turf, but here on his, it’s more of a challenge. Still, you stand your ground. You have to if he’s going to keep sizing you up. He has been since he walked out here.  

“You didn’t cum,” he says matter-of-factly. 

… 

Pardon? Did you hear him right? What an odd opening line to say to someone you’re meeting for the first time. 

Your lips part and eyebrows furrow, rather startled. “I’m sorry?” 

There’s no way you heard him correctly.  

“Your last liveshow,” he shrugs. “Am I right?” 

Well… yes, but– how did–? 

Is this how he starts all of his conversations? With a personal accusation? 

“That’s alright. We all do it sometimes,” he shrugs again. He leans down so his mouth is next to your ear and lowers his voice. “You’re not gonna fake it with me, though,” he says, and the terrifying thing is that he sounds genuine. It’s not unfounded cockiness or meaningless bravado. He means what he says in all seriousness. He says it like you shouldn’t worry about it. Like it’s a promise. 

And you exhibit monumental self-control to not clench your thighs together at this moment. 

Your mind races at a million miles a minute. That, you didn’t expect. Isn’t that all that porn is? Fake, overblown orgasms for the girls and endless, guaranteed pleasure regardless for the men? You’re starting to think that this may not be the case with him. You think about the videos you watched as part of your ‘research’, and a bolt of electricity zips up your spine. You never doubted that he made his costars feel good, but you know full well that a lot of porn actresses pretend that they’ve cum with their scene partner. But with him, now you know: all of the girls weren’t acting. In fact, you really doubt that they needed to fake just how good he made them feel. The last video you watched of him comes back to mind… you wonder if he’ll make you scream like that too.

Unsure of how to respond to that, you just take a small step backwards to put some distance between you two. Room to think and process if possible. But he’s relentless, and he seems to like getting up in people’s space. A mischievous glint in his eye tells you that he’s enjoying this particular encounter especially. He’s definitely the type of guy that finds it fun to make girls flustered or nervous. 

You swallow hard. 

“You sound rather confident,” you note, still trying your best to hold eye contact with him. To not back down or seem weak. You’re sure it’s not working. You just refuse to melt all over him, or suck up to him. Especially not when he’s the one who asked you here.  

Surprisingly, he smirks. “Shouldn’t I be? I’ve done my research, I know you probably have done yours as well.” 

So you were right. Yeosang, too. San has seen your content before. And not only has he seen your previous works, he was right there with you, watching your last live. Your speculation sounds a lot like confirmation now. 

“Does that make you nervous, kitten?” He whispers, tilting his head slightly to the side like he’s about to kiss you. He could if he just leaned forward a couple more inches. 

A little, you admit to yourself. Your heart hammers against your chest like it’s trying to push you forward, to get closer to him. At this proximity, you can easily smell his cologne and dammit, somehow it makes him even more attractive. You’re almost getting annoyed with him now. Surely there should be at least one flaw to him, something that makes him human like the rest of the world. 

“No,” you lie, “I’m fine.” Arms crossed. Eyes up. 

San laughs lightly, and his smile instantly becomes the most attractive thing about him so far, even if it’s at your own expense. 

“If you say so,” he shrugs again. 

He doesn’t move away from you, though. Not right away. His gaze lingers on your lips for a fleeting moment, which gives you just enough time to come up with a question of your own. 

“So, you’re a fan of mine?” 

At that, he pauses. But, he doesn’t shy away from it. 

“Yeah,” he says, owning up to it immediately. He straightens back up as you nod, taking in the information. “Have been for a while now. I saw that other collab you did with that guy, it was really fuckin’ hot.” 

You make a mental note to let Yeosang know he was right about that, as well. To be honest, you weren’t expecting the compliment.  

“I’m– glad you liked it,” you say, clearing your throat in the middle of the sentence. You’re doing pretty well on the outside despite your nervousness beginning to rise again on the inside. San studies you once more, like he’s searching for something on you that only he can see. You step back again and turn your face away from him as you take a sip from your water bottle, taking your time to screw the cap back on. 

“Mm… you’re even prettier in real life,” he says, so casually it almost doesn’t register. 

You nearly swallow wrong, just barely avoiding choking on the small amount of water still left in your mouth. Luckily, Director Choi calls over to you two to start making your way onto set. 

The final few minutes begin to tick down.  

You don’t attempt to hide the deep breath you take, but you do try to not make it very noticeable. Placing the water bottle onto the chair you were just in, you clear your throat again. 

“Any final advice or warnings for me before we start?” You ask, keeping your voice casual and light. It’s a subtle dig to him, but you mean no malice behind the words. Fortunately, he picks up on it. 

“Oh, tons,” he grins, keeping pace with you onto the set. It’s almost easy to forget the cameras.  

You steal a glance at him as you walk, the floor bitterly cold beneath your feet. With each step the bed gets closer and closer. Now finally getting a chance to see the set in detail, you’re pretty impressed. It’s a pretty realistic bedroom setting, complete with shelves decorated with trinkets and records, but vague enough to have no specific personality. Nobody’s going to be admiring the set design when they watch this. Still, you appreciate the effort made by the production team to make it feel real. 

The lights facing you are blinding and you wince when you accidentally look right into one. Good incentive to not look that way, you suppose. 

San sits on the edge of the bed. “You get used to it,” he says, nodding towards the lights. 

You nod as well, placing a hand above your heart, willing it to stop racing. 

Noticing this, San takes your hand and guides you to sit down next to him. You do feel a bit better now that you’re sitting. You keep your eyes down to avoid burning your retinas, and turn your head slightly towards him. He shifts a little closer, positioning his body so he’s facing you. 

“Nervous?” He asks rhetorically, knowing full well that you are. He’s still holding your hand, playing with each of your fingers one by one. 

“Obvious?” You reply, managing to laugh at yourself, despite your nerves. 

San grins, his eyes turning into crescents, and that dimple in his cheek reappearing. “Only a little bit. But, I’ve seen worse.” 

You hum in response. Being reminded of his experience, leaps and bounds ahead of yours, does nothing to help your anxiety. You just hope you can live up to the fantasy version of your own self. That’s the version of you he invited. 

Where’s Britney when you need her?  

You push your hair back, a minute attempt to self-soothe in some way. You only realize halfway through the action that Rina probably just clutched her pearls somewhere past the lights, cursing you for messing up her work. Oh, well. According to what you’ve seen and the information you’ve gathered, your hair’s gonna be plenty messed up anyway. 

The room is starting to become a lot less crowded. Just like Hongjoong had said, only the essential people stay on set to make sure everything goes smoothly and safely. Everyone else becomes fading background noise, filtering out into the hallway you first came in from. 

But less distractions means you notice the man right next to you even more. 

You can feel San’s eyes on you. 

It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, quite the opposite actually. The weight of it is light, soft around the edges as he appreciates how he managed to practically will you onto this set with him. You’d been sure you may be insecure around him because of his almost unnatural beauty, but… actually, having his eyes on you right now makes you a bit more confident. He’s not looking at anyone else but you. Not just looking, but admiring. 

His gaze drifts down, greedily drinking in the sight of your collarbone and legs – the only skin you’re revealing at the moment. If the crew would just hurry up, he’ll be able to see more. 

Fortunately, he’s never been one to wait to get what he wants. Especially not in this industry. And right now, he wants you. 

“I meant it, by the way,” he says quietly, “you’re beautiful.” 

Without any water to choke on, or an interruption from the director, you simply look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no trace of irony anywhere. Not in what he said, and not hidden somewhere within his features. The genuinity, and the doubling-down of the compliment takes you aback. 

“Thank you… you’re quite beautiful yourself.” You compliment him back, shifting how you’re sitting to face him as well. 

By now, your knee is touching his. Even this small amount of contact between you makes your shoulders tense again. You’re not sure why, but you just want to melt into him already. Perhaps due to the undeniable attraction you feel towards him. 

Maybe it’s the insane sexual tension between you both, that very well could be the root cause as well. 

You remember how real his scenes look… this must be how the chemistry is kindled. Starting before the cameras capture anything, it makes it all seem less like a show. And you know what? Until the director yells ‘cut’, you’re more than willing to match that energy.

His hand moves from yours to rest on your thigh, slowly, like he’s silently asking for permission to continue. When you don’t flinch or push him away, he hikes up your skirt just an inch or two higher, exposing more of your skin. The light ghost of his touch makes you freeze in place. It’s already dizzying enough to have him in such close proximity, and now adding in the electricity of his touch, it’s a whole other level. And this, you assume, is just the warmup. Getting you used to the feeling of his hands on you. It’s nice that it doesn’t feel wrong. 

The lighting crew dims one of the lights and one of them loudly asks the director if it looks good on camera. Distracted, you turn back to look their way again, but San gently cups your face with his hand, making you face him instead. 

He hums, looking down between your still-clothed bodies. His other hand dips under the hem of your skirt, and your breath hitches. Worrying too much about the crew still, you look back to see if this is alright to do before the cameras start rolling. 

“Don’t look at the camera, kitten,” San purrs, “I believe that was rule number five.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you mumble without any real bite to your words. 

That smile of his returns, and the energy between you becomes even more charged. The moment right before someone gives in after holding back for too long. 

San never looks anywhere else, entirely focused on you. It doesn't matter to him that there’s about twenty people still in the same room, all witnessing this ‘warm-up’ unfold. It barely fazes him. He’s experienced in this setting, way more used to it than you are. You just have to roll with it. 

His hand on your face drops back down to the mattress as his wrist turns, and you inhale sharply when he lightly drags his fingers through your wet folds. He hums again, clearly satisfied. 

“What’s got you this wet already, kitten?” 

Your lips part to answer, but he finds your clit before you can speak. This time, you gasp quietly before you can stop yourself. Once again, you glance over at the crew, wondering if anyone is watching the two of you. You can’t see very well because of the lights and the various equipment in the way, but several of the crew and team are. 

San smirks, pressing the pads of his fingers harder against your clit. “You like the attention?” He asks, following your gaze. “It’s different from your little camshow isn’t it? Now the audience is only a few feet away…” 

His fingers begin to move in small circles, occasionally dipping further down to collect your wetness before bringing it back up to your clit. 

“San–” you breathe, catching his wrist in a semi-firm grip. Not to move it away, but just to hold onto something. Jesus, the shoot hasn’t even officially started yet, but you’re about to beg them to hurry up so it can. 

San just moves closer to you, his eyes greedily drinking in your cute expression. His voice is quieter, so only you can hear him. “Already thought about all the ways I’m gonna make this pretty cunt cum for me. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.” 

Another promise. 

A shiver runs down your spine, and that’s the moment the crew decides that they’re ready to shoot. 

San pulls away like nothing happened, even smoothing down your skirt for you. You force yourself to breathe through your nose, steadying your pulse. You quickly look down, checking to see if your top is still on straight.  

Director Choi walks up to you both for final notes. “Alright, no script so we’re mostly gonna follow your lead, just let us know when one of you needs a quick break. All three cameras are going to be rolling, and one handheld. You remember all the rules?” He looks over to you. 

You nod quickly, unable to meet his eye right now. The back of your hand lifts to your cheek to check how hot it’s gotten – as if you need additional confirmation. You hope you didn’t smudge your makeup or wipe some of it off by accident, but you imagine that if it shows up on camera, they’ll stop to fix it. 

“Okay, then we’re ready to go.” 

San thanks him as he walks off, turning his attention back onto you. Your gaze has dropped down to your lap, breaths kind of erratic from the little show you and him just put on, and from nerves. But you manage to pull yourself together, externally at least. All you really have to do now is look pretty for the camera. You can do that. Except for the live audience, this isn’t much different to a camshow, really. 

And aren’t you here for your fans anyway? Sure, you also wanted the opportunity and experience, but it’s also for your fans. The ones who supported you enough to even get noticed by Afterdark and San in the first place. You imagine they’ll make up at least half of the view count whenever this video drops. You’re performing for them. Not for the strangers in the room. 

Once that clicks for you, all your anxiety melts away, freeing you to finally just… enjoy this. Why not? You deserve it. 

Plus, you’re quite eager to pick up right where you and San left off just moments ago – and it seems that San is too. 

His gaze becomes heavier, darker as he shifts into his on-screen persona. 

“C’mere, kitten, want you on my lap to start.” He says, moving back on the bed a little more and gently pulling you towards him. 

You straddle his legs, slow to sit down fully. Now slightly above and closer than before, you can’t look anywhere else but at him. His hands slowly trail up your thighs again, watching you the whole time. You stop breathing when his fingertips tease the hem of your skirt again. He can probably feel through those dress pants he’s in how wet you are. Equally though, you can feel how hard he’s getting. 

Subtly, you grind your hips down onto him. The immediate pleasure of the friction against your bare pussy makes your eyes roll back. One of his hands sneaks to your hip, gripping it tightly, and you meet his eyes again. 

“It’s just you and me,” he says quietly, breath fanning across your cheek. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed again as you grind into him once more. “Okay…” 

Through your pleasurable hazy fog, you faintly hear someone yell, ‘Action!’. 

And San stops holding back. 

The hand on your hip pushes you back and pulls you in, encouraging you to keep grinding on him – and to not stop anytime soon. His other hand moves to your hair, keeping your face close to his as he finally kisses you. His lips are pleasantly soft, and he tastes like peppermint. You hope you do too, you probably brushed your teeth at least four times before the driver showed up outside your apartment building. San seems to have no complaints as he moans quietly, his hand tightens in your hair. 

Your whole body feels electric, every touch amplified by a thousand. He makes out with you slow and deep, savouring the taste of you, and groans into your mouth with each roll of your hips. 

San tilts your chin up to kiss your neck, hiding his face from the camera. “Never answered my question,” he whispers, barely audible so his voice doesn’t get picked up by any of the overhead microphones. 

You disguise your response as a moan, “Hm?” 

He licks a small stripe up your neck, right up to your ear and looks down between you. You follow his gaze, only to find a wet patch staining his pants already. 

Ah. 

His question from mere minutes ago: What’s got you this wet already? 

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, a bit louder. It’s alright if the microphones pick that up. “Wonder why…” 

It’s the knowing smirk that does it. You move to undress him first, intriguing him. He didn’t expect you to be so bold right out of the gate. But, you have an on-screen persona of your own. Now both of your characters are out to play. 

In your dwindling patience, you come close to just ripping the shirt off when you fumble with one of the buttons. San finds your lips again as you push the offending fabric off of him, eager to explore his newly exposed body. But you’re next. 

Both of his hands lift up your shirt until it comes off over your head, forcing you two to break apart for a moment. Neither of you wait to make up for that lost time. You drape your arms around his shoulders, one of your hands lightly tugging at the roots of his hair. At first, your whole body erupts in goosebumps from the cold air now hitting your upper body as well, and not just your arms, but you can’t blame your reaction entirely on the temperature. 

San must notice how your shoulders hunch a little and how you press further into him, because he is quick to warm you up. 

One arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, chests touching. The first brush of your peaked nipples against his skin makes you gasp into his mouth. He nips at your bottom lip, distracting you while his hand moves from the back of your head, down to one of your breasts. His thumb flicks over the sensitive bud there and you have to duck your head down to catch your breath for a second. You grind down onto him again, adding to your arousal tenfold. 

Refusing to prolong this any longer, San suddenly flips you onto the bed, underneath him. His hand returns between your legs, fingers shallowly dipping into your entrance and circling your clit. He keeps just out of your reach, his lips so frustratingly close to yours. You glance down to watch him. The visual of his hand disappearing underneath your skirt, the veins in his arm beginning to rise and pop, and the heat of his body against yours is all starting to add up. 

You tug at your own skirt, looking up at him with doe eyes. He nods twice, understanding. In no time at all, your skirt is unzipped and pulled down your legs, discarded somewhere onto the floor. 

Now fully exposed, San pauses. 

The tempo of the scene slows abruptly as he takes his time to look at your body, laying so prettily beneath him. He looks at your body like he’s deciding where to start first, with too many enticing options. You drag your hands down his chest, lightly scratching him and making him shiver in the process. This, you realize, is how he makes every scene feel legit. He takes his time to admire his partner, make them feel admired and wanted. You have to admit, it does work its magic. Not just for the audience, but for you as well. 

He catches both of your wrists, bringing your hands together to kiss them both before guiding them down above your head. 

“Keep them here,” he murmurs, kissing you once more. 

You barely have time to enjoy or savor the taste of him again before he moves to kiss your neck. Eyes closing, you sigh into the feeling, wanting to commit this to memory. He doesn’t stay in one place for long, moving down to kiss your chest next. Soft, wet warmth once again wraps around your nipple and you arch your back to try and get more of it. You twist your hands in the sheets above you, keeping them anchored there just like he instructed. 

San then moves further down, ghosting his lips past your stomach. You part your legs to accommodate him, and he kneels on the floor, gently pushing your legs further apart. He drags this out, just to torture you, you think. His intentions and what he’s about to do are clear, but he’s a professional at driving his partners crazy. The kisses turn to licks, right next to your labia. So tantalizingly close. 

If your eyes were open, you’d see that he’s been watching you the entire time, trying to pace himself as best he can. You’re actually lucky there’s a job to do here because if it was just the two of you alone, he doesn’t think he’d be holding himself back from just taking what he wants. 

To him, this is all just a chance for him to prove himself to you. To him, you’re the star. And he’s going to make sure you leave this set more than satisfied. Wanting for nothing. 

But he’s not going to start until you beg him to. 

His breath fans across your wet lower lips and your hands find his hair again, trying to push his mouth where you need him. You hear him laugh, exhaling through his nose before moving your hands away. 

“Thought I told you to keep your hands up there, kitten,” he reminds you, with a slight warning edge to his voice. 

Oh, shit, you realize all too late. The last video flashes through your mind, and he feels you tense up. He kisses your hipbone to calm you down. 

“Be a good girl and keep them above your head,” he repeats his previous order. 

You nod quickly, “I’m sorry–” but he cuts you off by licking a thick wet stripe through your folds. Your breath hitches, and your hands stay cemented to the sheets, to hold on for dear life. 

When he repeats the action, the tip of his tongue flicks at your clit, making you see stars already. 

“Oh my god…” you moan, eyes fluttering shut again. 

Your hands itch to move back down to his hair, wanting to pull him closer and to push him away. You want to touch him again, but the fear of him reenacting the ‘Fantasy’ video keeps you frozen. 

As expected, his mouth is just as perfect as the rest of him. The softness of his lips against your core only stokes the dull heat in your lower stomach. He alternates between focusing more on your clit, and dipping his tongue into your entrance. The most addicting part is that he’s moaning while he eats you out, like the taste of you is getting him off. You hope he lets you return the favor. 

He readjusts his hands on your thighs when they threaten to close around his head, opting to push them back towards your chest. Your toes curl as he sucks your clit hard, and you can’t help the high-pitched sound that escapes your mouth. He does it again, and again, getting you louder each time. 

“Look at me, baby,” he breathes, his nose brushing up against your sensitive clit as he speaks. 

You whimper as you lift your head up, resting on your elbows to not strain your neck. He meets your eyes for just a second before shoving his tongue into your hole, rubbing his nose against your clit again. You cry out, throwing your head back as the pleasure increases and squirm in his strong grip. Legs shaking and breath uneven, it’s clear that you’re close. Now you’ll get to see what he has planned for you. The two boxes you checked off, ‘Rough’, and ‘Gentle’ come back to haunt you. 

A moan cuts you off as you try to warn him that you’re close, but he can tell without needing to hear you say it. He’s been the cause of enough female orgasms to see the warning signs of one approaching. Two of his fingers suddenly dip into you as he sucks on your clit, hooking deep inside and prodding your g-spot over and over again. 

His voice is rough and gravelly against your pussy, “Cum for me, baby. Wanna taste it.” 

A bolt of electricity runs through you as you cum, shaking and moaning while it gradually subsides. The heat in your lower stomach cools off but stays simmering now, waiting to be rekindled again. You whimper, raising your head back up to look at him. He’s in his own world between your legs, gently licking your pussy and your inner thighs clean. Your core clenches around his fingers when he slowly starts to drag them out, and he smirks. He lowers your legs back down, kissing your knee and doing a quick check to make sure you’re okay to continue. 

You answer that check by sitting up and pulling him towards you, kissing him even more hungrily than before. He hasn’t even wiped his mouth yet, but you don’t care. Without breaking the kiss, he follows you back down onto the bed, sucking on your tongue and wrapping a hand around your throat. Not tight enough to restrict airflow, but just enough to make your head feel light. He grinds his still-clothed erection into you, and the friction makes your head spin. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move your hands or not, but you just want to touch him so badly. You want to grip his length, make him feel just as good, taste him too. 

For now, you just roll your hips up into his, moaning into his mouth. 

“Want it…want you,” you mumble, parting from his lips for just a second to tell him that. 

San hums, lazily kissing your jaw. “What do you want, kitten? Be specific.” 

You groan inwardly, but you know he has to prolong this a little. Damn… for a while, you forgot about the reason you’re currently underneath him. You sneak a glance over to your left, seeing where the set ceiling abruptly stops and opens up to the industrial interior of the Afterdark building. He notices your focus straying, and he’s quick to act. 

“Tell me,” San redirects you, blocking your view by kissing the left side of your neck and distracting you from everything else by keeping his hard-on pressed right up against your bare pussy. His voice is firmer. A small warning and reminder of rule number five. 

You take a deep breath before you voice what you want, “Wanna suck your cock… please, sir.” 

It’s the ‘sir’ that nearly kills him. You really have done your research, haven’t you? You know that’s what he likes to be called, especially when his scene partners are feeling extra submissive to him. Are you feeling that way already? Maybe you just really want to do this for him. San studies you for a second, confirming the latter. He can see how much you actually mean it by the way you look up at him, pleading with your eyes. 

And who is he to deny you? Especially when you ask so nicely. Plus, he’s been wanting to feel your mouth wrap around his cock since he watched your livestream. 

“Yeah?” He asks, biting the space where your neck meets your shoulder and pressing up against you again. 

You give him your best doe-eyed look, really tapping into your innocent act. “Yes, sir.” 

San helps you sit upright again and stands at the foot of the bed, starting to undo his belt. Wanting to be an active participant, you lean forward, dragging your lips down and across his abs, occasionally licking at his soft, honeyed skin. His belt hits the floor, and your hands are quick to do the rest. It’s a little hard to get the zipper down, but you manage it, successfully removing his pants. You’re just about to deal with his underwear next, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him. You stumble a little as you find your footing on the floor, and let him lead you over to a chair against the set wall. It’s a better angle for the cameras, you assume. For him, he just wants to watch you do this properly. He wants nothing to obstruct his view, or the camera’s. 

San pushes his hair back as you drag the final piece of clothing away from his body. You avert your eyes until the very last second, tossing the garment off to the side to join the sad little pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Now you take your time, pressing a kiss to his knee, slowly rising up onto yours the further up you move. You hear his breath shift, and you finally glance up to face his cock. 

Somehow, it’s bigger than it looks on camera. 

You have no idea how that’s possible – you know about the fish eye lenses and tricks the porn industry will use to make someone’s dick look bigger than it is, but right now, you’re presented with the exact opposite. It’s larger in real life. This, you were not expecting, but it is such a pleasant and welcome surprise. And of course, it’s just as pretty as the rest of him.  

Both of these things combined only make you want to put your mouth on it even more. 

When you delicately wrap your hand around it, he hisses at the long-awaited contact. A hand tangles into your hair, not pulling you towards him, just resting there for now. San leans back against the chair, his toned body a feast for the cameras and for you. You remind yourself not to rush, and to savor this. 

Wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, you tease him a little by ghosting your lips up his length, watching him shiver and bite his lip. You kiss the tip, and linger there for a second, acting like you’re about to put him in your mouth, only to move away, kissing his hipbone next and stroking him with your hand. 

His grip tightens in your hair. Knowing he wants you to hurry up, you let go of him for a moment to spit in your hand before quickly returning to it. He groans a bit louder, head falling back a little as you gently twist your wrist, squeezing at the base of his cock. 

Finally, you lick him from the base to the head before wrapping your lips around him. His other hand balls up into a fist, but that’s the only reaction he gives away for now. You relax your jaw as much as you can, trying to accommodate his size before sinking down lower. You can taste his pre-cum in the back of your throat, coating your tongue. 

If you were annoyed with his apparent perfection before, you’re pissed now. How does he also taste good too? 

As if to get back at him somehow, you wrap your lips tighter around his cock and suck hard, which earns you a choked moan from him. You hum around him, amused and pleased with yourself. His hand shakes slightly as he pushes your hair back, the other one in your hair starting to guide you even further down. The tip hits the back of your throat and you gag on it, forcing yourself to relax and remember to breathe through your nose. 

“Fuck, baby…so good,” He groans, starting to struggle to keep his eyes open. 

The visual of you choking on his cock is better than he could’ve ever imagined it to be. You don’t try to fight against him when he pushes you down or pulls you back up, simply letting him use your throat as he wishes. Even though you’re gagging and your eyes are watering, you don’t try to pull off. Not even when he shoves you down, making you fit his entire length into your throat, and holds you there for ten seconds. The longest ten seconds of your life. Your nails dig into your thighs, creating angry red crescent-shaped indents in your skin. His cock twitches in your throat and you whimper, keeping your gag reflex at bay. When the ten seconds are up, he lets you pull off of him completely to catch your breath. 

You cough into your shoulder, one of your hands wrapping around him again to make sure he still feels good. San can't help but praise you, leaning down to kiss your forehead, cupping your face with his hand to make you look at him. It’s a subtle check-in moment. Nothing between you is said out loud, but he searches your face for any signs of discomfort or stress of any kind. He’s rather relieved to find none, only your glossy eyes staring back at him, lips parted and breath heavier than before. Ready to go again or continue on. 

Whatever he wants. 

San shivers as you gently twist your wrist again, returning your lips to the head of his dick, kitten-licking the pre-cum that still leaks out there. You hope he’ll cum in your mouth. A rare hope, as you’ve never quite enjoyed the taste of it before, but with his track record so far, you’re willing to bet you’ll enjoy it this time. To encourage this dream to happen, you spit onto the head of his cock twice, collecting some of it with your hand already around his length, and the rest with your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip. 

You hear soft footsteps behind you, and naturally, your first instinct is to whip around to see who it is. Luckily, your conscience kicks in, reminding you of where you are, and you’re able to stop yourself before you can even move an inch. It’s probably one of the crew leaving the set, you figure. But it sounds close by. 

As if to prove you right, soon there’s a figure or a shadow looming just out of your peripheral vision on your left, holding something. To combat every urge within you to turn around, you close your eyes and steal another kiss from San, who lazily kisses you back. He doesn’t seem to mind that your lips are covered in spit and pre-cum. Not one bit. His groans have increased the more you stroke his cock, one of his hands grips the arm of the chair in an attempt to ground himself. Harder, faster, your wrist begins to burn from exertion, but determination keeps it going. You’ll get a damn brace if you need to. 

“God–” he grunts, looking down at your hand. 

“Want you to cum too,” you say, looking up at him, almost pleading. 

San’s eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, a full body shudder wracking through him before he is able to compose himself again. 

“And where do you want me to cum, kitten?” He asks, his volume raising slightly, caressing your cheek. 

“In my mouth, sir.” You reply, also loud enough for the microphones to pick up. 

He all but shoves you down. You barely have time to make sure your teeth aren’t grazing his dick with every bob of your head as his hand returns to your hair, guiding your movements once again. This time, with just a fraction less of his notorious self control. You’re able to keep up easily, sucking harder whenever you’re closer to the head of it, and using your tongue as much as you can. 

San swears under his breath, hissing at your previously unknown skill level. It takes every ounce of composure to not fuck your throat the way he wants to. He’d be so mean to you if you’d let him. He wouldn’t have kept himself down your throat for ten measly seconds, it would’ve been until you tried to push yourself off, desperate to breathe again. That would’ve been heavenly, to feel your throat constrict around his cock, in search of air. But not for the first scene together. 

If there’s a next time, maybe that’s when he’ll let go just a little more. Show that side of him and see how you cope with it. For now though, he’s content to just enjoy the sight of you taking him in your mouth, wanting to make him cum. And you’re damn near close to achieving that. 

He ignores the cameraman standing barely two feet from you, and leans back again, relaxing his body as his dick twitches incessantly in your mouth. Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, sparks of electricity shoot up his spine. 

“Fuck… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum… mmf–” San moans, head tilting back against the chair. 

You don’t change anything about what you’re doing, just continuing until finally, he releases into your mouth. Just like you wanted him to. And it’s just as you predicted. The taste of it makes you want him to cum in your mouth again and again, surprisingly pleasant. Slightly bitter, yes, but not overly so. You swallow around him, not pulling off just yet. You won’t until you suck him dry, until he pushes you off from overstimulation. Maybe subconsciously, it’s because you know he loves to overstimulate his scene partners – a subtle payback for all of them. You try to hide your grin as you finally release him. Not a single drop wasted. You swallowed everything. 

San looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, fighting to keep his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm. You lick your lips just for good measure, and he snaps. 

His hands return to your face and the back of your head, pulling you towards him to kiss you deeply. You moan into his mouth as his tongue slips into yours, not caring in the slightest that can taste himself. As you straighten up on your knees, you can feel how wet you still are, and you can’t help but be a little surprised. You’ve never gotten wet from sucking dick before. If he finds out, it’ll go right to his ego, no doubt. 

But before he can, there’s an abrupt, loud clacking sound to your left, and at first, you think someone must have dropped something. San makes a quiet, irritated sound before pulling away, glancing towards the director. The cameraman right next to you moves away, going back over towards the others and adjusting something on his camera. You feel slow to catch up on what’s happening, looking back up at San for help. 

“We’re breaking for a second,” he explains, still out of breath. 

Ah. 

“Are you alright?” You ask him, without thinking. You’re not even sure why you asked that. 

San blinks, processing your question as well before nodding once, “Yeah… yeah, I’m good.” 

There’s a fleeting moment between you that you can’t describe. Something deeper than the scene now that you’re out of it. It’s the way he’s looking at you, void of any facade or persona meant for the cameras. Almost like he’s curious about something. 

No one ever really asks him if he’s alright. 

Just as quickly as the moment appears, it’s gone. You hear a flurry of movement and murmured conversations on your left as you sink back onto your heels, processing everything. Your eyes close as you try to focus on your breathing now that nothing is blocking your throat, deep inhales and slow exhales.  

“You okay?” San asks as well, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be genuine concern. 

“‘M okay… honest.” You nod as you speak to emphasize that you’re truly alright. One more prolonged exhale, and you roll your shoulders back, heart-rate decelerating back to its default speed. One of your hands reaches up to massage your aching jaw. 

Opening your eyes again, you accidentally make eye contact directly to his cock, still right in front of your face. It’s laying against his stomach, still slightly twitching, but… not softening. At least not as much as you’d expect it to. Surely, he can’t still be hard after coming. However, at this point, you wouldn’t put it past him to have a practically nonexistent refractory period. Might as well tack it onto the list of things he has been blessed with in life. 

San runs a hand through his hair, looking over towards someone who must be talking to him. You watch his eyes follow them until you see for yourself who it is – one of the assistants that had been in his little circle when he first walked out of his dressing room. He hands him a robe, and quickly walks off. You feel a small nudge at your shoulder and find one of the other assistants – the one that had handed you the blanket earlier – extending a robe towards you. You take it gladly, your body heat crashing down again now that nothing is happening, and the frigid air conditioning reminding you why you asked for a blanket in the first place. He also gives you a water bottle with a straw poked through the plastic cap, and you drink it down gratefully. 

Director Choi calls over Youngmi and Rina, and they’re quickly by your side, touching up your hair and makeup. You scoot back a little on the floor, giving San some space as his own team descends around him. Still, through the quiet rush of activity separating the two of you, your eyes stay glued to him. 

Once the four hair and makeup girls leave, you hear Hongjoong from somewhere behind you. You both look towards his voice, standing near the director. A young woman you haven’t seen milling around the set before stands right next to him, also in a short silk robe almost identical to yours from what you can see of it past the lights. Your chest burns. She’s gorgeous, and seems to only get prettier the more you look at her. She looks between Hongjoong and San expectantly, as if waiting for a regular cue. Totally relaxed. You look back down at your hands in your lap, toying with the hem of your robe. It’s obvious what she’s there for. You wonder if she’s been watching the whole time as well. 

But San is quick to rid you of any worries. 

Actually, he seems a little annoyed as he waves Hongjoong and the woman off, before turning his attention back to you. He helps you stand up, slowly to ensure you won’t get dizzy, and leads you back over to sit on the foot of the bed. Back where you started, in your own little bubble together in front of the lights and the cameras.  

Once settled again, San tilts your head up, his pointer finger under your chin, and holds it there, effectively disrupting your train of thought. He can almost see the self-doubt threatening to cloud your mind, even if you try to hide it behind your on-camera mask. He simply won’t have it. His other hand cups your cheek, making sure you don’t try to look anywhere but at him right now. 

“‘M still hard for you, kitten,” he says quietly, just for you. He moves closer, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Made me feel so fucking good… doing so well…” 

You can’t help but blush at his praise. He’s so attentive, it’s a little shocking. You expected him to be, due to the videos you watched, but off-camera as well? 

To thank him, you wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it lightly, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. You want him to snap again. To just fuck you stupid already, to not wait for the production team to be ready. God, you just want to stop thinking and overthinking. You lean into the hand holding your cheek, humming at the comfort it provides. 

One of your hands wanders between you, trailing up his thigh. You want to feel it for yourself, even though the robe does little to conceal the truth in his statement. Nevertheless, your confidence is rekindled once more when you feel him through the silk, hard and ready for you. He hisses at the contact, resting his forehead against yours for a moment or two before straightening again. A low groan from him makes your thighs clench together. 

“Sorry, sir,” you whisper, grinning mischievously now that you’re the one teasing him.  

San laughs once, breathy and short. 

“You really have done your research on me, huh?” He smirks, watching you slowly move his robe aside to touch him properly. He tenses a little at the initial contact, but gradually relaxes again as his body gets used to it. 

You shrug, playing it cool. “Wanted to see what I was getting myself into,” the corners of your mouth twitch as you slowly stroke his cock, watching for his reactions. 

“And–” he clears his throat before continuing, “what do you think so far?” 

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you’re taken aback again by his genuineness. He’s not just asking to ask or to boost a sky-high ego, he really does want to know. Still, you want to keep him intrigued. Maybe you even want him to try and prove himself to you a bit.  

“Well… I’m still wet for you,” you admit, casting your eyes down towards your lap. “But I think I’ll give you a final verdict later.”  

San hums, remembering the taste of you, and how wet you were for him to start. His eyes trail downwards, towards your chest, which is slowly becoming more and more revealed as your robe loosens.     

“Deal,” he whispers, slowly leaning in to kiss you. 

Before he can though, you squeeze his member a little harder, your thumb circling the tip, making his mind nearly go blank. San shudders and leans back on his hands, his robe also loosening little by little, revealing his chest and the top of his abs to your hungry eyes again. He steals a quick glance over to the crew, before just taking matters into his own hands. 

As soon as his robe comes off, he tosses it in the camera’s direction. A rather obvious way of telling everyone the break is over. Director Choi quickly stands from his chair, shooing away a production assistant and waving another one over to collect the robes. You take yours off as well, tossing it onto his, and San eases you down onto your back, kissing you just as deeply as before. 

You shiver, finally underneath him once more. The promise of what’s to come thunders through your mind. He slots his knee in between your legs, keeping you open for him. You whine into his mouth when that knee raises slightly, pressing against your pussy. You can almost hear his smirk, confirming that you are indeed still wet for him. 

Well, he won’t make you wait any longer. 

And just in time too, because someone over on the left shouts, ‘Action!’. You feel kind of bad for stressing out the crew this much, but you can’t dwell on those guilty feelings when San is rubbing your clit again.

“Fuck… please…” you whimper, hips grinding up in search of something else.  

San moans, working himself up as he feels your pussy slicking all over his knee.  

“Are they gonna stop us again?” You ask, whispering in his ear. 

“They better fucking not,” San breathes, pressing one more kiss to your cheek before pushing himself up, spreading your legs further apart so he can kneel between them. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows again, intent on watching. You clench around nothing as he grips himself, angling his dick down towards your pussy. Every muscle in your body locks in anticipation and impatience. Your brain goes haywire just at the sight of his cock near where you need him most, knowing he’ll stretch you out, and knowing that you probably won’t last too long with his size. Hopefully, you won’t cum as soon as he bottoms out. 

San presses the tip to your hole, and you hold your breath. It’s so big, but you’re ready. You’re definitely wet enough to help get him inside without any help from spit or lube. Nevertheless, he spits right on your clit, pausing to make you feel it drip down through your folds. He taps the head of his cock against your clit a couple times, greedily watching your reactions. 

And much to your despair, he doesn’t push inside just yet. Instead, he drags his cock up and down your pussy. Slowly. Forcing you to feel every inch of it, just not where you need it. Your clit is so sensitive, every time he rubs up against it, you can’t help but whine pathetically. 

San hums, mocking you. “Hm? What’s wrong, kitten?” 

“Please fuck me already,” you exhale, whimpering at yet another tap of his cock against your clit. 

“Louder,” he instructs, not just to make you beg for it again, but also so the microphones pick it up. You’d forgotten all about them again, to be honest. “Ask me properly.” 

Another shiver runs through you, and you gasp when you feel the head of his cock return to your entrance. Just barely enough so you can feel it’s there. But it’s enough motivation. You spread your legs further apart to convince him, holding them up and back by hooking your arms around your knees. Fully exposed to his eyes, open and ready to be filled. 

“Please, sir, please fuck me. Want it so ba–” 

Your voice is cut off by a choked noise as he finally pushes into you. Quickly, you look down, watching him breach you. All of your air is punched out of you as he stretches you out, sinking deeper and deeper, inch by inch. He takes over the task of keeping your legs apart, and he stills for a second to give your body time to adjust to him. He’s just barely halfway in, and your brain already feels like mush. 

Maybe it’s a good thing because the same cameraman from before comes back, aiming the camera right at you two. Your body is so tense from the intrusion that you can’t look towards him, even by accident.

San swears under his breath, watching his cock disappearing into you as well. 

“So fucking tight… god, baby…” he grunts, adjusting his knees slightly closer to your ass so he can feed you more of his length. 

One of his hands tilts your chin up again, silently telling you to hold eye contact with him. His eyes flicker down only for a split second. 

Then he shoves the rest of his cock inside. 

A mix of a gasp and a yelp punches its way out of you. Your whole body is like a livewire. Alert, teetering on an electric edge. Your hands grip the sheets next to you, biting your lip. You can feel everything. Every inch, every vein dragging against your walls when he slowly pulls it back again. You both crave and dread the next time he pushes in, knowing it’s going to feel so overwhelmingly good. 

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re close to coming already. 

Wide-eyed, all you can do is stare up at him as he rolls his hips into yours. Your walls flutter around him, legs already beginning to shake. There’s no hiding it anymore. 

Amused, San leans down, pushing your legs back even more, deepening the stretch. He groans as your pussy contracts around him tight, wanting more. 

“What, kitten? Already?” San smirks, a windfall of pride rushing through him. As if he needed any more validation for how good at this he is.

Your face burns, having been found out. 

The next roll of his hips is sinfully languid, taking his time. Then, he really betrays you. One of his hands leaves the back of your thigh and he uses his thumb to rub your clit. You yelp, body buzzing from pleasure, and he takes this time to start fucking you properly, thrusting into you in a steady rhythm. 

“Mm, that’s it,” he says, twisting his wrist so he can rub your clit with two fingers instead. “Let me feel it.” 

You’re starting to think all you need in order to cum is for him to tell you to do it. Your second orgasm of the evening is a bit stronger than the first one because of the addition of penetration. It makes you feel very floaty once it hits, clenching around his cock in order to prolong it. 

Unlike last time, he gives you no recovery period. The second he sees your eyes refocus, he’s fucking into you again. Like he never stopped. Your hands grip his shoulders, knowing you’re in for it. The tags for this future video flash through your mind, overstimulation being one. You lay flat on your back now, unable to keep holding yourself up as another strong wave of pleasure crashes into you. A third orgasm building up again. 

His fingers on your clit press down harder, making tight circles over the sensitive bud. He only relents for a second, just to hook your legs over his shoulders, letting him get even deeper inside of you. Your eyes roll back for a moment, whining at the feeling. Your hands try to push at his chest, to make him stop, to make him straighten up, you’re not entirely sure yourself. 

There’s no energy behind your actions, but San still subtly checks in. “Feel good, kitten?” 

You choke on another moan, his cock getting dangerously close to hitting your g-spot. “Mm- I’m– good, feels s-so good.” 

“Yeah? You liked coming on my cock?” 

“Yes…” 

“Yes, what?” San punctuates his question by ramming into you hard, unexpectedly. 

You’re quick to correct yourself, “Y-yes, sir!”

“There you go,” he brushes some hair away from your face, “my good girl.” 

Your body melts at the praise, replaying it over and over again as the feeling builds up higher and higher. You don’t realize until San winces that your nails started to dig into his chest, leaving some red scratch marks in your wake. As soon as you see that, you instantly take your hands away, feeling so bad that you’ve hurt him unknowingly. 

But he puts them right back where they were. 

And he leans down to your neck to return the favor, biting and sucking the skin there to create dark red and purple bruises wherever he can. His thrusts become more powerful, angling down into you to make you see stars. The simmering heat in your stomach is stoked with each direct hit to your g-spot. It’s getting to be more of a challenge to breathe normally like this.

Especially as your third orgasm begins to crest. 

“‘M coming–” you warn him, but he knows already. He can feel it. 

He hovers over you, moving his hips precisely and slightly faster. He wants to watch you again. To see you fall apart for him again. Truthfully, he already feels a bit pussy-drunk. Starting to get addicted to the feeling of your warm, wet cunt wrapped so tightly around him, coming for him so prettily. And you don’t disappoint him the third time either. 

You’re loud this time, unable to control your volume. The third orgasm hits you like a truck, and it only builds higher and higher instead of gradually diminishing. You cry out, halfway through it. Something feels unfinished about it, and you’re desperate to chase it. Luckily, San knows exactly what you need. 

He quickly lowers your legs from his shoulders, jumping right into action to catch this. Your legs are held back, like the previous position they were in, and he returns his other hand to your lower stomach, pressing down hard. You can feel him moving inside of you. Your head falls back and you moan loudly, suddenly feeling everything tenfold. 

The sound is obscene, definitely pornographic. Wet, sloshing sounds, accompanied by your loud cries and moans fill the warehouse-like room of the eighth floor. His cock prods your g-spot every single time, building something insanely powerful that you’ve never felt before. You grab his wrist, looking up at him with slight fear in your eyes, but he doesn’t seem concerned. He’s determined, if anything. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, so affectionately it makes your brain melt. 

He adjusts his hand on your stomach just a little further down. At the same time that you feel him rubbing your clit again, he ducks down to suck on one of your nipples, and fireworks explode behind your eyelids. The quadruple stimulation makes you scream. 

“Gonna make a mess for me, kitten? Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock again?” 

You don’t even have time to nod or reply in any way. A strong surge of pleasure smashes into you from all sides, whiting out your vision. It’s a feeling of release unlike any other that you’ve felt before, much harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. He keeps fucking you through it until your pussy forces him out, watching your body shake uncontrollably underneath him, soaking the sheets below you, and his lower body. Now you know damn well what kind of ‘rough’ you’ll be getting from him: overstimulation. Making you cum until you beg him to stop. 

San growls at the sight. It burns into his brain, and he can already say for certain that he’ll be jerking off to the memory of this later tonight and for days to come. 

Just to prolong it, he taps his heavy cock against your pussy and clit again, enjoying how you try to squirm away from it. 

You’re so wet, it’s audible. Every tap is loud, and a thin, stringy mixture of his spit and your slick clings to him for as long as it can whenever he pulls away. You reach for him, not knowing exactly what you want, but knowing you want him closer to you, and he obliges. He leans down over you again, slowly sliding his length between your puffy, wet folds. 

A familiar, faint voice from the left is ignored totally by you and him, too busy coming down from the most intense high of your life, and him holding you through it.  

An aftershock rattles you from head to toe, and you gasp when you feel it. The intense pleasure you felt gives way to sudden emptiness, and you realize you do not have anything to clench down on anymore. Though his dick is right there, dragging up and down your outer lips, it feels so far away from where you actually want it. 

Thankfully, sensing your dilemma – and hearing you whine for it – he doesn’t make you wait any longer. In your post-orgasmic haze, he guides you over onto all fours, now facing the foot of the bed. Ever the gentleman, he moves your hair out of your face. However, you imagine it’s so the camera can see your fucked out, dazed expression. 

His cock slips back inside of you easily, without any resistance, and the two of you groan in unison. In both relief and pleasure.  

That familiar, faint voice comes back. Clearer this time, and closer as well. “San… San! We’re taking another break now.” 

San kisses your shoulder blade, barely paying attention. “Okay, have fun,” he brushes the voice off, impatiently. 

You’d laugh if you had any coherent thoughts or spare energy left. No, you’re a bit preoccupied at the moment, your body trembling around his cock, and so happy that he’s pushed back into you. Truthfully, you don’t even care if you’re stressing out the crew anymore. All of your thoughts are about San. 

San smooths a hand up your spine, slowly pushing inch by inch into your soaked hole. He shushes you gently when you whimper, interlacing his fingers with yours when you try to reach back to find his hand to hold.  

“I know, kitten, it’s okay. Just relax.”

Easier said than done. 

He lightly presses your lower back, signalling you to arch it for him a little more. You nearly regret it when you feel him deeper than before in this position. Your elbows threaten to buckle, body shaking like a leaf. Yet, you still want more. Even though you’re nearing a certain point, wavering between overexertion and exhaustion, you crave more. You want to chase that feeling with him again. Make him glad he asked you to come here. Make him come back for more. So, you grit your teeth and keep yourself from face-planting into the mattress. For now, at least.  

San’s powerful pace resumes in no time, stealing every breath from your lungs. Another vague, quiet plea falls from your lips, and in response, he squeezes your hips, pulling them back to meet every thrust. Your throat is raw from all the noise you’re making, and you know you’ll have to drink some tea or honey tonight to get your voice back to normal. Not this thin, broken voice you have now. Your lower back aches from staying in this position, but you do your best to ignore it. 

It helps that his cock is basically in your stomach, that does a lot to distract you from a mere ache in your back. It also helps that your pussy is extra sensitive, coming three times – twice in a row without a break – and squirting for the first time. On camera, no less. Your viewers are going to lose their fucking minds. The image of your donation box on your livestreams, and your Venmo accounts skyrocketing after this video releases is motivation enough for you to want him to make you do it again. 

Your back arches even more, hips grinding back against his to get more of him somehow. 

Such a little natural.     

“Mmm, there you go. That’s it. Keep fucking yourself on my cock, pretty girl.” 

You make a noise, halfway between a whine and a moan and do as he says. Your chest grazes the sheets below you, chin buried into the mattress and arms gripping the edge of the bed in front of you. 

“Fuck,” you whimper, a couple of stray tears threatening to fall. “You’re s-so fucking deep.” 

San groans, increasing the pace. You yelp when you feel him smack your ass, and again when he hits it a second and third time. By the time the third strike lands, he doesn’t even give you any time to process the stinging pain he’s left behind before there’s a new one on the back of your head. 

Slightly dizzy, it takes you a second to realize you’re upright, on your knees. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling at the roots, and the other rubbing incessant circles on your swollen clit. His chest presses into your back, and he moves your head to face him so he can kiss you again. Mind threatening to wipe completely, you can’t fight to hold back your tears anymore. You shudder violently, and he groans as he feels your body struggle to keep up with him. He knows you can take it, though. You’re a fighter, he can tell. 

“Doing so well,” he whispers in your ear, “such a good girl for me, baby. Knew you would be. Knew I’d get this pussy to fall apart on my dick. Thought about it so fucking much…”

You whine against his mouth, tears wetting his face now as well. The blatant admission that he had thought about you like this before today goes straight over your head. 

All you hear is his praise. You’re doing well. Good enough for him, like you were so stressed about being. Nothing else matters to you anymore, now that you’ve earned his approval. A proud smile creeps across your face, and he grins at the faraway look in your half-lidded eyes. You’re so far gone. Completely pleasure-drunk.  

The hand in your hair tightens again and loosens, like it’s an afterthought now. Just something for him to hold onto. To keep you steady, if anything. Warm pressure building and building again in your stomach, you round your back as another shiver wracks its way through your body, making your spine tingle. His hand moves down to hold you by the back of the neck, and he slows his pace just enough to guide you back down onto the bed. This time, totally flat. Your pussy forces him out at this new position, but his other hand is quick to spread one of your ass cheeks apart, cock sliding back inside of you. 

He doesn’t ease you into his pace anymore. The first brutal thrust makes your eyes roll back, and your jaw falls open. Your nails claw at the bedding, every muscle in your arms straining while you hold onto the fabric for dear life.   

He’s so fucking deep. Impossibly, almost. 

He may just make you cum like this, without even needing to touch your clit. He’s making you learn so much about what your body can do when in the right hands. No wonder people are so obsessed with him. He’s become so in tune with your body so quickly, just by paying explicit attention to you this whole time. It makes you really appreciate his expertise, because he could easily have just used what has worked for other girls in the past. He probably could’ve made you cum like that as well, but he tailors himself for each girl. Adapts for them. For you. 

And he’s learning you pretty well. Probably read you like a fucking book. 

Every precisely angled thrust punches a moan out from deep within your chest. Each sound is partly muffled by the bedding, and you try to keep quiet, not wanting to be annoying. You can’t help it, though. Not when it feels this good. Certainly not when another orgasm is building, more rapidly than the others. 

You squirm under him, toes curling and nails digging into the mattress. 

“I– mmf–! You’re… you’re gonna make me cum again,” you have to speak quickly before it hits you. 

San leans over you, hands planted right next to your shoulders, fucking you harder. “Give it to me, pretty girl. I want every fucking drop.” 

Someone dressed in all black stands right in front of you, pointing something towards you. It doesn’t register that it’s the camera guy with the handheld camera for a couple seconds. You imagine he’s zooming in, capturing everything. He must know the future audience does not want to miss a single second of how you react to coming again, and how San won’t let up on you once you do… again. 

Your eyes shut tight once your fourth climax thunders through you. Pure ecstasy erupts in every vein. Euphoria clouds your brain. The sheets beneath you two become even more soaked, and you can feel your release dripping down your thighs. You must’ve been loud because your throat feels scratchy and rough all of a sudden, but your head is in such a rush that you don’t even hear anything. 

San holds you by your throat now, making you keep your face up. 

Just as you predicted, San doesn’t stop or slow his pace whatsoever. True to his promise that he’s ‘gonna make you feel so good’. Well, that promise is currently turning you into a limp, fucked out mess. You’ve never had this many orgasms so quick in succession before. It’s making your hormones go absolutely wild, and you cry harder, wetting San’s hand with your tears. The camera loves it. 

There are some sounds near you that you can’t be bothered to discern, and you just lean into San’s hand on your throat. Fully intent on just letting him do whatever he wants to you at this point. He pretty much already is. Although, you’re not entirely sure how many more times you can cum without passing out. You hope he’ll stop before that happens. You don’t want to embarrass yourself like that. 

San subtly taps your throat, getting your attention, before raising your head a little higher by the throat. 

You blink stupidly up at the cameraman in front of you, eyes half-lidded and heavy, struggling to keep them open. You flinch a little when you see that there are two more people in front of you, the director included. When did everyone get so much closer to the bed? All of them, you notice, are at least semi-hard. Director Choi nods behind the camera, muttering inaudible praises. Your hands grip the sheets, knuckles turning white, and pull them up towards your mouth to muffle your screams. Out of frame, Director Choi motions for an assistant to pull the sheets down, ripping your comfort away, exposing how loud you’re being. Tears sting your eyes, both from exertion and from the intense pleasure San is giving you. 

“Pussy’s so good… so tight and wet… could fuck you forever.” 

Director Choi silently motions for San to keep talking like that. 

San grunts, fighting to catch his breath enough to speak again. “Such a good girl… gonna make you cum again.” 

And he does. 

Before you even realize that it’s been simmering and building, it knocks into you sideways. This time, you can’t even scream. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out due to your body locking up. San releases your throat, worried that you’re not breathing – and he’s right. He slows down considerably, moving your hair away from your face to check on you. Your body slowly relaxes again underneath him, one muscle at a time, and a low, guttural groan tears itself from your throat. 

You can feel every inch of him dragging past your inner walls, and every slightest movement makes your pussy clench, trying to simultaneously push him out and suck him in further. Instead of continuing again, though, he pushes all the way into you one more time, and then stops. 

It’s somehow both torture and a relief. You feel so fucking full, but he isn’t doing anything to continue the dull flames that engulf your lower stomach, and yet you know it’s better than being empty. He could pull out, leave you to deal with that emptiness before you felt ready. He doesn’t. Appreciative thoughts swirl around your head and you cry harder, trying to hide your tears in the sheets. 

When the camera crew and director see that he’s not continuing, they call for another break. Everyone moves away, and there’s no longer a black cloud in front of you. 

San doesn’t move an inch, though.  

He brushes through your hair with his fingers, comforting you. He’s intent on waiting until you calm down, not wanting to push you too far before you’re ready. He knows he went a little crazy, instantly getting addicted to the feeling of you coming around his dick, and you deserve a break. As long as you need. 

But you’re addicted yourself. A real glutton for the pleasure he’s given you thus far. You push back and wiggle against him, trying to get him to move again. His hands push you down by your hips, keeping them still. You whine at the denial, looking over your shoulder at him with teary, red eyes. He almost gives in. 

“I know, baby. Just relax with me for a moment.” 

You pout, another tear roaming down your cheek. Deep down, you know he’s right. Your body has been pleading for a break two orgasms ago. It’s high time you listen to it. You collapse, finally letting yourself relax, solely focusing on the quiet murmur of the crew off to the side, and San’s fingers running through your hair. 

It’s a nice moment.  

Nicer still when San litters your shoulders and back with gentle kisses, helping you calm down. Clearer thoughts slowly begin to reenter your mind, and your breaths even out, relatively back to normal. Better than the mixture of shallow inhales, long periods of holding your breath, and gasps for air. Because of the improved air intake, your head finally feels like it’s stopped swimming. Little by little, your energy comes back. 

You take a deep inhale, sighing contently as you exhale it back out. Looking behind you again, you catch him already watching you. 

“Hi,” you mumble, half-smiling.

San smirks, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, pretty girl. Feel okay?” 

You nod, humming, and you subtly push back against him. The feeling of his cock pressing into you doesn’t shock your body as much as it did before. Now it’s a welcome, familiar feeling. Sought after. You really are addicted. Maybe even insatiable when it comes to how well he fucks you. 

With the other hand, he places a water bottle in front of your face, the same one with a straw poked through the cap from before. You don’t bother wondering where he got it from. You have a pretty good idea. They’re always everywhere during a break. 

Once you’re done with the bottle, he places it against one of the pillows, where it will no doubt be collected by a production assistant within seconds. 

You push back again, trying to get him to move. You hear him chuckle behind you. 

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” 

Instead of contradicting his statement, you just nod. Why lie? 

“Wanna make you cum too,” 

San hums, just barely rolling his hips into yours. “How do you wanna do that, kitten?” 

You steel yourself for what you’re about to do. Hoping he will let you go through with your plan, you pull yourself away from him, and he slips out of you. The emptiness hits just as hard as you thought it would, and you whimper at the initial feeling. If all goes to plan, you won't be for long. 

San watches you carefully as you turn to face him on the bed, gently pushing him back against the pillows. His hands instinctually rest on your hips as you straddle him, and he looks up at you, patiently waiting for your next move. At least, coming across as patient externally. You don’t miss how his dick twitches, eager to be engulfed by your warmth again. He must feel something equivalent to the emptiness you felt when you pulled away. 

You’ll fix that gladly. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the crew start to come back to their spots – lights, camera, microphones. They must have learned not to stay too far away when it comes to filming you two. You do your best to hide your grin. 

San helps you line up the head of his cock to your entrance, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders as you slowly sink down. His eyes flutter shut, eyebrows furrowing as he exhales shakily. Following his lead, you don’t give him much time to adjust before you start moving. 

You swear you hear him whimper. Just once, but you catch it nevertheless. 

He keeps his eyes down, locked between you, watching your cunt swallow his dick over and over again. You bite your lip, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands become more firm on your hips. The next time you sink down, he pulls you down hard. You gasp, not expecting it, and he attacks your lips once again. 

You kiss him back just as eagerly, increasing your pace. Your thighs already start to protest from the strain, but you can’t bring yourself to care or stop. Not when he’s moaning into your mouth like this. Every noise you pull out of him is pure music to your ears. A rhapsody you could hear a thousand times and not get bored of. You pull away from his lips just to hear him clearer, and he chases you. He nips your bottom lip, one of his hands slowly travelling up to knead one of your boobs again. 

Breaths mingling, you shiver in his hold. His other hand dips down to rest on your ass, squeezing the flesh there as you bounce on his cock. 

The heat of it all consumes you, drives you to get him to cum. You want to hear him. You want to repay him for making you cum four times, and put in just as much effort. 

It’s a battle to try and ignore your own pleasure, building up for a fifth time. You’re not convinced you can cum again. However, now you’re willing to see what happens. If you faint, you faint. 

You clench around him on purpose, grinding into him and rolling your hips, your gummy walls massaging his length and successfully driving him crazy. His head falls back against the headboard, and his fingers begin to leave bruises on your skin. 

“So fucking good,” he hisses, “such a good girl… gonna make me cum so hard.” 

The thought and image that accompanies it gives you a second wind of energy. Your hands move to his chest, and you press down as you continue to fuck him. 

“Want you to cum inside me,” you beg him, hot breath hitting his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you. 

San only nods, unable to speak. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the slight saltiness of his sweat and kissing the hinge of his jaw. Right next to his ear, you moan again, enjoying how he tenses up. 

Suddenly, both of his arms are wrapped around your waist, and he sits up a little more. One of his hands presses into your upper back, supporting you as he starts fucking up into you, seamlessly matching your rhythm. 

He lets out a choked moan, cutting it off by kissing you one more time before his eyes shut tight. 

“Gonna cum…fuck, I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, kitten. Gonna feel me for days.” 

You whine at his words, and he seems to have worked himself up further by saying it as well. 

“Please, sir, need your cum inside of me. Please give it to me–” 

San pushes you down onto your back before you can blink. Your legs wrap around him, and the pleasure increases for you almost instantaneously. When you look down, you swear you can see a slight bulge in your stomach. His lips attach to your neck, sucking and biting to muffle his moans as much as possible. Every sound he makes is so pretty. 

He pounds into you without any more room for mercy, concentrating on coming again. And he can feel that you’re close again too. 

“Cum with me,” he pants against your neck, “give me one more. Let me feel your pretty cunt cum on my cock one more time, baby.”          

One more. You nod, eyelids growing heavy again. Everything is perfect in this moment. The feeling of his cock dragging against your walls, the head of it pressing against your g-spot and fanning the flames of your arousal until it engulfs you like wildfire; his soft, plush lips on your neck, his words in your ear, and his warm, firm skin under your hands. 

As if that all wasn’t enough, San spits on his fingers and starts to rub your clit again. 

Everything adds up to push you over the edge. 

You cry out, body completely spent as you weakly squirt for him again. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, adrenaline and euphoria taking turns to run through your bloodstream. The sheets beneath you are completely soaked through. Every sense is both heightened and dulled. Exhaustion pulls itself over you like a weighted blanket. 

And your climax triggers his.

True to his word, he comes deep inside of you, filling you up until it’s leaking. The additional warmth is comforting for a second, until your stomach begins to cramp a little bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough for you to notice. You’re definitely not used to coming this much. 

San shudders violently before dropping to his elbows, careful not to crush you under his weight. Both of you catch your breaths, chests heaving as you coax air back into your lungs. You tangle one of your hands in his hair, holding him close to you as you take this moment to settle down. He buries his face in your neck, small, audible sighs occasionally escaping him. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s never cum that hard before. Years of experience behind him, sure, he’s gotten close to this level, but never was able to reach it until now. 

Reluctantly, he slowly drags himself out of your pussy, eyes immediately glancing down to see his cum leaking out. He smirks as he watches you fight to keep it inside, not wanting to let it go yet. 

Then, like he does every single time, he ducks down to lick one more long, slow path up your pussy. Entrance to clit. A silent ‘thank you’. You whimper, legs closing when he pulls away. 

“Cut! Print it.” 

And he’s gone. 

You feel you just got a violent slap back into reality. 

What…just happened? You slowly push yourself up, with admittedly great difficulty. 

Half of the staff flutter around you, while the others flock to San’s side, covering him up in his robe and starting to lead him towards his dressing room. The production assistants assigned to you don’t say much, handing you the same water bottle as before and urging you to drink it all. You watch the cameraman and the director talk, leisurely packing everything up. Just another day at the office. It’s all over just like that. 

Meanwhile, you feel… stunned. Maybe even a little empty, and not just physically this time. You never thought about how aftercare is pretty much nonexistent in shoots like this. Everything is strictly business. Professional. Void of any emotion for the other ‘actor’. Still, as someone runs a brush through your messy hair, and someone else wraps a silk robe over your shoulders, you find that you cannot tear your gaze away from the direction of San’s dressing room door. Your eyes threaten to tear up, a dull yet powerful feeling of rejection blooming in your chest. 

Maybe you aren’t cut out for this type of thing, no matter how many offers you receive. Not if this is how it ends, as if nothing happened. Like none of it mattered. Another notch in Choi San’s belt. 

Director Choi suddenly appears in front of you, and you’re quick to act like nothing is wrong. “You did great,” he says, “thank you for your time today.” 

You manage a fake smile and thank him as well, apologizing for any issues you may have caused by being impatient or loud. 

He simply waves it off, “Happens more than you think. Have a good rest of your night, Miss Y/L/N. Maybe we’ll work together again in the future.” 

‘Maybe’. 

His words stick to you, gnawing at your skin like leeches. He truly didn’t mean to make you feel worse, you know that, and yet he really drove home just how… common you feel. Not special whatsoever after all. 

You imagine going back home and going live again. The notorious four exclusive viewers will want to know how it went, and you’re going to have to tell them something. You doubt you’ll be able to lie. Woo will probably be able to tell something’s wrong. 

Maybe, once this check hits, you can just disappear for the foreseeable future. If you’re astronomically lucky, everyone will forget it happened so you won’t have to relive the very tail end of it. You run a hand through your hair. You’re so fucking dramatic.

It hurts a little extra when even Hongjoong doesn't stick around to check in on you, tending to his star first and foremost. You can’t say you really blame him, though – that is his job. San should be his priority. 

It’s just that you desperately wish for a friendly face, or someone to genuinely check in with you. Comfort you. 

Not to be surrounded by strangers who won’t look you in the eye.  

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You’re not sure what the plan is. 

You don’t even know if he’s still here. But here you are, standing in front of his dressing room door like a fucking idiot. Another girl obsessed with him. Nothing new, just another number they’ll have to delete. 

Even so, you want to try and talk to him. Ask him why the fuck he left in such a hurry. Your hands readjust their grip on your purse, with half a mind to swing it at whoever opens the door. 

Gathering up all the courage imaginable, your hand raises in a fist, and you softly knock on the door three times. 

To be honest, you’re not really expecting a response. Half of the staff are gone already, it’s unlikely that he’d want to stick around here any longer than he has to. When you checked the time on your phone in your dressing room, you were surprised to see that it’s already nearing nine o’clock. Your stomach had growled almost immediately upon seeing it. You look over your shoulder, watching the rest of the staff still here turning off some of the lights and gathering wires.    

Distracted, you jump about a mile in the air when the door opens, revealing San, now also dressed and looking like he’s ready to leave. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of you. 

“Hey,” he says, so casually. “What’re you still doing here?” 

Embarrassment hits you like a brick wall. Yep, just another girl on the callsheet that stuck around to beg him for more. Ugh. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” you say, already giving up on the whole idea of confronting him. Britney can’t help you now. 

You start to turn on your heel, but he opens the door wider, stepping aside as if to invite you in. “No, no. Not bothering me. What’s up?” 

Your mouth dries. Okay, now you got to follow through. But god… does he really not know? You wonder if this has never come up before. If all of the girls before you are just collectively tougher than you emotionally and can handle no aftercare, no follow up, nothing. You should be, too, honestly. You know what porn is and what it isn’t. It’s not exactly a dating service. Two hot people fuck each other and go their separate ways, money wired to them before their heads hit the pillow at night. 

Still… you and Yeosang aren’t dating, and after your collab with him, he redressed you and cuddled you for an hour straight. He made sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that the friendship is still intact. You weren’t being used. 

You hesitate to step into his dressing room, and ultimately decide to just stay put. Stand your ground. You don’t want to take too long, you just need an answer. 

Out with it. 

“I was just wondering why you left so quickly? Did I do something to offend you in any way?”  

San blinks, slight confusion clouding his face. “Oh, no, I just– I saw your form. Didn’t want to hang around and make you uncomfortable.” 

Now you stare at him, just as confused. “Wait, what? What about my form?” 

“You checked off ‘Hard No’ to aftercare.”  

…Pardon? 

No way. 

He must see the bewilderment in your face because he fishes his phone out of his pocket to show you. 

“Yeah, Hongjoong said…” he trails off, the light of his phone screen reflecting in his dark brown eyes. “Yeah, look.” 

He holds his phone up to show you, and you step closer to it, squinting to see for yourself. Sure enough, amidst all of the other dozens of checkmarks, you accidentally fucked yourself over and selected ‘Hard No’ for aftercare. Luckily, you didn’t select one of the bodily fluid options as a ‘Hard Yes’ in your evident past confusion. You bury your face in your hands. 

“Oh my god. That was meant to be a ‘Hard Yes’.” You groan. Guilt threatens to eat you alive for all your negative thoughts towards him, and the texts you sent Yeosang while in your dressing room after the fact. You’re going to have to do some serious damage control to get Yeosang to not hate him forever. It’ll surely start with a screenshot of the form you fucked up, followed by a dramatic statement of your stupidity. 

San pockets his phone again, almost sheepish. He hesitantly steps closer to you, unsure of how to fix this. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, “I should’ve double checked with you.” 

“No, no, please don’t blame yourself when it’s my own mistake.” 

“Still…” he trails off, looking down at the floor. 

It hits you that he’s really hurt by this. Hurt for you. 

“San…” you tilt your head to try and meet his eye. “It’s alright, really. I feel much better now that I know it wasn’t on purpose or because I did something wrong.” 

“I’d never do that to you, or anybody. I always stress how important aftercare is to the directors I work with so they don’t try to rush through it.” San runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair as he speaks, exasperated. You vaguely remember him saying something akin to that in one of the interviews that you watched. 

Damn, he really is nice. Here you were at the start of this, thinking he’d be a cocky son of a bitch who has the world at his feet, and anything he wants within arms reach. The last two parts of that description may be right, but your assumed attitude is definitely not. Well… maybe not entirely. The cockiness isn’t used to make anyone feel small, that’s the important difference. It’s confidence, more than anything. 

“I know,” you smile, trying to make him feel better. “Really, it’s okay.” 

He seems unconvinced. “Can I make it up to you in some way?” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. If you wouldn’t immediately cringe at yourself for doing so, you’d maybe ask for a hug or something. Physical contact in any way to comfort you, make you believe it. But the guilt he obviously feels is enough. The knowledge that he truly thought it’s something you were so against, and he respected it anyway, is more than enough. 

“You don’t have to, San.” 

“I want to, Y/N.” 

Your pulse skips a beat, wondering what he has in mind. The way he said it was so final, like he made up his mind already. His phone reappears in his hand, texting someone quickly and sending it off. He then reaches into his dressing room, turning off the light after doing a quick scan of it and closing the door behind him. 

“Can I walk you out?” 

That, you’ll allow. 

“Sure. Are you going home?” You ask, changing the subject as the two of you start walking towards the exit doors. 

“Nah, not yet. There’s a gym on this floor I’m gonna go to first.” 

You just nod in response, wondering how on earth he has the energy to go to the gym right now. You have a very special date with your bed for the foreseeable future. It’s highly doubtful that you’ll wake up before three in the afternoon. Truthfully, you can’t wait. Maybe you’ll sleep off some of the soreness you’re sure to have tomorrow. 

“Oh, by the way, do you have an agent?” San asks you out of nowhere, right before you get to the doors. 

You blink once. Twice, processing. “No…?” 

Yeosang’s the only one who may even come close. He’s the one you ask before doing anything, wanting his opinion and blessing. But technically and professionally, no, you’re an independent artist as far as you’re concerned. 

“I’d find one soon,” San says, glancing towards the bed, soaked through. “You’re about to get a lot of offers.” 

You blush furiously, reminded of everything that transpired between you barely an hour ago. “Maybe I should just take yours.” 

San groans, “Honestly, do it. I’m sure Joong could use a break from my bullshit.” 

You laugh, trying to hide it with your hand. San pretends to be offended that you agree, clutching his heart in betrayal, which makes you laugh harder. The doors push open, the white fluorescent lights blinding both of you after being so used to the golden studio lights on set. 

“Maybe I will let you have him,” he says, a smirk growing across his face. “It’s good manners.” 

He looks at you like he knows something you don’t, and it bothers you. The word choice sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Before you can ask, he steps closer to you, invading your personal space for the first time since being intimate with each other. You hold your breath. 

“Goodnight, baby.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead before walking down towards the opposite end of the hallway, where you can only assume is the direction of the gym. 

Fuckin’ hell… 

You stand there like an idiot for another couple of seconds, still processing what just happened in the span of five minutes. You also try to figure out the implication behind his word choice. ‘Manners’. It bugs you so much, you know you heard something about it recently, but can’t pinpoint where or when. 

The question of what he meant follows you all the way to the lobby. You press the down button on autopilot, just now remembering to text the driver to tell him that you’re ready to be picked up downstairs and taken home. From down the hallway, you hear the door to the studio swing open again – probably some of the crew heading home as well. You glance towards the stairs, not exactly jumping at the chance to be stuck in an elevator with a bunch of strangers who watched you have sex an hour ago. 

But the footsteps that follow the sound of the door closing are what gives you pause. They’re hurried, and headed towards the lobby. The elevator dings behind you. You turn around just as the mystery runner comes around the corner. 

“Oh! Hi, Mr. Kim–”  

Hongjoong jogs over to you, catching you before the elevator doors open. 

“Sorry if I startled you. San is wondering if we can arrange another collab, but this time on your livestream.” He speaks quickly, like time is of the essence.  

You stutter, brain trying to connect with your vocal cords. 

“What?” You ask, even though you heard and processed everything Hongjoong said just fine. You’re just wondering if you actually heard him right. Today just keeps getting stranger and stranger. More interesting, definitely. 

He’s quick to repeat himself, almost pleading with his eyes for you to say ‘yes’. 

At least with the emails you had some time to think everything over. Now Hongjoong is staring dead at you, waiting for the response he hopes to hear. 

You can’t help it. You want to make him chase you again. 

“Tell him I’ll think about it,” you say as sweetly as possible, stepping into the elevator. 

You try not to enjoy the perplexed look on Hongjoong’s face until the doors close completely. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

You have no idea how he does it, truly. 

Everything in his world is immediate. You’re not used to it whatsoever. 

Those are the thoughts you have as you step out of the elevator in your apartment building, walking up to your door. You're more than ready to throw your shit down in the kitchen and go the fuck to bed. Your phone is in the process of being fished out of your pocket, intent on texting Yeosang to ask if he's around for a debrief.

You stop dead in your tracks when you look up, about to unlock the front door. Perched tall and proud, is a beautiful bouquet of purple flowers in a glass vase right outside your door. A card is placed in between the overlapping petals, and you can’t help but gawk at the sight of it. 

How the hell did he find your address? 

Oh– Hongjoong, probably. Your initial creeped-out feeling vanishes. Hongjoong can just find anything for San, you’re sure. 

Punching in the keycode to your door, and switching the kitchen lights on, you place the flowers on the counter, taking a second to admire them. Purple, you note. Your favorite. Again, Hongjoong must have told him, but you can’t help but smile – he really did want to make it up to you. 

You pluck the small card from the flowers and read it, sitting down at your kitchen island. 

Hope you had a good time today. 

Sorry for being such a stupid slut </3

-San

Your smile widens, laughing and rereading it. You flip it over, and on the back is a phone number, scrawled in blue ink. 

Perhaps you missed a hidden clause in the forms that makes you promise to not fall in love with him. 

You hope not. 

"Come on, just one drink," Yunho pleads. He's looming over your spot on the couch, offering you a sweating can of cheap beer as he sways on his feet. "It's Saturday night, ____. And I promise, it won't even be crowded. Mingi said the house only gets crazy on Fridays."

You scoot further back into the cushions, leaning away from his arm. Raising your glass of plain tap water, you shake your head. "You all know I don't do frats. Or beer, for that matter." You take a sip, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "Not gonna happen."

Your living room—usually at least somewhat presentable, despite sharing it with a gymrat like San—has been trashed tonight. The coffee table is buried under cardboard pizza boxes full of greasy pepperoni and sausage slices, and the whole room is doused in the stale tang of the lukewarm beer Yunho picked up from a friend's dorm on his way over. Your three best friends had originally told you they were pregaming at Yunho and Yeosang's place, fully aware you'd opt out to study but extending the courtesy invite anyway. Apparently, those plans had changed without anyone bothering to inform you, because the trio is now sprawled out around your couch, getting progressively tipsier by the second. 

Taking advantage of the short moment of distraction while Yunho doubles over laughing at something Yeosang yells from across the room, you quickly slide your phone out. You shoot off a lightning-fast text and bury it beneath your thigh before anyone notices. 

"It won't be that bad this time, I swear," San grins from his spot on the floor, where he's resting his back against the couch. While everyone is dressed to go out, San clearly spent a little extra time in front of the mirror, as per usual—he's wearing a fitted black tank top paired with matching jeans. His only apparent defense for the freezing temperature outside is an expensive leather jacket with a borderline ridiculous number of decorative zippers. Reaching up, he tosses a half-eaten pizza crust back into the open box beside you. "Tell her, Yeosang," he urges, jerking his chin toward you. "Didn't you say it sounded fun?"

You blink, your gaze shifting over the man quietly nursing his beer on the opposite end of the couch. "San, I really don't believe Yeosang would ever say that."

But Yeosang sighs, a defeated smile playing on his lips. "Look, Mingi swore tonight's going to be relaxed. The semester's almost over, so..." He shrugs. "I figured it wouldn't kill me to show face for a little while. But the second it gets crowded," he warns, shooting a pointed look down at San, "I have no shame in being the first to leave."

You snort, grabbing another slice out of the box by your side and handing it up to Yunho before he starts pacing around the coffee table again. "I hope that's true. Because I have a feeling Mingi is a liar."

"Hey! Don't call my boyfriend a liar!" Yunho laughs, throwing his head back as he tilts his can to drain the last stubborn drops. The moment he sets the empty aluminum down on the table, though, he freezes. You watch as a tipsy epiphany flashes across his face, your stomach sinking as he then points a finger right at your nose and snaps repeatedly, his buzzed brain scrambling to catch up with his mouth. "Wait—where's Hongjoong? He should be here!"

You choke on your water, sputtering a cough and wiping your chin with the back of your hand as Yunho whips around to face San and Yeosang with ecstatic eyes.

"I forgot to tell you guys!" he blurts. "She said yes! She's letting us hang out with him!"

Yeosang's eyes widen over the rim of his can. San's head snaps toward you so quickly you're surprised he doesn't accidentally give himself whiplash.

"No way, really?" he shouts, his zippers clinking as he nearly drops his drink onto the carpet. 

"Yeah!" Yunho beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I met him on Thursday morning, and he—"

"What? You met him before me?" San interrupts, looking betrayed. He scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over Yunho's discarded shoes, and jabs a finger at you. "____, what the hell?" he demands. "We live together! We share a bathroom! Why the fuck did Yunho get to meet him before I did?"

"Calm down, it wasn't like I planned it!" you shoot back, already feeling your cheeks burning. "Yunho trapped me! He cornered us on our way to lunch."

"Doesn't matter," San pouts, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "I'm your roommate. And the one who called it from day one. I knew this whole thing was gonna happen since Yunho's birthday."

"We all called it, San. You're not a psychic," Yeosang cuts in. He leans forward, setting his beer down on the cluttered table. "But seriously, ____. If you're finally ready for it, why isn't he here tonight? We're already pregaming. You should've invited him over."

"Because look at you guys!" you counter, throwing your hands up at the state of your living room. "Yunho can't even stand still for two seconds without drifting sideways. And we—we have work to do. We need to study. I'm, um..." You clear your throat. "I'm going over to his place. In a little bit."

Yunho's eyes narrow. "Studying?" he repeats. "Again? Didn't you study all night on Thursday, too?"

"Yeah," San nods, tossing the pizza box to the floor so he can plop down onto the couch beside you, wedging himself in. "I didn't hear the door unlock until almost three in the morning."

At that, you feel the tips of your ears burn. "Well... there's a lot I need to catch up on before the final!"

"Uh-huh."

You roll your eyes at Yunho.

"Maybe you don't have to study, but I do! There's an insane amount of grammar to review," you stammer. "And there were a few... specific chapters we didn't get to finish."

The second the excuse leaves your mouth, you regret it. The three boys fall silent. Slowly, a grin spreads across Yunho's face. Yeosang bites his lip like he's trying his hardest to suppress a smirk. It only takes San a second before he snorts.

"Well," he grins, "maybe the chapters didn't get finished, but I have a pretty good idea of who did—"

"San!" you shriek, lunging for a crumpled napkin abandoned on the couch and whacking him across the forehead with it. He ducks with a bark of laughter, throwing an arm up to shield himself. "This is why I'm scared of him meeting you!"

He only laughs harder, catching the napkin and teasingly waving it in front of your face while you try to swipe his hand away. "Weren't you two studying in the library?" he asks innocently. "Do flashcards make you guys horny or something?"

"No!" you shout far too quickly, cringing as you finally rip the napkin from his grasp and throw it to the floor. 

"Okay, okay," Yeosang chuckles as you both settle down. "Listen, ____. Tomorrow night, we're staying in. Bring him over to our place."

"But tomorrow is Sunday," you argue. "We all have early classes on Monday morning."

"Exactly!" Yunho says, nodding his head so vigorously that a few drops of his freshly opened beer slosh over the rim and splash onto the floor. "Which means none of us will be tempted to drink, and we won't do anything stupid! I promise I'll be on my best behavior. And you already know Yeosang will be, too."

You let out a reluctant sigh, your gaze sliding over to the third man in question, the wild card sitting right next to you. He's grinning mischievously, chewing on a rogue piece of pepperoni he plucked off a slice.

"I'll be an angel, I swear," he promises, pressing a hand on the center of his chest, right over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

You shove his shoulder, huffing. "Why do you always get so corny when you drink?"

"Is that a yes?" Yunho bounces in place, his eyes practically sparkling. "Tomorrow night?"

You glance between the three of them, weighing it. As tempting as it may seem, you know you can't keep Hongjoong hidden forever. And despite all their teasing, deep down, you know they'll love him—and he'd probably know how to handle them better than you could, anyway. Letting out one last sigh, you run a defeated hand through your hair.

"I'll... I'll ask him if he's free."

"And if he is?" San presses.

You roll your eyes, though now, it's paired with the faintest hint of a smile you'd rather die than let them fully see.

"Then... fine," you say at last. "Sure. Whatever. He'll be there."

The room erupts. Yunho and San jump up, shouting in victory as they clink their cans together in a toast, sloshing more beer to the floor. From the other side of the couch, Yeosang chuckles, raising his own can toward you. 

You stay seated, watching the tipsy trio with a resigned shake of your head. 

As always, their departure is anything but quick. It takes another ten minutes of mirror-checking, shoe-tying, and last-minute cologne-spraying before the three of them finally bundle up and head toward the front door. They tumble out into the hallway amidst loud, overlapping goodbyes, leaving the dorm deafeningly silent as the door shuts behind them.

The moment they're gone, you immediately scramble to fish out your phone from beneath your thigh. Your fingers fly across the screen as you pull up your texts with Hongjoong. 

You: Okay, they finally left. You can come up now.

You shove your phone in your pocket and immediately set to work cleaning up the mess your friends left behind. Within seconds, your arms are full of pizza boxes stuffed with abandoned crusts and a tower of empty beer cans. You're carrying the pile toward the kitchen, dumping everything into the trash when—not even thirty seconds later—a quiet knock rattles the front door.

Quickly shoving the last of the garbage into the bin, you pad across the hardwood in your socks and open the door. 

Hongjoong is waiting in the hallway, greeting you with a soft, slightly nervous smile. He looks ridiculously cute, bundled up in a hoodie and gray sweatpants layered under a comically large winter coat. A dusting of white snow clings to his dark hair, and you notice his knuckles, gripping the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, have turned a frostbitten shade of red from the walk over.

You look him up and down and have to clap a hand over your mouth to smother your laugh. "Oh—It's already snowing out there?"

He nods quickly, his shoulders shivering. "It—It doesn't get this cold in Korea," he mutters through chattering teeth.

Laughing softly, you step back and swing the door wide to let him inside. The second he catches sight of the living room, he makes a beeline for the couch, dropping his backpack onto the carpet beside the coffee table. He starts rubbing his hands together, blowing warm air into his cupped palms to thaw them out. Watching him with a smile, you cross the room to reach for the collar of his damp coat and help him shrug out of it. After sliding it off his shoulders, you carry it to the kitchen and drape it over the back of one of the barstools to dry.

Shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, Hongjoong follows after you as you head into the kitchen area, his eyes curiously scanning your dorm for the very first time. 

"I like it here," he decides after a minute.

You scoff. "You don't have to lie, Joong."

"I'm not lying."

You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder as you pull open the pantry door, scanning the shelves for hot chocolate mix. "I know it's not as nice or modern as your big, fancy international dorm," you tease, "but it's cozy."

You shove aside a box of granola bars and locate two unopened packets tucked in the back. Grinning, you bump the pantry door shut with your hip and reach up to grab a small saucepan from the upper cabinet.

"Seriously, I mean it." He leans against the island with his hands still buried in his pockets, his gaze following you as you pull a carton of milk from the fridge—though you can't help but wrinkle your nose at the smell of leftover takeout San has probably left rotting in the back corner for at least three days. "See?" He chuckles at your reaction. "It's charming. But... where do you keep all your records?"

"I told you, I don't even have half as many as you do. You're gonna be disappointed." You pour the milk into the saucepan and turn the burner on. "Besides," you add, reaching into the cabinet for the bag of marshmallows, "they're in my room. Which you are not seeing today."

A little smirk spreads across his face. "Why not?"

"Because my tutor decided to keep 'rewarding' me instead of actually teaching me anything last time I tried to study," you say, emphasizing the word with air quotes. "So tonight, I need to take things seriously. And the couch is already bad enough. Studying on my bed would be the point of no return."

His eyes dance with amusement. "Don't blame me for that. It's not my fault you were being such a good—"

Ripping open the plastic bag, you pluck a marshmallow out and hurl it right at his head, hitting him squarely on the left lens of his glasses.

"No more talking about it!" you scold, though you can feel your own cheeks heating up. "I'm not failing my final, okay? We need to focus. Seriously."

Hongjoong just smiles, reaching to pick the marshmallow off the countertop and popping it into his mouth. "Okay," he hums, chewing happily. "Then we'll focus. Seriously."

You give him one last warning glare as you tear open the hot chocolate packets, emptying the powder into two ceramic mugs.

"How did you get up here so fast after I texted you, by the way?" you ask, keeping a watchful eye on the saucepan to make sure the milk doesn't scald. "They didn't see you, did they?"

"They didn't," he chuckles. "I was waiting outside the main entrance. When they left, I managed to catch the door before it locked behind them so you wouldn't have to come all the way down to buzz me in. Honestly, I think they were a little too tipsy to even register a stranger walking in."

You giggle, clicking the burner off and pouring the milk into the mugs. "They probably just thought you were any other student. San and Yeosang have no idea what you look like yet anyway."

Dropping a generous handful of marshmallows into each mug, you pick them up by the handles and walk over to him, holding one out. "Be careful, it's hot."

He takes it from you with a soft, grateful smile. His free hand naturally finds its way to your lower back, guiding you out of the kitchen and over to the couch where he'd dropped his backpack.

"I would like to meet them, though," he reminds you gently as the two of you settle down side-by-side, both blowing on the steaming hot chocolate.

"I know," you sigh, staring into the swirling marshmallows in your mug. "Actually... they brought it up before they left."

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows, silently prompting you to continue. 

"Um... if you're free tomorrow night... they wanted to know if you'd want to come over to Yunho's dorm. We could just order some food and hang out. No drinking or anything crazy, just..."

"That's perfect," he interrupts softly.

"Are you sure? We can always push it to next weekend if you're busy. I really don't want to mess up your schedule." You remember him mentioning last week that his Sunday nights are usually reserved for preparing his demos for the upcoming week.

He smiles, sets his mug down on the coffee table, and turns to look at you fully. "I'm sure, ____. I'm always free for you."

You nearly inhale your hot chocolate, sputtering a cough as a laugh bubbles out of your chest. "Oh my god, why is everyone being so corny tonight? I expect it from San, but from you?"

Hongjoong laughs loudly at your reaction, though the tips of his ears immediately turn red. "I have to practice flirting in English! I can do it in Korean. I learned from all the movies and dramas I watched growing up. But English is still hard for me."

You can't help but smile. It's undeniably dorky, but seeing how hard he's trying to be a good boyfriend completely melts your heart. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, which only succeeds in turning his face an even deeper shade of pink.

To make him feel less embarrassed, you lean back and fix him with a playfully serious look. "Well, Mr. Kim... if you're always free for me, I guess I'll just have to keep your schedule fully booked for the rest of the semester."

He lets out a flustered huff of a laugh, reaching up to nervously adjust his glasses. "I told you that you're not allowed to call me that, didn't I?" he asks, attempting to summon an authoritative tone, though he looks way too flustered for it to land.

"Why not?" you ask, blinking innocently.

Hongjoong's gaze drops to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Because," he says, "I thought you said you wanted to focus tonight."

A nervous little giggle escapes you, your own face suddenly burning. You tear your eyes away from his lips, clearing your throat. "Right. You're right. I did," you manage, setting your mug down next to his. "Okay. Let's get to work. We still have two more sections to cover, don't we?"

Hongjoong nods, smiling fondly at you as he reaches down to unzip his backpack.

For the next half hour, true to your word, the two of you actually manage to stay on task. You fly through the remaining sections of the textbook with surprising speed, but despite your best efforts, neither of you can seem to fully shake the cheesy, flirty tension humming between you on the couch.

Every time you successfully conjugate a notoriously difficult verb, Hongjoong insists on leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek, murmuring that it's a "preview of your actual reward" and making your skin flare. And every time he gets a little too cocky, you sneak a "Mr. Kim" into your next question and watch him get just as flustered as you are. A few times, you catch his eyes dropping to watch the movement of your lips instead of actually listening to the vocabulary you're reciting. Whenever he realizes he was caught, his mouth curves into a shy, guilty smile before he clears his throat and tells you to start the sentence over. 

As you work together, you find yourself unsure how much grammar is actually sticking in your brain versus how many times you come dangerously close to throwing the textbooks to the floor and pulling your tutor down on top of you for a kiss.

Suddenly, a loud knock rattles the front door.

Both of you freeze. Hongjoong's pen halts mid-stroke over the lined paper of his notebook, and your fingers lock around the corner of the textbook page you were just about to turn. You stare at each other, wide-eyed and unmoving in the silence of the dorm. 

Are they already back? Did someone forget their wallet? Lose their ID? It hasn't even been an hour since they left. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The second round is louder, more impatient. 

You scramble to your feet, your stomach giving a sudden lurch. Hongjoong slowly unfreezes, setting his pen down onto the coffee table. He looks up at you from his spot on the cushions with a smile that is trying very hard to be reassuring but failing miserably.

"Well," he whispers as if the three men waiting outside might hear him through the door, "I guess I'm meeting the family a little sooner than expected."

Despite everything, you let out an anxious laugh as you glance toward the entryway. "Yeah... I guess you are." Taking a steadying breath, you look back at him. "Okay. Stay right here. Let me tell them you're inside before they come barging in and start yelling, okay? I don't want them to freak you out."

Hongjoong lets out a faint chuckle, but you don't miss the way he's subconsciously wiping his sweaty palms against the cotton of his sweatpants. He's nervous. And that only makes your pulse race faster.

Taking another deep breath, you force your legs to carry you toward the front door. With every step, the twisting sensation in your gut pulls even tighter.

Just as your fingers graze the handle, another loud, more aggressive knock bangs against the wood. You jump, tossing one last look over your shoulder at Hongjoong. He offers an encouraging smile, and you do your best to return one of your own before swinging the door open, plastering the most casual smile you can manage onto your face.

"Okay, before you guys come in, I really need to tell you—"

The words die in your throat.

Your heart plummets past your stomach, crashing somewhere near your shoes as an icy, paralyzing wave of vertigo washes over you. The fake smile vanishes from your lips, the blood draining from your face.

Because instead of your three best friends stumbling drunkenly down the hallway, you're standing face-to-face with the most terrifying sight imaginable.

The cruel, wicked smirk of Jung Wooyoung.

"I knocked three times," he says lightly, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement as he looks down at you. "You busy or something? You know, most girls run to the door the second they hear my footsteps coming down the hall. But that's right..." He tilts his head. "You're different, aren't you?"

Your hands tremble as you grip the doorframe, your knuckles turning a bloodless white. "Woo—Wooyoung... what the hell...?" you manage to whisper, frozen in place.

He clicks his tongue, lazily shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. "Aw, nervous to see me again, baby? Don't worry, I'm only stopping by for a minute. Unless you want me to stay." A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I'm more than happy to cancel my plans tonight for a... third date."

Your breathing turns shallow as you stare at him, panic wiping your mind blank. "What—What are you doing here, Wooyoung?" 

Your eyes sweep over him. He's dressed for a humid night out in late August, not a freezing December evening. He’s wearing a black tee and jeans—the same outfit you've seen him in every time you've been together. His hair is gelled and styled exactly the same as always. Nothing about Wooyoung has changed in the slightest.

He catches your gaze tracing over him, and his smirk deepens. "So you did miss me. I knew you would." But when his eyes lock onto yours, the teasing edge vanishes: he's dead, chillingly serious. "I'm here for my jacket."

Your heart plummets into what feels like an endless freefall.

The jacket.

Your eyes flash to the kitchen barstool where that stupid leather jacket had rested like a cursed object for nearly a week—a week where everyone in the dorm had been too afraid to even touch it. But it isn't there anymore. Hongjoong's winter coat is draped over that very stool instead.

The wind is knocked out of you as you realize that Hongjoong is here, sitting on the couch right behind you. With how you've barely cracked open the door, shielding the entryway with your body, Hongjoong probably still assumes you're talking to one—or all—of your friends.

Terror grips your throat. You can't let them see each other. If Wooyoung sees Hongjoong, it's over. If Hongjoong finds out who is standing at this door, he'll discover everything. He'll know you lied to him about your past. Think, ____, think, you scream at yourself, your head spinning faster and dizzier by the second as you stare blankly at the man in the doorway.

Oblivious, Wooyoung laughs. 

"You know, I thought I'd lost the damn thing," he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. "I searched my place for days. I must've been too drunk that night to realize I let you take it. I thought someone stole it at the bar or some shit. Even went out and bought myself a new one before I finally remembered." His eyes filthily trace your body, from the top of your head down to your socks and back up again, making your skin crawl. "Yeah. It was stolen. By you."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to breathe, but he keeps talking.

"You been wearing it? It's nice, right? I bet it looked so cute on you that night. If only I could remember anything that happened." The cruel curve of his lips returns. "I was just gonna forget about it. Let you keep it. A little souvenir to remember me by, yeah? To remind you of how much fun we had." He pauses, feeding off the way your stomach twists at his words. "But the new jacket's missing one thing. The inside pocket for my camera. And I plan on taking a lot of pictures tonight."

He suddenly takes a step forward, trying to peer over your shoulder and into the dorm.

"I need my jacket back, baby," he murmurs. "Let me in."

You remain rooted in the doorway, every muscle in your body locked as the panic finally spills over and chokes the breath out of your lungs. 

"Wooyoung, I... I don't know where it is," you stammer.

He pauses. One eyebrow arches. "You don't?"

You shake your head, your terrified mind scrambling to construct any lie that'll keep him out of your dorm and clinging to it for dear life. "San took it," you blurt out. "He put it away somewhere, but I have no idea where. Just—just come back later when he's here. He'll find it for you."

The lie sounds flimsy to even your own ears, and judging by the look on his face, he knows it too.

Desperate, you throw your weight forward and attempt to push the door shut, but Wooyoung is faster. His palm slams flat against the wood, stopping it dead in its tracks. Slowly, his eyes narrow.

"Well, if you don't know where it is..." His gaze snakes past your shoulder again, drinking in the narrow sliver of your living room visible from the hallway. "...maybe we should look for it together."

Wooyoung suddenly shoves the door inward. You stumble backward with a choked gasp, your socks slipping across the polished hardwood as he steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him.

"Wooyoung—"

He ignores you, already turning down the hallway, heading straight in the direction of San's bedroom. But on only the second step, he freezes.

Your hands are still suspended uselessly in the air from where you'd tried—and failed—to block him from coming inside. Your stomach drops so hard and fast that you feel like you're about to faint. 

Everything falls silent.

Wooyoung is standing in the center of your living room, staring straight at the couch. And standing perfectly still amid the messy notebooks and open textbooks, Hongjoong is staring right back. 

At some point, Hongjoong rose to his feet. His posture is rigid, his shoulders squared as he stands between the coffee table and the cushions. His eyes sweep over Wooyoung with a piercing glare. It's almost as if, in a matter of seconds, he's already deciphered exactly what kind of person this intruder is, all without a single word being exchanged.

You open your mouth, desperately trying to force a sound out—Hongjoong's name, Wooyoung's name, an explanation, an excuse, a plea, anything—but your vocal cords have been locked in place by the fear gripping your throat.

You can only watch, helplessly pinned in place, as Wooyoung's eyes drag over the man standing across the room. He takes his sweet time, lingering on Hongjoong's crooked glasses and tousled hair, before his gaze drops to the table. He stares at the scattered Korean textbooks, the vocabulary worksheets covered in red corrections, and finally, the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting side by side in the center of it all. 

As the reality of what he walked into dawns on him, a horrible, bitter smirk curls at the corners of Wooyoung's lips.

"Holy shit," he murmurs, a breath of malicious disbelief.

For a moment, the entire dorm goes quiet.

Then an ugly bark of laughter rips from his throat.

Wooyoung throws his head back and erupts into a fit of dark, hysterical laughter. "Holy shit! Holy fucking shit," he cackles, clutching his stomach as he spins to look at you, eyes glittering with vindictive delight. "You're kidding me, right? Tell me this is a fucking joke."

Still laughing, he turns his attention back to Hongjoong, openly raking his eyes up and down his body with blatant disrespect.

Hongjoong's expression hardens. His breathing grows shallow, mirroring the rise and fall of your own chest, as he slowly tears his gaze away from Wooyoung and looks at you instead.

"____." His voice is practically a growl. You watch the gears turning behind his eyes: he knows. He knows something is wrong. "Who is this?"

You can't speak.

You stare helplessly back at Hongjoong, your vision blurring as tears begin to well in your eyes, stinging your lash line. 

It's over. 

You should've just told him the truth.

Hongjoong sees the shiny glaze of tears brimming in your eyes, and his posture stiffens. His lips part in a quiet breath of disbelief, a devastating combination of confusion and betrayal already bleeding into his eyes before he even fully understands what he's looking at. 

Wooyoung wheezes with laughter, bracing himself by slapping a hand down onto the nearest kitchen stool—landing right on top of Hongjoong's snow-dampened coat.

"Fuck, ____, this has to be the funniest thing I've ever seen," he gasps, shaking his head. "Seriously. Holy shit, you're actually with him? You're dating the fucking tutor?"

The first tear spills over, cutting a humiliating path down your cheek.

Seeing it fall, Hongjoong snaps his gaze away from you, his expression shattering. His eyes flick toward the wall, betrayal flashing across his features before he suddenly manages to bury it, squaring his jaw and turning back to Wooyoung.

"Who are you?" he demands when you can't work up the courage to give him the answer.

However, this only seems to amuse Wooyoung even more. "She didn't even tell you about me?" he laughs mockingly, pouting his bottom lip. "Damn. What a shame."

He closes the distance between them, swaggering over to the couch and extending a taunting hand for Hongjoong to shake. "Jung Wooyoung," he says, his grin widening. "Hongjoong, right? I can't believe I'm actually getting to meet you. I'm a big fan."

Hongjoong doesn't even glance at the outstretched hand, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looks like it's ready to snap. 

"Not kidding," Wooyoung continues without flinching, dropping his arm back to his side. "I've been dying to ask you what your secret is."

The two men stare each other down from opposite sides of the coffee table. Wooyoung is grinning; Hongjoong looks ready to kill.

"My secret?" Hongjoong repeats.

Wooyoung nods, leaning in closer with a wicked smirk. "Yeah," he sneers. "How the fuck did a guy like you get her into your bed?"

A deafening tension crashes over the room. 

Hongjoong's eyes narrow as a furious, bewildered scoff escapes him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

A cold shudder crawls down your spine, pinning you in place against the front door. You've seen Hongjoong angry before, you've seen him frustrated, and you've heard him mutter Korean curses under his breath. But you've never heard him swear in English. 

Wooyoung laughs again, cruel and bright. "Guess she really didn't tell you. Well, she's always been a little shy about these things. Haven't you, baby?" He flashes you another grin over his shoulder before turning his back on Hongjoong, sauntering toward San's room, still chuckling to himself.

You feel sick. The room is spinning so fast you have to press your hand against the doorframe just to stay on your feet. You need to get Wooyoung out of here. You have to stop him before he digs any deeper. 

"Wooyoung," your shaky, fragile voice manages to force out just as his hand reaches for San's doorknob. He pauses, glancing back at you with an arched eyebrow. "It... it's in the bathroom," you whisper. "In the storage closet. San... San put it there."

His hand drops from the knob. Turning around, he looks you up and down, taking in your trembling state before scoffing. "Thought you didn't know where it was?" he asks. "What happened? Suddenly remembered?" His mouth curls. "Or are you leading me on again? Huh, I guess some things really never change."

You flinch. Your eyes remain glued to his back as he changes direction and disappears through the bathroom door.

You don't look at Hongjoong. You can't.

You don't want to see the impending heartbreak taking shape in his eyes, don't want to witness the moment he pieces the ugly puzzle together and realizes how much you've hidden from him. So, like a coward, you decide to delay the devastation, to avoid his gaze, for as long as you possibly can.

From down the short hallway, the loud and destructive sounds of Wooyoung's search begin. You can hear him rustling through the cramped storage closet, carelessly shoving boxes aside and tossing towels to the tile floor as he digs around for his jacket.

You keep your tear-filled eyes locked on the empty doorway, nails biting into your palms. If you stare hard enough, maybe Hongjoong will disappear. Maybe the consequences of your own lies will fall solely onto your shoulders, sparing the man you finally managed to start something real with.

Wooyoung emerges a minute later, shrugging the leather jacket over his shoulders. He smooths the collar into place with a grin.

"Well, I'm heading out. Got a party to get to," he announces cheerfully. "You two enjoy your little date night, yeah?"

He nods mockingly in Hongjoong's direction, smirking as he makes his way toward the front door—the door you're still weakly barricading with your body. Stopping mere inches in front of you, Wooyoung looks down with an amused raise of his eyebrow. His fingers slowly wrap around yours, peeling your trembling grip away from the doorframe. 

A repulsive shiver rips through your body as he holds your gaze, his grin widening. 

"She's a great student, isn't she?" he calls out over his shoulder, addressing Hongjoong even though his eyes never leave yours. "I taught her a few things myself last month. You should ask her about the knife. Or the fork." Your blood turns to ice as the smile on his face turns mocking. "She really has a thing for cutlery."

Dropping your hand, he gives you one final, bitter sneer before yanking the door open and stepping out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind him, and he's gone, sealing you inside the silence of your own destruction.

You stand paralyzed in the entryway for what feels like an eternity.

You've always known Hongjoong to be a brilliant man—how could he not be, as someone who is quite literally paid to teach you? But the intelligence you're seeing now has nothing to do with grammar or vocabulary. From your spot against the door, you're forced to watch him click every single ugly, disjointed piece of the puzzle named Jung Wooyoung into place in his mind.

Slowly, as if he's fighting his way through water, Hongjoong lowers himself onto the couch. A stray pen falls off the cushion, onto the floor, without him even noticing. His previously rigid posture collapses in on itself as he sinks back into the cushions. The color drains from his face, leaving his skin an unrecognizable, sickly pale, and his hand trembles as he raises it to push his crooked glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You don't know what to do. You don't know what to say. You don't even know if there's anything you can say to make a difference. So you just stand there with a burning ache in your throat as shameful tears continue to well and threaten to spill over your lashes, watching your boyfriend sift through every last humiliating second he'd just been forced to witness.

After a long time, Hongjoong finally turns his head. When he speaks, his fragile voice breaks your heart in two.

"When we studied together for the first time... in the library," he begins shakily. "His name... Wooyoung... it came up on your phone. You told me he was just a friend. That... that was a lie, wasn't it?"

Your breath hitches in your chest as you stare at him. You try to explain, but your voice breaks on the way up. You can't answer him. You can't.

But your silence is answer enough.

Hongjoong inhales sharply. He rises to his feet, his entire body shaking as he takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between the couch and the entryway. The closer he gets, the clearer you can see the glossy sheen of unshed tears pooling behind his glasses.

"Y—You told me you've only ever slept with one person." His voice cracks as he stops just a few feet away from you. "You said you were seventeen. With your ex, back in high school." His eyes plead with yours to deny it, to give him the answer he wants. "Was that a lie, too?"

A single, damning tear slips down your cheek. 

Hongjoong watches it fall. He stares at you for a long moment, the last trace of hope draining out of his face. He gives a faint, defeated nod, breaking eye contact just as his own tears finally begin to spill over.

"He said he... he taught you. Last month. Last month, ____," he breathes, looking back at you with so much betrayal in his eyes that it hurts to meet them. "But you told me you liked me since the first time you saw me. Since the beginning of the semester. Was... was that another lie? While I was... I... you were... with him...?"

You frantically shake your head, your chest caving in. "Joong, n—no, I—"

"He asked me how a guy like me got you into my bed," he continues, cutting you off as more tears track silently down his pale cheeks. "I know... I know I'm not experienced. I know I've never done this before. I know I'm not the kind of guy who... who you would normally look at twice—"

"Joong, that's not true—!"

"But," his voice cracks, ignoring your pleas. "I thought... I thought..."

He stops, unable to finish the sentence. He shakily reaches up, pulling his glasses off his face to roughly press the heels of his palms into his eyes, wiping away the falling tears. When he finally lowers his hands, he turns away from you and stares at the wall across the room.

You don't try to speak. You gulp down your tears, giving up on trying to defend yourself. There's nothing that feels capable of fixing this. Not words, not explanations, not anything you could possibly say. 

"He said you led him on," Hongjoong says quietly. "Is that what you're doing to me? Am I just..."

A choked sob finally rips from your throat. Without thinking, you reach a hand out to grab his sleeve, to ask for forgiveness, to show him you care. But he flinches, jerking his arm away like your touch burns.

You freeze, your hand falling numbly to your side as the outline of his body becomes a blur.

"How many times, ____?" he asks, his voice cracking. He can't even bear to look at you anymore. "How many times did you sleep with him?"

Your heart stops. He stands there, holding his breath, waiting for the truth. 

"It... it was twice," you whisper.

Hongjoong lets out a gut-wrenching, wounded sound, biting down on his trembling lower lip as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"But... but the second time wasn't... I—I stopped it, Joong," you plead, willing him to just open his eyes, to understand what happened. "I only went out with him to end it. To... to tell him that I didn't want him, that the whole thing was a mistake—"

"He was your first, wasn’t he?"

The question is quiet.

You stop rambling. Hongjoong's eyes open, and when his gaze finds yours again, you watch the realization wash over his pale features. 

"It wasn't your ex," he whispers, his throat bobbing. "It was him."

You go silent, tears falling down your cheeks, unable to deny it. 

And for Hongjoong, that's all the answer he needs.

A strangled sob tears its way out of his throat. He abruptly turns away, hurrying back over to the couch, refusing to look at you again. Panic surges through you, and you hurry after him, your voice cracking as you beg him to listen.

"Please, just let me explain, Joong!"

Hongjoong grabs his backpack from the floor and starts shoving his textbooks inside, his eyes fixed blankly on the coffee table, avoiding your face at all costs. 

"Explain what, ____?" he asks. His voice is flat, and that emptiness is somehow a million times worse than if he'd turned around and screamed at you. "Explain which version of you is the real one? The one I started falling in love with... or the one who looked me in the eye and lied to me about letting him—"

He chokes on the words, his jaw clenching as he yanks the zipper of his backpack shut.

The one I started falling in love with.

The words shatter what little is left of your heart.

"I wanted to tell you!" you choke out, stepping closer, though you keep your hands glued to your sides, too afraid to try and touch him again. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was so scared! Joong, I... I liked you from the very first day we met. That was never, ever a lie. But... you were my tutor! I never in a million years thought you'd look at me as anything more than your dumb student who couldn't even pronounce her own name. I didn't think you'd ever look at me the way I looked at you."

Hongjoong stops moving. His hands clamp around the straps of his bag. He doesn't turn to face you, but you can see the tension snapping across his shoulders and can hear the uneven sound of his breathing. He's listening.

"I was so stupid," you confess, your voice cracking as you furiously wipe the tears from your cheeks. "I was... I was horrible. I tried to use him. Wooyoung. My friends told me he didn't do relationships, that... that hookups meant nothing to him. I thought... I thought maybe I could drown out my feelings for you by doing something reckless. Maybe doing something meaningless with him would make me forget about how badly I wanted to mean something to you."

You take a shaky breath, your tears blinding your vision. "But it didn't work. After that night... I felt terrible. About everything. I... I couldn't stop imagining what it would've been like if it were you instead. He told me he wanted more. I guess he actually liked me, or at least he thought he did, but... he couldn't give me a single, tiny fraction of what you already had, even back when we'd barely spoken outside of tutoring. I felt so much for you, Joong. So, so much. I always knew it, even if I was too scared to admit it to myself."

Hongjoong remains still, his back turned to you as he listens.

"That's why I went back the second time," you plead. "To end it. To tell him it was a stupid, one-time mistake because my heart belonged to someone else. But he... fuck, Joong, I was so stupid, and he was so manipulative. Yes, we did it again, but I... I cried. I pushed him away. I made him stop. And... and that's when he realized. He'd heard my friends teasing me about my crush on my tutor, and he... he realized they weren't joking. You saw it, just now: he's mad. His ego is destroyed. He thinks I chose you over him, but... it was never a choice in the first place. I was always yours. From the very beginning."

He doesn't move, his head bowed as he stares down at the bag crushed in his hands. You choke out another sob, desperate for something in your confession to break through to him.

"And then, in your bedroom..." you whisper, the memory tearing you apart. "When you said it was your first time... when you told me how scared you were of making a mistake... I panicked. How could I look at you, after everything you just confessed, and tell you that I let some asshole like him take my virginity only a few weeks ago? I wanted to be the perfect girl for you, just like how I tried so hard to be the perfect student. I was so ashamed of what I'd done, of how I'd been so reckless for the first time in my life! I was scared that if you knew that ugly, mindless side of me, you'd never look at me the same way again. That you'd hate me. So... I lied. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Joong. I... I wish I could change it. I wish I could take it back. I really, really do."

You wipe your face with the backs of your hands, but the tears refuse to stop falling as you stand there, staring at his back, waiting, praying he even has a response. 

After a long moment, Hongjoong turns to face you again. His face has gone completely still except for the single tear that breaks free, trickling down his cheek.

"An exam," he whispers. "Is that what this whole thing was to you? You had to be perfect? You wanted to get an A... in what? In me? In us?"

He takes a hesitant step closer, looking at you with eyes full of heartbreak. "You know I've never cared about your mistakes, ____," he says, his voice cracking as he points a trembling finger at the coffee table, where your textbooks and vocabulary sheets used to lie scattered. "When you mess up a conjugation, we fix it. When you mispronounce a word, I help you say it right. That's what we do. That's what we've always done. I thought you knew... I thought you understood that I was the one place where you didn't have to be perfect right away. That I'd help you get there, no matter how hard it would be or how long it would take."

He looks down at his shaking hands, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the lump in his throat. When he finally looks back up, the disappointment in his eyes is almost unbearable. "You said we'd figure things out together. Those were your words," he continues. "But now I think you were so afraid of failing that you felt like you needed to hide the truth from me. What did you think? That if you hid all these parts of you, if you lied about your past, everything would just magically turn into reality? That you'd just get whatever grade you wanted without letting me help you get there?"

He shakes his head, taking a sharp breath in. "I don't care about him. I don't care that he was your first, or even that it happened so recently. Do you really think my feelings for you are so shallow that something like that is enough to make me walk away?" He drags the back of his hand across his face, but it's useless. His fingers are trembling so badly he can barely wipe away the tears before more take their place. "I care that you looked me in the eye, in my own bed, in my arms, and lied to me. You let me pour my heart out to you, ____! I told you my most pathetic insecurities, the most embarrassing secrets I've never said out loud to anyone, and you... you let me feel safe. You let me believe we were doing the same thing. That we were both being honest with each other, putting all our cards out on the table so we could start something real. How... how could you sit there, comforting me, telling me it was okay not to be perfect, all while knowing it was you who was hiding who you really were?" His voice finally shatters. "How am I supposed to trust anything you've ever said to me?"

"Joong, no, please—" Your voice breaks apart on his name.

You reach your hand out, but he pulls away again. Without another word, he turns his back on you and walks over to the kitchen island. He grabs his coat from the barstool, where you'd left it to dry barely a full hour ago, not even bothering to put it on. Your heart plummets as he swings his bag over his shoulder and stares blankly at the front door, refusing to cast a single glance back at where you're standing no matter how hard you're silently begging him to.

"I didn't ask about your past because I was looking for mistakes," he says quietly to the empty air. "I asked because I wanted to know the girl I was giving my heart to. The girl I wanted to create something real with... for the very first time in my life."

Another tear slides down his jawline as he shakes his head faintly, taking the last few steps toward the door. He doesn't speak again. When his hand wraps around the handle, your tears begin to fall harder.

"Joong, please, that's all I wanted too—" you choke out, your trembling legs moving on their own. You stumble after him, too terrified to touch him, but too desperate to let him walk away. "Please, Hongjoong, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry... I can fix this, I can—"

He turns his head, but he isn't looking at your face. His deadened gaze fixes on the floorboards right next to your feet as his shoulders tremble with the effort to hold himself together.

"You can't fix a lie like this with an apology, ____," he whispers, and you can tell he's given up. "You know that. You fix it with the truth. But I had to get yours from him." He takes a final, shuddering breath. "I... I never would've found out about this if he hadn't shown up tonight, right?"

You take a horrified step back, biting your lip so hard the taste of blood floods your mouth.

He's right.

You would've let this remain a secret forever. 

"Joong..."

But for the first time all night, you have nothing left to say.

Hongjoong shakes his head and pushes the door open. Without another glance back, he steps out into the hallway and gently pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing back into the cold.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

"Iced chai, oatmilk, light ice, vanilla sweetener... or did you want brown sugar?"

Hongjoong stops short on the concrete walkway, the plastic cup sweating against his palm. He stares at you with wide, mildly panicked eyes behind the black rims of his glasses. "It was brown sugar, wasn't it? Don't worry, stay here, I can go back—"

"Joong, relax," you laugh softly, nudging his arm to motion for him to keep walking with you. "Vanilla's perfect. Thank you." 

He deflates a bit, his tense shoulders dropping. A sheepish, relieved smile breaks through his worry as he hands the cup over. The exchange is clumsy—his bare knuckles brush against your freezing fingers—and a little jolt of warmth skitters up your arm despite the biting winter chill.

You bring the drink to your lips, taking a sip through the blue paper straw he picked out for you. The spice of the chai, mellowed by the vanilla, hits your tongue exactly the way you love it. You hum, peering up at him over the rim of the cup. "Was he working today?"

Hongjoong stiffens. His hand flies up to grip the strap of his backpack while he pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "...He was."

You glance at the drink in your hand, then back at him. "Did he make this?"

"Of course not," he murmurs, his tone turning oddly clipped as his attention snaps away from you, suddenly very invested in the flock of pigeons circling the stone arches of the nearest building. "I told his manager I didn't want a trainee making my drink." 

The straw slips from your lips as you stare at him. "You made the manager make this?"

"...Yes."

"Joong."

He pointedly avoids looking at you, but you catch the tiny smirk on his lips anyway.

You can't hold in your laugh as you fall back into step beside him. Every few seconds, your shoulders bump together lightly beneath your coats, accidental touches neither of you makes any effort to avoid.

Over the past week, this has somehow become your routine. Hongjoong walks you to your morning class, peels off at the last second to rush to his own lecture, then practically tears back across the quad the moment he's free again so you can spend the afternoon together. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since last Thursday: the night that had started with a near cooking disaster and ended with the two of you sprawled across his living room floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter, kissing between songs while his records spun one after another until sunrise. Although Hongjoong had an eight a.m. class the next morning, neither of you had been willing to call it a night. 

Ever since then, the last traces of awkwardness between you have finally started to disappear. Things feel real now. Hongjoong is your boyfriend, and you are Hongjoong's girlfriend. There are still occasional stumbles between the two of you—flustered silences when someone says something romantic, your cheeks burning whenever his hand slips near your waist, the way he loses his train of thought whenever you look at him for too long—but the uncertainty that once hovered between you is gone. Now, things are good. Unbelievably good. 

You reach the doors of your foreign policy lecture with two minutes to spare before class officially begins. The hallway is still relatively quiet as Hongjoong slows to a stop beside you. His gaze flicks down both ends of the corridor, quick and careful as he checks for wandering students, professors, or anyone else who might pay too much attention to a university-employed tutor lingering a little too close to one of his students.

Once he's satisfied the coast is clear, he steps closer. He dips his head and presses a quick kiss to your lips, brief enough to stay hidden if anyone happened to glance over.

"I'll see you in an hour," he murmurs with a little smile.

And then, before you can answer, he turns on his heel and begins speed-walking down the hallway, his backpack bouncing as he races out of the building to make it across campus in time for his own class. 

You stand paralyzed against the wall. A helpless grin stretches across your face as you watch him disappear around the corner, your lips still tingling from the kiss. It's only when a noisy group of your classmates spills into the hallway from the opposite end that you finally snap out of it. Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip around your drink and hurry into the lecture hall before anyone can ask why you look so flustered.

You make a beeline for your usual seat at the far end of one of the middle rows as the last wave of students funnels into the room. You shrug your bag from your shoulder and let it fall beside your chair, listening to the sounds of backpacks hitting the floor and laptops snapping open.  

At the podium, your professor adjusts her microphone and taps on it twice.

"Good morning, everyone," she projects, offering a polished smile to the large crowd of students. "Today, we'll be discussing the evolution of global cyberwarfare and its implications for modern diplomacy."

You open a blank document and type out the date along with a neatly formatted heading, but that's about as far as you get; your fingers are moving on autopilot more than anything else. The moment your cursor begins blinking beneath the title, your attention slips. Your professor's voice drones on at the front of the hall, but it gradually blurs into white noise as your mind floats right back out that classroom door, chasing Hongjoong across campus.

It started on Friday. Neither of you had actually planned to see each other again so soon. After all, the two of you had stayed up until sunrise the night before. Logically, a little distance should've followed. A few hours apart, at the very least. 

That idea lasted until Hongjoong realized you don't have any classes on Friday. His text came through not long after.

Hongjoong: I know we just saw each other, but do you want to

You didn't even finish reading the text before you responded.

You: Yes.

The embarrassingly quick reply probably killed whatever was left of your dignity, but it also seemed to help erase the awkwardness between the two of you. 

A soft smile pulls at your lips as you rest your chin in your hand, staring absently at the blinking cursor. Though it's only been a week, the past few days replay like an old movie behind your eyes. You've spent every single day together. Driving aimlessly through the winding streets of your college town with the windows cracked just enough for the cold air to slip inside, his hand tapping against the steering wheel while your favorite albums played on repeat for the fifth or sixth time. Stopping at terrible restaurants on purpose after the two of you discovered how fun it was to hunt down places with catastrophically bad Yelp reviews. Sitting in the passenger seat with greasy paper bags spread across your laps, laughing so hard over soggy fries that your stomachs hurt afterward. There were quieter moments, too, like trading ideas for novels you’d always wanted to write and songs he was hoping to produce someday. You’d even gone back to the Yoons’ grocery store on Sunday, where Mrs. Yoon had pinched his cheek and teased him about you until his ears turned bright red.

And, of course, there was the studying.

Or, rather, the complete lack thereof.

Every time you actually managed to open a Korean textbook in his bedroom, you inevitably ended up distracted, laughing over a mispronunciation until his hands found your waist, pulling you down to kiss you senseless on his couch until you couldn't remember your own name, let alone basic grammar structures. 

You've been so wrapped up in him that you've barely seen your own friends. Half the messages in your group chat have gone unanswered for hours because you keep getting distracted midway through replying whenever he calls. You even skipped your usual Tuesday grocery run with Yunho after what was supposed to be a quick lunch with Hongjoong somehow stretched into nearly four hours of arguing over whether BIGBANG's If Youis a skip. Yunho only sighed when you apologized at dinner afterward, muttering something about "abandonment issues" while stealing some fries off your plate.

San, on the other hand, is a different story.

San is getting mad. He texted you late last night, practically begging you to just bring Hongjoong over so he didn't have to keep coming home to an empty dorm. But you're hesitant to merge your two worlds just yet. You know your friends. The moment San sees the two of you together, he'll never let you breathe again: the teasing will be relentless. And while you know he means well, you also know how fragile things are. 

You and Hongjoong have only been together for one week. The last thing you want is for outside voices to crash into your relationship too soon. 

Besides, it's not exactly difficult to avoid your dorm when you and Hongjoong have his apartment to yourselves most of the time. Seonghwa is still around, of course, and every time you walk through the door, he greets you with some new flirty joke. However, now, you're fairly certain he's only doing it for a reaction. Hongjoong's, specifically. The moment Hongjoong levels him with one of his murderous glares, Seonghwa grins, raises his hands in surrender, and disappears into his room.

You're lost in a memory of Hongjoong singing Lemon Tree shyly in the driver's seat, your lips curving unconsciously, when—

Ping.

You scramble to turn your laptop's blaring volume down as a small banner slides into the top right corner of the screen.

From: Choi Jongho ([email protected]) Subject: Final Exam Details and Preparation

Your fingers suddenly go cold as you click the email open. You knew finals were approaching, obviously. But awareness and reality are two very different things, and the second your eyes skim over the bolded date near the top of the message, you nearly gasp.

Two weeks.

Your Korean final is in exactly two weeks.

Because of your whirlwind week of absolute bliss, you've accidentally ignored all your lectures and forgotten to complete approximately four assignments. And you definitely haven't been studying outside of class, because every time you and your tutor sit down to review vocabulary, you lose focus within five minutes.

You quickly click the little 'X' in the corner of the screen, shutting the email out of your mind. You don't want to think about this right now, not when you've had such an amazing week. Trying to swallow down the rising knot of dread in your throat, you force your eyes toward the whiteboard at the front of the lecture hall.

The moment your professor finally dismisses the class, you're moving. The final "see everyone next week" has barely left her mouth before you're snapping your laptop shut. Around you, students linger to finish conversations or gather their things, but you quickly shove your laptop into your bag, sling the strap over your shoulder, and bolt for the doors. 

Since his Thursday morning class is only fifty minutes compared to your hour and fifteen, you know Hongjoong is already waiting for you outside.

Sure enough, the second you push through the doors into the bustling hallway, you spot him leaning against the wall across from your classroom. A pair of silver headphones rests over his ears, and his head is tilted downward as he scrolls through something on his phone, one foot propped up behind him. But the instant he registers the sound of the lecture hall emptying, his head snaps up.

His eyes scan the crowd, and the moment they lock onto you, a smile breaks across his features. He quickly pulls his headphones down around his neck, sliding his phone into his pocket as he pushes off the wall to meet you halfway.

"How was class?" he asks as he falls into step beside you. The two of you merge into the flow of students moving through the hallway, letting the crowd carry you toward the main quad as you head nowhere in particular to grab lunch. 

You grimace as you stare at the sea of backpacks and winter coats ahead. "It was fine until I got an email."

Hongjoong's eyebrows pull together. "An email? From who?"

"Professor Choi," you say, the dread creeping back into your voice. "My final is in two weeks."

Hongjoong blinks. "Oh." You watch as he mentally works through the timeline and realizes that the two of you have accomplished about eleven total minutes of actual studying in the past week. Slowly, a guilty little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Do you..." He clears his throat. "...feel ready?"

You stop walking to level him with the flattest, most deadpan look you can manage.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Okay. It's okay. Don't start panicking," he says. "I know we're supposed to have our official tutoring session tonight, but... I'll cancel it."

Your eyebrows shoot upward. "You can do that?"

"Well... I've done it before, haven't I?" he teases, getting a reluctant laugh out of you. His smile softens at the sound, though the amusement fades as he starts piecing together a plan. "I'll tell the Language Center I'm sick again. And I'll email Professor Choi to excuse you from this week's recording. I'll explain that you had a bad experience with the last substitute—which isn't exactly a lie—and aren't comfortable working with anyone but me right now."

"But... are you sure that's okay?" you ask slowly. "If I'm not meeting with another tutor instead? Couldn't that get us in trouble?"

"If it were happening every week, maybe. But once? No one's going to care," he assures you. "Instead of meeting in the Center, I'll reserve one of the study rooms in the library. And we'll actually study. Not in my apartment. This time, a strictly academic environment."

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyeing him skeptically, though the crushing anxiety in your chest is finally starting to loosen its grip. "Okay. At our usual time? Five o'clock?"

"Five o'clock," he nods, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. "I'll bring food, too. We'll need it if we're going to cram a week's worth of grammar into one night."

"Okay," you breathe out. "Thank you, Joong."

He smiles, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, maybe to whisper something more, maybe to steal another quick kiss, when a loud voice interrupts you from down the hallway.

"____! I was looking everywhere for you!"

You catch the blur of movement over Hongjoong's shoulder, and your blood instantly runs cold. Striding down the corridor from the opposite direction, waving a hand high in the air, is an entirely too cheerful Yunho.

Before you can distance yourself from Hongjoong, Yunho is walking right up to the two of you. His bright eyes dart between your frozen deer-in-headlights expression and Hongjoong's mildly confused one.

"I need your help," Yunho breathes, coming to a halt in front of you. He ignores Hongjoong, flashing you a grin. "I accidentally locked myself out of my dorm, and I need to get my laptop before my next class. But Yeosang's stuck in a Psych lecture for another hour, San's all the way across campus at the gym, and you're the only other person with a spare key. Do you have it?" 

You blink at your best friend, your brain taking an embarrassingly long moment to catch up. "I—uh..." Your gaze flickers from Yunho to Hongjoong and back again. "What?"

"I know, I know. I can't believe I did it again," Yunho says with a long-suffering sigh, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth hints that he isn't the least bit distressed. "The key, ____. Do you have it on you or not?"

"I... let me look," you stutter, your face flushing as you shrug your bag off your shoulder and set it on a small bench along the wall. Your fingers fumble with the opening before digging through the main compartment, pushing aside notebooks, loose pens, crumpled receipts, old granola bar wrappers, and tangled headphones. 

This is exactly what you've spent the last week trying to avoid: your two carefully separated worlds colliding without warning.

The second your eyes drop into your bag, Yunho turns his full attention to the man standing quietly by your side. He thrusts his hand out, a giant smile stretching across his face.

"Hi. I'm Yunho, by the way," he introduces himself. "You're the famous tutor, right?"

Your hands freeze mid-rummage as your heart skips a beat. Slowly, you lift your head and stare at your best friend in complete mortification.

But Hongjoong doesn't seem caught off guard at all. He chuckles as he pulls one hand from the pocket of his pants and reaches forward to shake Yunho's. 

"That's me. Hongjoong," he says, his voice incredibly calm compared to your nervous pulse. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's great to finally meet you, too," Yunho replies, his grin somehow growing even wider as he shoots a teasing glance at you. "I've been trying to for the past week, but someone is a little embarrassed of her friends, so she's been keeping us—"

"Yunho! I'm not embarrassed!" you interrupt, shooting him a glare. "You guys are just... a lot. And I don't think Hongjoong really wants to deal with—"

"I want to meet your friends."

Hongjoong's interruption makes your mouth snap shut. You blink at him.

"You... do?"

"Of course I do. You've... well, you've certainly already met my best friend, for better or worse," he says, ignoring Yunho for a moment as he looks into your eyes earnestly. "I know we technically have to keep our relationship a secret on campus. And I know we have to be careful. Still... I want to meet your friends, too. I want to be a part of your whole life, not just the part that's tied to this school. ____ the person, not just... my student." 

Your lips part, but no words come out. 

Something warm unfurls in your heart at his words, a small, touched smile forming on your lips as the anxiety you've been carrying about merging your two worlds finally begins to melt.

"Great! We'll set something up," Yunho declares, apparently deciding for everyone involved that Hongjoong's request has already been granted. "Tonight? Pizza at my place? You guys, me, San, and Yeosang? We can all hang out and finally get to know—"

"Not tonight," you say quickly, thinking back to Professor Choi's email. "We're getting a study room in the library since I need help getting ready for the Korean final. I have to catch up on everything I missed this week. But... yes. Okay. We can do that soon. Pizza." You pause, holding Hongjoong's gaze. "I promise."

His eyes soften. "I'll hold you to it."

"Perfect!" Yunho grins before immediately pointing at you. "But seriously. I really do need my key. Do you have it or not?"

You glance down at your still-open bag, everything inside shifted and pushed aside until the bottom is finally exposed—and missing what you were hoping to find. "Um... I think it's sitting on my desk in the dorm."

Before you can apologize or offer him a spare notebook to use instead, he hooks his arm through yours. "Alright, come on then."

"What? Hang on—" 

"Let's go! I have class in thirty minutes!"

He starts marching down the hallway without waiting for any further resistance, pulling you along with him. Your shoes scrape against the floor as you stumble to keep up with his pace.

"Yunho, wait—"

Twisting around mid-step, you glance back behind you. Hongjoong is still standing where you left him, chuckling, one shoulder leaning against the wall with both hands tucked back into his pockets. 

"I'll see you at five!" he calls out over the rising hallway noise.

"Yeah! Uh—okay!" you stutter back, managing an awkward wave over your shoulder just before the crowd swallows you. Hongjoong lifts a hand in return, smiling as Yunho steers you around the corner.

The moment the two of you are officially out of Hongjoong’s line of sight, Yunho drops your arm. His urgent pace calms to a casual stroll, and you stumble a bit without his momentum, catching your balance and adjusting the strap of your bag as you glare up at him.

"Really, Yunho?" you snap. "We were about to go get lunch! You seriously need your key right this second?"

He reaches into the front pocket of his coat and calmly pulls out a yellow lanyard. Dangling from the metal ring is a shiny brass dorm key. "Nope. I have it," he says cheerfully, giving the lanyard a little shake so the metal jingles between you. "I just needed an excuse to get you alone."

Your mouth drops open. You stare at the dangling piece of metal, then up at his smug face, before lifting both hands and shoving him squarely in the chest. "Yunho! Are you serious?"

He barely even budges. Laughing loudly, he easily catches your wrist mid-air and loops your arm right back through his, trapping you against his side once again.

"Oh, please. You've been with him every day for the past week. You've neglected your best friend! Come on, walk me to class. You have a lot of explaining to do."

You let out a long groan, though you don't actually resist as he pulls you down the hallway. "Fine."

Yunho's pleased grin widens as he looks down at you. "So? Tell me what's been going on!" he prompts. "How have things been going since you guys made it official? What have you been doing?"

The annoyance begins to drain out of you as you think back to your week. You try your hardest to fight it, biting down on the inside of your cheek, but you can't stop the goofy, lovestruck smile from overtaking your face.

You tell your best friend everything as you walk through the halls. You tell him about driving aimlessly around at night, the afternoons that somehow turned into evenings without either of you ever noticing the passage of time, and, reluctantly, about the fact that you haven't actually studied once in the past week. That every session starts with good intentions and ends the same way—books abandoned, notes forgotten, and the two of you tangled up together on his couch instead.

Yunho listens attentively as you ramble, grinning at you the entire time. "Okay, I hate to admit it because you skipped our grocery run..." He jokingly rolls his eyes, which makes you laugh. "But you guys do sound pretty cute."

"It's been... really nice," you admit quietly, feeling your cheeks warm.

"I do have to say, though," Yunho says as you step outside into the cold air. "He is much more handsome than Mingi made him out to be. He left out the part about how intense his eyes are. And god, ____, how are you not afraid of that smile? I can't tell if it makes him look like an angel or the devil."

You let out a startled laugh, almost tripping over a crack in the walkway. "You talked to Mingi about him?"

"Obviously. You've been purposefully keeping me away from him. I had to do anything I could to make sure he was actually a good match for you," Yunho says matter-of-factly. "But he actually seems really nice. I respect him a lot for saying he wants to meet us. He wants to be a part of your life. I like that." 

Yunho stops walking, and you stop with him underneath the bare branches of an oak tree. He pulls you into a quick one-armed hug, resting his chin on the top of your head. "I like him," he decides firmly. "I'm so happy for you, ____." 

You shrug him away with a little embarrassed scowl. You drop your gaze to the frost-bitten sidewalk as you keep walking, shivering slightly and kicking at an imaginary chunk of ice on the concrete. "I guess," you murmur. "Yeah. I... I like him. I'm... I'm really happy too, Yunho."

"You look happy," Yunho agrees, laughing at your flustered face. He studies your profile as you walk, his eyes scanning your features before dropping to your neck. "Less marked up, too. Has he calmed down since that first night?" 

"Yunho!" you screech, ripping your arm away from his and slapping his shoulder as hard as you can through his coat. "Why would you ask that?"

He throws his head back and laughs, dodging your attempts to hit him again. "Hey, it's okay to talk about this stuff!" he says through his laughter. With his ridiculous height advantage, it takes him barely any effort to catch both of your flailing wrists in one hand and give them a playful shake. "You have no idea how many conversations San and I have had about how surprised he is that Mingi's a bottom—"

"Yunho!" you shriek, your eyes going wide as you rip your hands out of his grasp to cover your burning ears. "I do not need to know that!"

He loses it, cackling so hard he has to bend over and clutch his stomach. "Okay, okay! Fine!" he concedes as he manages to catch his breath. "But seriously, you don't ever need to be embarrassed about this stuff. Especially not with me. You guys are adults. You have sex. It's normal."

"I guess," you mumble, staring down at the scuff marks on the toes of your shoes. You yank the collar of your coat up a little higher around your chin, trying to hide your flushed cheeks from him. "But..."

You trail off, and Yunho immediately senses the shift. He slows his long strides, dipping his head down to duck into your line of sight, trying to catch your stubbornly averted eyes.

"What?" he asks, watching your shoulders tense and putting the pieces together. "Have you guys... not?"

You swallow and wordlessly shake your head.

Yunho blinks, surprised. "Not since that first night?"

You keep your eyes glued to the sidewalk.

Despite the wonderful shift in your relationship over the past week, you and Hongjoong haven't actually slept together since the night you confessed.

It's not that you mind the slower pace, exactly. You've loved every second of just talking with him, absorbing every detail about his present, his past, and what he wants his future to be. But you also can't deny that Hongjoong is an insanely attractive man, and that being around him every single day has left you perpetually needy for more. 

All those nights in the passenger seat of his car, all those afternoons supposedly studying in his room—they always led to making out. Breathless, desperate making out that leaves your lips bruised and your head spinning with desire. You can see it in his eyes, too: his gaze turns a shade darker, his jaw clenches, his breathing turns shallow, and his hands grip your waist tighter, but right when the tension peaks, right when you feel like he's about to take things further—he pulls back.

He swallows hard, takes a shuddering breath, and rests his forehead against yours with his eyes squeezed shut. And then, with that thick, raspy voice, he loosens his grip, presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and gently changes the subject.

And you have no idea why.

"Are you both too scared to initiate?" Yunho asks, his footsteps slowing to match yours.

You offer a helpless shrug as you bury your cold hands into your coat pockets. "Maybe. I know I am. I don't want to mess up what we have going right now, but..."

He studies you for a long moment before asking: "How rough was it?"

You whip your head to stare at him. "Huh?"

"I'm just saying, I get a vibe from him," Yunho continues. "And that vibe is telling me that beneath that cozy sweater, he might be a lot more... intense than Mingi and I originally suspected."

"Why are you and Mingi suspecting things in the first place?" you hiss, looking around to make sure no passing students are eavesdropping. 

"Because, like I said, you refuse to tell me anything, and we're curious!" he shoots back shamelessly. "Anyway, focus. Did he hurt you last time? Because if he was really rough with you, he might be overthinking it. You know, scared of accidentally hurting you again, especially now that you guys are together."

"No," you say quickly, heat rushing to your face as the memories of that night flash through your mind. "He didn't hurt me. But, um..." You swallow, nervously picking at the cuff of your coat sleeve. "It was pretty... yeah. It was a lot."

Yunho nods, and to your surprise, he doesn't tease you. "Then maybe you really do need to be the one to initiate it. Think about it. That first night was pretty emotionally charged, right? You guys had just confessed to each other, and he was already jealous seeing you come home from a date with his best friend. If he lost control a little, he might be getting in his own head now, thinking he scared you off."

"But I told him I liked it," you argue weakly, your face burning.

"Yeah, but if you haven't realized by now, guys are stupid, ____. He's probably still overthinking every move he makes with you, trying to be a respectful boyfriend. He probably doesn't want sex to complicate or ruin this little honeymoon phase you guys are in," he reasons, allowing his advice to sink in. "I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll fuck you in no time."

"Please lower your voice," you hiss, hiding your face in your hands as you try to speedwalk ahead of him.

His laughter echoes across the busy quad as he jogs a few steps to catch up with you. "You'll get more comfortable talking about sex the more you have it, trust me."

"Okay, well, check back with me in a year, and maybe I'll consider giving you a thumbs up," you mumble from behind your fingers.

"Sure, sure. Go at your own pace," Yunho beams, slinging a comforting arm over your shoulders as the two of you continue the walk toward his building. He flashes you one last grin. "But just a heads up: if you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start." 

The library is surprisingly busy for five o'clock on a Thursday evening.

Normally, the first floor is relatively empty by now, save for a handful of students unfortunate enough to land Friday classes during registration. For most of campus, however, Thursday marks the unofficial kickoff of the weekend. Typically, by this time, people are already starting to migrate towards sticky frat basements, crowded bars, and cramped dorms packed with cheap takeout and pre-game liquor.

Tonight, though, nearly every seat in the library is occupied. 

Students sit barricaded behind laptops and towering stacks of notes, while others jog through the sprawling lobby, balancing cardboard trays of espresso for study groups crammed into every available corner. 

You figure the timing isn't coincidental. Professor Choi's final exam announcement landed in your inbox only a few hours ago. Judging by the sea of stressed faces surrounding you, you're willing to bet nearly every other professor on campus had chosen today to send out the exact same announcement.

Everyone is scrambling, including you.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you follow the flow of students through the lobby. Everyone around you seems so focused, so determined to review material until it's burned into their brains that it makes you anxious. You've spent the entire week mentally checked out, adrift in a haze of your own making, incapable of stringing together a coherent academic thought for more than ten minutes. How exactly are you supposed to walk into a study room and suddenly become your usual productive self?

More importantly, how the hell are you supposed to focus with the cause of your problem sitting right across from you?

You pull out your phone to ask Hongjoong where he is, only to find three unread messages already waiting for you.

Joong: I'm in B1005 when you get here. Joong: It's in the basement. Joong: In case the B wasn't clear.

A tiny crease forms between your brows as you stare at the screen. B1005? You mentally rifle through your limited knowledge of the basement layout, trying to picture the room number. Though you have to admit that you don't spend much time down there, you could've sworn the study rooms maxed out at four.

Shaking off the confusion, you swipe his messages away and make your way toward the nearest stairwell. The basement of the library is notoriously silent, usually reserved exclusively for exhausted grad students and sleep-deprived undergrads desperate enough to pull an all-nighter before an exam. As you begin your descent, the silence becomes oppressive. You cringe with every step you take, wincing as the squeak of your rubber soles bounces off the concrete walls and echoes down the stairwell, likely disturbing every student on the floor.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you turn toward the bank of study rooms tucked against the far wall. They're lined up in a row, each one large enough to comfortably seat eight people around an old, creaky wooden table that's certainly seen better days, undoubtedly witnessing about thirty years' worth of academic meltdowns. You slow your pace, scanning the small metal plaques mounted beside the glass-paneled doors.

B1001. B1002. B1003. B1004.

Just as you suspected, that's where the sequence ends.

You linger there for a moment, leaning in to peer through the glass of each door, just to be sure, but Hongjoong is nowhere to be found.

Did you misread his text?

You pull back and sweep a glance around the basement's open floor plan instead, searching the labyrinth of desks and shadowy corners for any sign of him. Your gaze darts from face to face, and soon, a few of those faces begin to notice. A guy with neat braids and thick glasses snaps his head up from his laptop, giving you a pointed glare after your third lap. A few desks over, another one with a bleached-blonde buzzcut follows you with mild curiosity before returning to his notes.

Suddenly, your eyes snag on a movement inside B1003, locking you in unfortunate eye contact with one of the four girls studying together. She pauses mid-highlight to stare you down, sweeping a slow and critical look up and down your frame with piercingly blue eyes. You flash her an awkward, tight-lipped smile and immediately scurry away, ducking behind the nearest row of bookshelves to reopen your texts with Hongjoong.

You: Where are you? B1005 doesn't exist.

The gray typing bubble materializes instantly.

Joong: It does. Behind the shelves in the far left corner. Joong: I can come show you if you're lost.

You narrow your eyes at the screen.

You: No, I'll find you.

The message sends, and before he can offer any further commentary on your poor navigational skills, you start walking. You pass the main seating area and head deeper into the belly of the basement, venturing into a section you've never actually set foot in before. You're certainly no stranger to this building, but your time is almost always spent on the upper floors. For you, the basement was only ever a last resort during midterm season—the sad little corner you crawled into when you accidentally overslept and arrived to find every decent study spot on campus already claimed.

But this particular section seems as though it hasn't been touched by the presence of an actual human body in years. 

The organized rows of desks disappear, giving way to towering bookshelves packed incredibly close together. Overhead, the lights grow noticeably dimmer, their intermittent flickering becoming more and more frequent the further you venture. The shelves back here are older, probably the oldest in the whole library. You trail your fingertips along the cold, rusted edge of one as you walk, glancing at the faded labels: decades-old university records and bound archives covered in dust. The deeper you go, the quieter it becomes.

Eventually, the towering shelves begin to taper off, leading to a dead end against a dull cinderblock wall. You slow to a halt. There, tucked into the very back corner, exactly as Hongjoong promised, is a single, isolated door.

The little tarnished plaque next to it reads B1005.

Unlike the study rooms near the staircase, this door is plain wood, devoid of any windows or glass paneling—leaving you without any way to see who's inside. You stare at the handle apprehensively, praying Hongjoong is actually the one behind this door... or you're about to have yet another awkward interaction with a very stressed and likely hostile student. With a final glance at the plaque, you reach for the handle and slowly push the door open.

You immediately breathe a sigh of relief. 

Thankfully, Hongjoong is there, seated at the far side of the square table. At the click of the latch, his head snaps up, and a warm smile instantly crinkles his eyes.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi," you breathe back, stepping inside. The door shuts behind you, cutting off the faint rumbling of the library's HVAC system.

As you expected, he's already prepared to begin: his laptop sits open at the center of the table, flanked by a textbook to the side. One of his forearms rests casually over his stack of notebooks, while his collection of multicolored pens and highlighters is somehow even more organized than usual. 

You glance around as you step further inside. This study room is significantly smaller than the others. Instead of a long, rectangular eight-person table meant for large study groups, this one is square, built to seat four at most. A wide whiteboard spans across the wall behind Hongjoong, blank except for a thin ledge of black markers. Otherwise, the room is entirely empty. There are only two light fixtures hanging above, and one of them seems to be permanently burnt out, leaving the room half-washed in a dim, secluded glow. 

Yunho's parting words from earlier today slip uninvited into your mind: If you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start.

You swallow hard, setting your bag down on the table. You pull out the chair directly across from Hongjoong and sit, your eyes darting a little anxiously between the whiteboard, the empty corners of the room, and his patient smile.

"Why..." you start, your voice wavering slightly. You clear your throat. "Um... I've never been back here before. How did you even find this place?"

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. It pulls the fabric of the button-down he changed into at some point taut across his broad shoulders, briefly accentuating the hard lines beneath. You swallow and rip your eyes away before he catches you staring. "It's an old archival room," he explains. "I don't think most undergrads even know it exists since it's buried so deep in the stacks. I found it by accident at the beginning of the semester. Seonghwa threatened to throw my laptop out the window because he was sick of hearing my demos on repeat, so I had to find a more secluded place to work. Ever since then, this has been my go-to when I need to focus. No distractions."

You peer around the room, taking in the hairline cracks marring the cinderblock walls. "So you're serious about us focusing tonight." 

"Of course I am," he says. "The last thing I ever want to be is the reason your final goes poorly. I... I really like being your boyfriend, ____. But I'm still your tutor, too. It's my responsibility to make sure you do your best."

The rush of warmth in your chest is sweet enough to momentarily banish the anxiety of Yunho's teasing advice from your mind.

"And," Hongjoong continues, pulling his bag onto his lap and unzipping the main compartment before digging around loose sheets of music and tangled charging cords, "Before I forget. I stopped by the Yoons' on my way here."

He begins unloading a miniature feast onto the scarred tabletop: two rolls of kimbap, still warm enough to fog the plastic wrap, a bag of honey butter chips, and a couple of chilled canned drinks. He slides one of the rolls and a can across the table, an encouraging smile returning to his lips as it stops just inches from your hands. "Have whatever you want. Eat up, because we've got a long night ahead of us."

And then, just like that, the switch flips.

Hongjoong reaches for his textbook, thumbing through the pages until he finds the chapter he's looking for. You wait in silence, hands resting awkwardly in your lap, watching as his focus settles solely on the task at hand.

Without a word, he rises from the chair. He plucks one of the black dry-erase markers from the ledge and turns his back to you, facing the whiteboard. A moment later, lines of neat handwriting begin appearing in the top left corner, breaking down the evening's agenda into four bullet points: frequency indicators, the clausal connective 고 나서, 면서 (while -ing), and compound verbs. 

You wince at the squeak of the marker against the board, the only sound filling the room other than your own nervous breathing. Once he's finished, he snaps the cap back onto the marker and sets it aside. He turns back to the table, bracing one hand against the wood as he leans over his laptop, scrolling through a PDF of the course syllabus.

Watching him like this requires a conscious effort to swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. Focus looks unfairly good on him. The way his eyebrows are furrowed as he reads the syllabus is enough to make your pulse quicken. But before your thoughts can wander anywhere near the dangerous territory Yunho had mapped out for you earlier, Hongjoong speaks.

"According to the lesson plans for this week," he says, tracing a line down the PDF with one finger, "everyone was required to memorize the list of frequency indicators in Chapter 13. Correct?"

Pink floods your neck, rushing straight up to your cheeks as your mind goes blank.

What frequency indicators? 

"Um..." You force yourself to sit up a little straighter. "Yes. We were." 

Hongjoong finally lifts his head from the laptop. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and levels you with a long, assessing stare through the lenses. One eyebrow slowly rises.

"Good," he says after a beat. "Then we should be able to get through this first section pretty quickly."

You manage a tiny nod, but beneath the table, your fingers tighten around the fabric of your skirt. You don't have a single clue what he's talking about. Frequency indicators? Does that mean counting? Days of the week? Time expressions? Something else with numbers? 

Hongjoong flips the textbook forward, dragging his index finger down the page until it stops beneath the header of a bolded vocabulary list.

"Repeat after me, then translate," he says. "자주."

You blink, momentarily startled, but luckily, the sounds click into place in your mind. You recognize the word. "자주. Often," you answer, your voice gaining a fragile bit of confidence.

He offers a singular nod of approval. "Good." His finger slides down a millimeter. "Next. 매일."

The knot in your stomach loosens. This one is familiar, too; these are all previous vocabulary words. "매일. Every day."

Another nod. This time, you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, gone before it can fully form. But before you can get too comfortable, his finger stalls over a longer string of characters.

"한 번도 안."

Every ounce of your hard-won confidence drains from your limbs. You try dissecting the phrase in your head, separating the syllables, but he'd spoken too quickly for anything to stick cleanly. You caught the word 한—which means one—so maybe it translates to once?

"한... 한..." You trail off, the rest of the phrase escaping your memory. You swallow hard under his patient stare. "Can you... say it again? Slower, please?"

Hongjoong watches you over the rims of his glasses. After a beat, without comment, he complies, his pronunciation now slower and the syllables more elongated. "한 번도 안."

You nod quickly like that helps, rushing to mimic him before the sounds can slip away again. "한 변도 안."

He pauses, then shakes his head once. "번, not 변. Try it again."

Your tongue suddenly feels clumsy against your teeth as you force yourself to slow down. "한 번... 도 안."

"Good," he says. "Can you translate?"

You clear your throat, your glaring lack of certainty making your voice quieter. "Um... once? One time?"

Another small shake of his head. "The last word is 안," he says, tapping against the page. "What does 안 do to a verb?"

Your cheeks burn; this is a foundational rule, one of the first you ever learned. "It's the negation," you answer quietly.

"So do you want to rethink your translation?"

You slide your hands onto the table, twisting your fingers together, your nails pressing little crescent marks into your palms. "Not... once?"

"Right. It means never. More literally, not even once."

You nod quickly, embarrassed at the simple mistake. 

"Next one," Hongjoong continues, his finger shifting down to the next line. "한 달에 두 번."

This time, the words sound like absolute gibberish to your ears. You squint at the textbook, trying to read the phrase despite the fact that it's upside down. "Um... 한... 달에... 도 번?"

He lets out a quiet puff of air. "You said 도, but it's 두," he corrects calmly. "A rounded 'u' sound, not an 'o'. Say it one more time."

"한 달야에 두 번," you attempt quickly, trying to overcorrect the vowel. 

But his head shakes again. "Good, but you added a 'y' sound into 달에. You had it right the first time. Again."

You gulp, the heat in your face rising steadily. "한 달에..."

And just like that, the correct phrasing vanishes from your mind again. Your frustration peaks as you watch him gaze expectantly at you, waiting for your answer. Why did he have to change his shirt before coming here? What happened to the cozy sweater he'd been wearing this morning? His button-down is doing horrific things to your focus; his sleeves are rolled up high, exposing the veins in his forearms. Every time he takes a breath, the fabric shifts against his broad chest. It's an unfair disadvantage. Doesn't he realize he's making it impossible to focus on your vocabulary?

"Um... 한 달에 도 번," you mumble, feeling your tongue revert right back to your first mistake.

Hongjoong doesn't correct you this time. He studies you for a long moment, taking in the way your fingers are squeezed together on the table and how your cheeks are painted with an incriminating pink. Slowly, he leans back in his chair without breaking eye contact. 

"____," he says quietly. "Have you even looked at this list yet?" 

You nearly scoff, your first instinct screaming at you to lie, to swear up and down that you had studied and are simply having an off day—but looking into his eyes, you know he already knows the truth without you having to say a word.

"I... didn't really have time," you stammer, the excuse tasting bitter as you drop your gaze to your hands. "We were always—"

"Is having a boyfriend an excuse to neglect your assignments?"

You go still. Your head snaps back up. "Joong, we were together all—"

"As your tutor," he interrupts, not unkindly, but with a firmness that clamps your mouth shut, "it's my job to help you earn the best grade you're capable of. But I can't help you if you're not doing the work on your end when you're supposed to. At the end of the day, it's your GPA that'll suffer, not mine. You are the one responsible for putting forth your best effort."

You gulp as his scolding bites. He's never spoken to you like this before. But then again, he's never had a reason to. In all your past sessions, you'd been a model student: prepared, attentive, and ahead of schedule, with all your assignments completed and all your vocabulary words previewed a week in advance. Being on the receiving end of his disappointment feels wrong. Shameful. Humiliating. 

Hongjoong exhales slowly. The strict set of his mouth eases. "But... I'll let it slide this time," he says at last. "Not completing your work may not have been entirely your fault."

He picks up the same black dry-erase marker he'd used earlier and extends his hand across the table, offering it to you. 

You blink, your eyes darting from the marker up to his face. 

"Go up to the board," he says softly, a subtle tilt of his head gesturing behind him. "I'll say the phrase in Korean, and you write down what you hear. We'll use the whiteboard so we can erase mistakes quickly." 

Your mouth forms a small, involuntary pout. You bristle slightly at the blunt assumption that you're going to mess up; Hongjoong always has confidence in you. Usually, he trusts you. You sink back against your chair, resisting the urge to cross your arms. "What if I don't make any?"

Hongjoong's lips twitch into a smirk. "You know I believe in you. But you did just make three mistakes on the same phrase."

You let out a little huff through your nose, but you know he has you there. Resigned, you grab the marker from his hand, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as your fingers brush his. Standing up, you push your chair back and make your way over to the whiteboard.

You hear the scrape of wooden legs against the floor behind you as you uncap the marker. The sound draws your attention enough that you glance over your shoulder in time to watch Hongjoong circle the square table and slide into the seat you just vacated, positioning himself for a better view of the board. With one hand, he grabs the corner of the textbook and spins it toward himself. One ankle hooks over the opposite knee as he settles back in the chair.

"There are quite a few phrases, so start as close to the top as you can and write small," he instructs, his eyes lifting from the page to hold yours. "I want you to be able to see the entire list together once you're finished."

You give him a small nod and turn back to face the board, grateful for the excuse to put your back to him. Raising your arm, you position the tip near the upper corner and wait.

"We'll start with one you already know," his voice drifts from behind you. "자주."

The top of the whiteboard is deceptively higher than it looked from the table. To reach the space adjacent to Hongjoong's written agenda, you're forced to push yourself up onto your tiptoes. As your arm extends overhead, the unfortunate realization hits: your skirt. It's your favorite, a short, black pleated one that's a perfectly appropriate length for walking around campus, sitting in lectures, or grabbing a coffee between classes. But now, with the stretch of your torso, you can feel the hem creeping dangerously high.

You drop back onto your heels, your face warming as you discreetly tug it down with your free hand. You take a breath, try to adjust your posture, and reach back up, but the moment your weight shifts to your toes, the fabric slides right back up your thighs.

You press your lips together, determined to ignore the air hitting the backs of your legs and focus on the board. You scrawl the characters for 자주as fast as humanly possible, eager to finish and lower your arm before the situation becomes any more embarrassing. You don't know exactly how far your skirt has ridden up, but you know your sweater isn't long enough to cover anything. Thankfully, because of the cold weather, you're wearing tights—though, truth be told, they probably aren't doing much to mask the curve of your ass, given that the sheer material stops at the tops of your thighs, just below the hem of your panties.

You sink back onto your heels and stare at the ink on the board, your breathing now a little shallower than it had been a moment ago. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for confirmation that you'd spelled it correctly.

But Hongjoong isn't looking at what you wrote. He isn't looking at his textbook anymore, either. He's staring directly at your skirt, directly at the spot where the fabric had ridden up.

His facial expression is neutral at first glance, but his eyes are giving everything away. You recognize that look: it holds the same darkness that slips in just as his hands slide beneath your shirt, trailing up your back to hover over the clasp of your bra before he forces himself to pull away. You freeze as he bites down on his bottom lip, his pupils blown wide as his eyes devour the curve of your ass beneath the pleats.

His gaze crawls up your body, lingering over your waist, your chest, your neck, and finally, your eyes. 

"Correct."

His voice is rougher now. He leans deeper into the chair, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his arms tighten hard against his chest. But a second later, his eyes trail right back down the line of your body, right back to your legs.

"Add the translation next to it," he murmurs. "Remind me... what did 자주 mean again?"

The rush of heat blooming between your thighs makes you suck in a breath. You grip the marker tighter to keep your hands from trembling.

"O—often."

"Good," he says softly, his tongue pressing briefly against his bottom lip. "Write it down."

You swallow hard and turn back to the whiteboard, pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes once again.

This time, you feel it. With the high reach of your arm, the skirt rides up halfway, leaving your panties exposed to his view. Your hand trembles against the glossy surface, the marker stuttering as you force yourself to add the English translation beside the characters. You don't look back, but you can feel his gaze all the same.

"That's it," Hongjoong murmurs once you fall back on your heels. Your face is in flames. You don't dare turn around. When he falls into a long silence, you keep your eyes glued to the board, the marker slick against your sweaty palm as you wait.

"Next one," he says even lower. "일주일에 한 번쯤."

Your breath hitches. Why is he suddenly skipping ahead? He'd spoken so quietly that you barely caught the blur of the final syllables. Panic tangles with the heat already coursing through your veins. Gulping, you push yourself back up onto your toes, your skirt lifting to that dangerously illicit height once more. Under the pressure of his gaze, you take a guess, desperate to get something on the board quickly. Your hand shakes as you scrawl: 일주일에 한 번점.

The second you drop your arm, you hear the click of Hongjoong's tongue behind you.

"Incorrect." 

You drop back onto your heels, closing your eyes as embarrassment floods through you. The sting of getting the answer wrong is bad enough on its own; it's only magnified tenfold by the knowledge that his eyes were on you the whole time. 

His chair suddenly scrapes against the floor again. In a room this small, his footsteps seem amplified as he bridges the short distance between the table and the whiteboard. You keep your eyes locked stubbornly ahead, staring at the characters you've written as your pulse begins to climb. 

Hongjoong stops right behind you.

Slowly, he reaches past your shoulder. His arm traps you in, pinning you between his chest and the board itself. His rolled-up sleeve whispers against your hair as his fingers close around yours, gently easing the marker from your trembling hand.

Using the side of his thumb, he wipes away the final character you wrote, smudging the ink into a faint gray streak. He presses the marker back against the board, replacing your little mistake with the correct answer. 

"일주일에 한 번쯤," he murmurs, spoken so close to your ear that his breath fans against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "About once a week. You forgot the double consonant."

He caps the marker with a soft click. He lowers his arm casually enough that it could have been accidental, but the brush of his hand against your side feels anything but. His palm grazes the dip of your waist, slowly traveling lower. His fingers smooth the rumpled pleats of your skirt, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding over the contour of your ass and finally coming to a rest against the back of your thigh. 

A gasp slips free from your lips. Your fingers twitch, aching to turn around and press your body into his, craving more of his touch. 

Hongjoong tilts his head down, and you look up over your shoulder. Your eyes lock. Up close, his pupils are blown, transforming his eyes into twin pools of hungry, liquid black. His gaze drops to the breathless parting of your lips, and you freeze in place. 

He lifts his hand, using the cap of the marker to tap the whiteboard twice, right next to your temple.

"Focus on your vocabulary, ____," he murmurs, his voice a strictly whispered warning. "Not on your tutor."

Hongjoong straightens and withdraws his touch. You can only watch, trapped in a daze, as he circles the table and slides back into his chair, flipping to the next page of the textbook as if nothing happened, leaving you stranded at the board, burning alive. 

Your mind is reeling from his touch, and it shows on the board as you attempt to finish the rest of the list. Your hands fumble through the remaining phrases, leaving at least one glaring spelling mistake on each one. Every string of characters seems to disintegrate somewhere between your ears and the tip of the marker. Even with the foundational terms you'd aced on previous quizzes, double consonants disappear. Vowels end up in the wrong places. At one point, you even begin writing a character in Mandarin before frantically wiping it away with your sleeve. 

Yet through it all, Hongjoong doesn't get up to correct you again.

Your fingers shake as you squeeze the marker to finish the final phrase: 일 년에 두 번쯤. You stare at the completed list for a moment, frowning at how it slopes to the left halfway through, before stepping aside, leaving the board unobstructed for his evaluation.

Behind you, pages rustle as Hongjoong glances between the textbook and the whiteboard. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, rolling the marker over and over between your palms, waiting.

"Good," he finally says, the syllable clipped. "You can sit down now."

You quickly cap the marker and flee back to the table, sliding into the chair opposite him. You expect the tension inside you to finally dissipate, but the moment you dare to look at his face, you see how rigid his posture has become. He's staring down at the open textbook with his jaw clenched, and his fingers rest unmoving on the page without flipping it. His eyes aren't moving. He isn't even reading.

Your stomach plummets. Is he upset? Irritated at how unprepared you are for your own final exam, at how easily your brain turned to mush the second he touched you, at how he's had to coax every correct translation out of you like a child? He was right earlier—it's your own GPA on the line, not his. You shouldn't have crawled into bed the second you returned to your room after spending the night with him; you should have opened your laptop, made the time, and done the work.

You clear your throat, the noise dripping with shame. "I... I'm sorry," you begin quietly, your eyes cast down. "I know I should've studied more this week. I should've previewed the words on my own instead of making you waste time on the basics."

Hongjoong slowly reaches out and closes the textbook. He lifts his head, his hands flattening against the cover. 

"Do you really think that's why I'm..." he trails off and gulps, his voice betraying a shakiness you didn't expect. His eyes have gone even darker, the pupils so blown that they swallow up his irises, leaving only a thin ring of dark brown. "Do you even know what you do to me?" he whispers. "Hearing you stumble through those words, repeating after me... standing up there on your toes, and that skirt..." He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, but his gaze never wavers. "Every time... every single time I hear that sweet voice try to speak in Korean... I... I get hard, ____. Did you know that?" 

You suck in a breath. Your head shakes in a mindless, stunned negative, at a loss for words.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. "Every single time, since our very first session. I don't know why. It's just... it's you. Your voice. How hard you try. You have no idea... no idea what it feels like to sit across from you and have to watch you study."

You can only stare at him, your mind in complete and total shock. Is he serious? Is he telling the truth? Is this the reason why he looked so rigid, why his jaw was clenched to the point of pain? Because... because he's...

In the back of your mind, Yunho's voice echoes one last time, loud and clear: I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll...

Your eyes dart toward the door. There's no lock, but it's closed. The room is private and hidden away in the most forgotten corner of the library basement. No one is coming down here. Barely anyone even knows it exists. 

You want this. You want him. And looking at the hunger burning in Hongjoong's eyes, you know he wants it just as badly.

You don't say a word. 

Slowly, you slide out of your chair. Hongjoong's gaze tracks your body, his eyes widening in real-time as you disappear beneath the table. His breath catches loudly in his throat as you lower yourself to your knees on the floor between his legs. 

The cold tile of the floor seeps right through your tights, but you don't care. You reach out, the palms of your hands gliding over his pants, and rest them on his thighs. Had you tilted your head back, you know you'd find him staring straight down at you through the gap between his knees, but you keep your eyes locked on your own hands out of the fear that meeting his gaze would leave you too nervous to continue.

You slowly slide your palms up his thighs. Beneath your touch, his muscles are locked and trembling with anticipation.

The instant your fingertips brush over the bulge straining hard against the fly of his pants, he groans from above. 

It wasn't a lie. Hongjoong is hard. For your voice. For your effort. For you.

Your hands are trembling so fiercely that your fingers slip against the metal of his belt buckle. 

Hongjoong rushes to reach down without a word, his fingers brushing against yours. To your shock, his hands are shaking just as badly as yours are—if not more. He unbuckles the belt and drags his zipper down the moment it gives way, his eagerness making his breath shallow in the quiet of the study room.

Your lips part of their own volition as he frees his length, which is already fully erect and throbbing with blood. He wraps his fingers around the thick base, his palm sliding up in a slow stroke that leaves the tip glistening. Kneeling there, all you can do is watch, biting your lip at his girth.

You finally tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

He's staring down at you, his eyes glazed over with lust. His eyebrows are lowered, his mouth parted open as he continues to stroke his hand up and down his length, watching your wide, needy eyes. 

You can't resist it any longer; the look in his eyes makes you desperate to please him. Leaning forward, you press a hesitant, wet lick straight up the underside of his cock. 

Another deep groan rips from the back of his throat. He throws his head back, his free hand flying out to grip the edge of the table, the wood creaking above you. Emboldened by the sound, you lean in closer, tracing your tongue up one side, tasting the hot, salty warmth of him. His head snaps back down, his eyebrows knotting together like the pleasure is paining him to bear.

He shifts his hips forward, dragging his sensitive tip across your lower lip, leaving a slick bead of precum behind. Your mouth opens wider, silently inviting him inside. He taps the broad head against your tongue twice, letting out a sound eerily close to a whine. 

You close your lips around the tip, swirling your tongue in wet circles as you swallow down the first few inches. He's so thick, stretching your jaw so wide that it aches, but you somehow slide him deeper into your throat without gagging. 

"아, 씨..." he groans, his thighs locking as you begin to bob your head back and forth, hollowing your cheeks to work your tongue against him. "You have no idea... how much I've thought about you sucking me off under that table."

That table. The Language Center. 

His confession elicits a muffled moan from your throat right around his cock, and the vibration tears another stuttering whine from his chest. His hand reaches down to bury his fingers deep in your hair, his head falling back against the chair again as you press the flat of your tongue to the sensitive underside of the head. His hips jerk forward like he's fighting the urge to grab your head and ruthlessly fuck your throat.

"So... so good," he rasps, his hand pulling at the strands of your hair as your head bobs up and down, your tongue memorizing every vein. "Nice and slow... that's it..." 

Hongjoong sinks lower into the chair, his knees spreading wider to grant you unfettered access. But your slow pace is torturous. His hips begin to thrust gently against his will, guiding his length into the back of your throat—and somehow, your body relaxes, taking all of him.

"아, 씨... you're doing so well... taking my cock so deep..."

Slowly, the rhythm picks up. Your throat opens fully for him as his hips begin to roll faster, burying himself deeper and deeper with every tilt of his pelvis. The brutal stretch brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you don't even entertain the thought of pulling back. Pride blooms in your chest at the sound of his voice, broken and whining for you. You're making him feel so good, correcting every single mistake you made earlier.

He bucks his hips harder, burying himself to the hilt. Your throat constricts, and you gag around his thickness. 

Watching you choke on his cock only makes him groan louder. "____," he chokes out, his other hand coming down to tangle in your hair. "Don't stop."

He holds your head steady with both hands now as he rolls his hips deep into your throat. You can feel his cock beginning to throb against your tongue, pulsing with the onset of his orgasm. You moan around him, your hands gripping his trembling thighs as you realize he's seconds away from cumming down your throat.

"____... I—I'm gonna..."

Suddenly, his grip on your hair tightens, and Hongjoong yanks your head back. He gasps as the suction breaks, your warm, wet mouth ripped away from his length.

You gag one last time at the sudden release, your hand flying up to wipe a trailing slick of saliva from your lips. You squint up at him as you try to catch your breath, confused.

Why did he stop?

He's panting hard, staring down at you with a wild look in his eyes. His legs are still spread wide, his chest is heaving under his half-unbuttoned shirt, and his hard, glistening length is still twitching between his thighs, desperate for release.

"I... I shouldn't be letting you do this," he rasps out, his voice shaking as he chews hard on his lips. His eyes are locked onto your mouth, which is still coated in a shine of your spit and his own precum. "We... You need to focus. We came here to study for your exam." 

You stare up at him as his words echo in the cramped, heated space beneath the table.

Is he serious?

You glance down at his length, twitching just inches from your face, practically begging your mouth to close back around it, and then slowly drag your gaze back up to meet his blown-out eyes.

You wet your lips, your mouth still slick with his taste, and pout at him. "But you're the one who's been distracting me this whole time, Joong."

Hongjoong raises a single eyebrow, his grip in your hair tightening enough to tilt your head back further. "Is that so?"

"You were the one who just admitted you get hard watching me study."

Hongjoong's jaw tightens as he stares down at you. For a split second, you swear he's about to break—that he's about to wrap his hand around the back of your neck and shove his cock right back down your throat as his gaze drops to your wet lips. But then he squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them a moment later, his lust has been shoved behind a wall.

"I also said you need to focus," he murmurs. You watch in a daze as he slowly releases his grip on your hair, wipes a drop of his slick off your bottom lip with his thumb, and tucks his aching length back into his pants.

But you notice that he doesn't buckle his belt.

"Up," he says shortly, breaking eye contact as he reaches for something on the table above your head. "Do I need to remind you that you're going to fail your final if we can't stay focused for more than a few minutes? Get back in your chair."

You desperately want to stay exactly where you are, to drop your head back to his lap and finish what you started, but Hongjoong doesn't look down again. He's serious. Your face burns as you push yourself off the cold tile floor, and your knees are weak as you climb back into your seat, feeling ridiculous as you smooth down your skirt. 

Across from you, he tears two clean sheets of lined paper from his notebook and reopens the textbook. He begins aggressively jotting a column of English phrases down the left margin of one—every single frequency indicator from the list.

He slides the papers across the scarred wood, placing his black pen on top of the blank one with a shaky hand.

"Write the correct Korean phrase for each English translation," he instructs lowly.

You look down at the list, your stomach twisting. "Joong... I won't be able to. I don't know any of them." 

Hongjoong's stare darkens. "Do your best."

Swallowing hard, your fingers close around the barrel of the pen. You stare at the English words—often, every day, about once a week, rarely, sometimes—and your mind blanks. How could he expect you to take a practice quiz minutes after he'd had his dick halfway down your throat? Does he really think you'll be able to focus? You try to recall the syllables he coaxed out of you at the whiteboard, but everything that just happened has wiped your cognitive slate clean.

Your hand shakes as you press the pen to paper. It's a disaster. You manage to scribble down 자주 and 매일 correctly, but after that, you start guessing, butchering the spelling of every subsequent attempt, and ultimately leaving three of the harder expressions blank. 

And the worst part is that Hongjoong's eyes are on you the entire time. 

When you finally push the paper back across the table, you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Hongjoong flips the sheet around towards him. Without a word, he reaches over to his neat pile of supplies and selects a red pen. He uncaps it and begins to grade.

You sit in silence, forced to watch as the red ink bleeds onto the page.

Slash. A red line through your third answer.

Slash. Another one through the fourth.

With each new mark defacing the paper, your heart sinks further. You knew you did poorly, but watching him dissect your failure question by question is just plain humiliating.

When he reaches the bottom of the page, he caps the red pen and sets it down. His eyes stare down at the bloodied paper quietly, and you realize that despite the nature of what he's doing—grading his student's practice quiz—his eyes still haven't lost a single drop of their darkness. 

"There were thirteen questions," he says so quietly that it makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Would you like to guess how many you missed?"

Your cheeks flare. You wrap your arms around your own stomach, shrinking back into your chair. "Um... six?"

Hongjoong lets out a huff of laughter through his nose, though it's devoid of amusement.

"Ten," he corrects. "You missed ten."

Your heart sinks. Ten?

He leans back, his shoulders squaring as he crosses his arms over his chest. You can't tell what's going through his head, but his eyes have since clouded over with frustration.

"You know..." he begins, his gaze tracing over your flushed face, down to where your trembling hands clutch your stomach. "You're usually my best student. Your assignments are always done on time, your dialogues are submitted without flaw, and your quiz scores are always at the top of your class." He pauses. "But today... you're not the same student I've grown accustomed to tutoring."

You drop your gaze to the table, unable to bear the criticism. Hearing this from Professor Choi would've been easy to brush off. But coming from Hongjoong, it stings. 

"I'm disappointed, ____. This isn't your best. But you already know that, don't you?"

You manage a tiny nod, your eyes burning with the threat of tears as you keep them glued to the desk.

Hongjoong sighs. You sit perfectly still, waiting for the inevitable order to try again. To rewrite each phrase until your hand cramps and your spelling is flawless. 

Instead, he draws in a breath.

"Come here."

Your head snaps up so fast it hurts your neck, your eyes widening.

Hongjoong's expression is deadly serious. He doesn't offer any type of teasing smile, and he doesn't repeat himself. He sits there and waits expectantly.

On legs that feel like jelly, you shakily push yourself out of your chair. Your breath trembles in your throat as you step around the side of the table. When you reach him, he refuses to meet your eyes. He gives a small nod of his head toward the flat surface of the table.

"Bend over the table for me."

Your mouth drops open. You stare down at him, desperate for any sign of a joke, for a twitch of his lips that would give him away, but he isn't even looking at you anymore. He's staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.

He can't be serious. Why the hell would he need you to bend over? What exactly is going through his head? Your mind is racing, but he still doesn't repeat himself. Once again, he waits expectantly. 

Gulping down the lump of anxiety in your throat, you slowly turn. With your back to him, you stare at the whiteboard and lean forward, laying your chest flat against the surprisingly cool wood of the tabletop. Your trembling palms press down beside you, carelessly shoving the textbooks, pens, and uneaten snacks out of the way to make room for your torso. 

Hongjoong doesn't say a word, but the scrape of his chair tells you he's standing up.

A second later, you feel the feathering brush of his fingertips tracing along your waist, right where the dip of your spine curves over the table. Slowly, those fingers slide down the sides of your hips, trailing lower, mapping your shape, until they land just below the curve of your ass, right where the mesh of your tights meets your skin. He pauses, the pad of his thumb brushing along the raised seam.

"I like these," he murmurs. A shiver racks your frame. "They're pretty."

His warm palms glide further up the back of your thighs, gathering the rumpled pleats of your black skirt. He pushes the fabric fully up and out of his way, bunching it around your waist. Your legs begin to shake uncontrollably as you wait in blind anticipation. His hand glides over the lace of your panties, his touch maddeningly teasing. 

He rubs light circles over the thin fabric, and because the room is so deathly quiet, you can clearly hear the unevenness in his breath even though you can't see his face. His fingers slide down to the seams, hooking under the elastic. With a gentle tug, he pulls the fabric aside—not removing it, but shifting it just enough so that both your bare cheeks are exposed to the air of the room. His palm flattens over your bare skin, rubbing warmly against your shivering flesh.

"Since we're learning frequency indicators," he says calmly, his grip on your body tightening, "I'd like you to count for me."

You try to turn your head over your shoulder to look at him, to gauge his expression, but his firm hold on your hip makes it too awkward for your body to twist the right way.

"Count... count what?" you whisper, your voice shaking so badly the words barely clear your lips.

"You missed ten questions," he states simply. You feel his shadow shift to the side, the rustle of his clothing indicating he's stepping into a better position while his palm remains flat against your bare skin. "Hopefully, this will fix your focus as we continue. I think one spank per missed question sounds fair, don't you?"

You suck in a panicked breath, your lips parting to stutter out a protest—

Smack.

Before a word can escape, a sharp, blistering slap lands right across your bare cheek.

The loud crack of his palm against your skin echoes through the room. Your body jerks at the impact, your fingers frantically clawing forward to grip the far end of the wooden table to keep your balance. The struck skin instantly blooms with a throbbing heat.

"Joong..." you whisper, shocked, humiliated, and dizzy.

"Count."

Your chest heaves against the cold wood as you squeeze your eyes shut, choking out, "O—one."

He chuckles lowly from behind you. "Did you forget why we're here?" he asks, a mocking reprimand. "Count in Korean."

He spanks you again, his palm hitting the opposite cheek with even more force. The raw sting bites deeper this time, and a pathetic whimper tears out of your throat as your hips try to arch away from the pain.

"하… 하… 하나," you manage to whisper. One.

His hand returns to your burning skin, but this time, he rubs it in slow, soothing circles, chasing away the immediate sting of the strike. 

"Good," he murmurs, pulling his hand away. "Keep counting." 

His hand rises and falls again before your lungs can draw a full breath.

Smack.

"둘," you gasp out, your fingernails digging into the table as the heat sears across your skin. Two.

Smack.

"Ah—셋." Another soft whimper tears from your throat, and you hear him chuckle. Three.

Smack.

"넷..." your voice cracks down the middle. His strikes are relentlessly quick, leaving you no time to recover in the blistering seconds between them. Four.

You brace yourself, squeezing your eyes shut as you wait for the fifth impact, desperately trying to pull the next number to the forefront of your melting brain. But this mix of pain, humiliation, and burning arousal is turning your thoughts to mush. 

Smack.

You flinch, but the word is nowhere to be found in your mind. You're silent for a beat too long.

"You don't know?" Hongjoong asks. "This is basic counting, ____. Week one material. Do I need to start us over from the beginning?" 

"No!" you choke out, shaking your head against the table. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, forcing your brain to push through the fog until the vocabulary clicks. "다... 다섯! 다섯!" Five.

His palm settles onto your burning skin, but instead of another punishing strike, he gives you a little approving pat.

"Good girl."

But he doesn't let you linger in the dizzying relief of his praise for long.

Smack.

"Oh—여섯." Your hips begin to twitch under his hand, desperate to escape the sting. Six.

Smack.

"일곱," you whine, high and needy. You can feel your skin turning a bright, angry crimson beneath his touch. Seven.

Smack.

"여... 여덟..." Eight.

By the time the eighth word leaves your lips, you're tearing up, the wet hitch in your voice giving your limits away. From behind you, the rustle of his clothing signals another shift. The leather tip of his shoe hooks behind your ankle, nudging your leg outward to widen your stance as his hand flattens against your bare backside. His fingers rub the skin again, soothing the vicious throb of his own handiwork.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly.

You nod your head against the wood, your bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. You're not even sure if he can see the pathetic movement from where he stands, but at least he's allowing you a moment of comfort, letting the heat fade—

Smack.

His palm drives forward at a new angle, striking you between your thighs, right against your swollen, aching core. 

The blinding shock of it rips a loud, filthy moan from your lips, which echoes shamelessly off the walls. Your knees nearly buckle, your knuckles turning white as you clutch the table, paralyzed by the pure pleasure and pain crashing through your lower abdomen.

Hongjoong's thumb sweeps over the sensitive spot he just struck through your panties. You can hear the faint smirk in his voice as he whispers, "That feels better, huh?"

Your voice refuses to form a coherent word to answer him as you pant against the table. 

"Last one," he promises. "열."

Smack.

The tenth and final strike lands in the exact same spot, a sharp slap right against your core. A teary sob rips from your throat, melting instantly into a needy, drawn-out moan as your body arches into the blow, chasing the contact.

As your forehead drops against the wood, Hongjoong keeps his palms pressed against you, rubbing your skin tenderly. His thumbs work in slow circles to soothe the throbbing ache of his final strike. He lets you stay draped over the table to catch your breath for a quiet minute, listening intently to the only sound in the room: your soft, shaky sighs. 

Contrasting his earlier brutality, he gently hooks his fingers back under the elastic of your panties, pulling them carefully back into place to cover your reddening skin. He reaches down to gather your skirt, smoothing it neatly over your ass until your modesty is fully restored. 

Sensing that you're about to foolishly attempt to stand on your own weak legs, his hands wrap around your waist. He guides your torso up off the table, pulling your back flush against his chest. He holds you steady against him, letting you lean your full, exhausted weight into him as you try to stop shaking.

He tilts his head down, looking at your flushed, tear-stained reflection in the whiteboard. The pad of his thumb reaches up, brushing a tear away from your cheeks with beautiful tenderness.

"You did well, 자기야," he whispers against your ear. 

Hongjoong lowers himself back onto his chair, pulling your body along with him until you're sitting on his lap, resting on his right knee. You look at him through your damp lashes, your erratic breathing finally beginning to even out.

His arm reaches around your waist, holding you against him as the other slides a fresh, blank sheet of lined paper toward you alongside his black pen.

"Try again," he instructs softly, though his tone brooks no argument. 

Your mouth parts in disbelief. "Joong... I—I can't, I need..." The words die in your throat. Your face burns, mortified to confess aloud how desperately horny his discipline left you.

His eyes darken as he reads the helpless look on your face. His fingers reach up, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. "Do you remember the very first time we texted each other?" he asks quietly. "The night after I asked for your Instagram?"

You give a small, hesitant nod, wondering why on earth he's thinking of that right now.

"When I saw your story at that bar with your friends, I thought you looked absolutely beautiful. But for some reason, you didn't quite look like you." His hand lowers to your cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away a dried tear. "I thought for a long time about why that was. My mind drifted back to our session from earlier that day, and that's when it clicked: you looked so carefree in that picture. But not in the way that's right for you. Beautiful, yes, but mindless. That's not who you are."

His hand settles against your waist, pinning your hips into place on his thighs.

"You're not mindless," he murmurs. "You're disciplined. You're brilliant. You hold yourself to a high standard, and you're the hardest-working person I've ever met. That's the girl I admire. That's the girl I like."

You stare into his eyes as his words melt something inside you. 

"So I replied to your story to get your mind back on track," he continues, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You'd prefer an A in Korean over partying with your friends, wouldn't you?"

You nod immediately, captivated by his voice.

He chuckles. "But you were such a brat back then, trying to tell me that one night wouldn't hurt your grade. Weren't you?"

You nod again, an instinctive apology forming in your wide eyes, your lips parting to speak.

But Hongjoong shakes his head. "Don't say you're sorry. It didn't take much for you to come around. I remember realizing back then, at that moment, that I needed you. That you weren't just my pretty student with a cute voice and the same taste in music. You were the first person whose drive could match my own. The first person whose mind I really respected. You're exceptional, ____. You really are."

Your breath catches, tears welling in your eyes. 

"And if you let me," he murmurs, "I want to make sure you never settle for anything lesser than your best ever again. Not in the classroom, and certainly not in my lap." 

His hand moves down the curve of your thigh, his fingertips catching the tab of his zipper. Your eyes helplessly follow as he slides it down. 

"Do you want to know a secret?" he asks softly. "That night, the moment you called me Mr. Kim... I've never finished faster in my life."

He frees his thick, aching cock, which springs loose against his stomach, glistening and angry.

"Now, you're gonna stay focused for me, just like you promised back then, right?"

You nod quickly, your breath catching as your wide eyes dart between the fire in his gaze and the thickness between his thighs.

Hongjoong's lips curve.

"I'd expect nothing less."

Without warning, his hands clamp onto your waist, catching you by surprise as he lifts you, your back to his chest. His fingers sweep the soaked lace of your panties aside as he pulls your hips closer and lowers your body straight down, sinking you right onto his cock.

You moan as the slick, wet sound of him sliding deep into your drenched pussy fills the quiet study room. Hongjoong groans right against your ear as you sink all the way down, burying every inch of him fully inside you. His hands squeeze your hips so tightly that the bone aches, locking you in place and refusing to let you move or grind to find an ounce of relief. Deep inside you, you can feel the thick length of his cock pulsing, growing harder, and twitching non-stop against your stretched walls. 

"Pick up the pen," he whispers shakily into your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps cascading down your neck.

Your trembling fingers reach out, fumbling against the table until you manage to grab it.

"Try again," he commands lowly, his clothed chest expanding against your back. "Prove to me that you can do this. If you get every word correct... I'll give you what you want. A reward for focusing. How does that sound?"

Your whole body trembles at the overwhelming, tight fullness of him stretched inside you, your mind fighting to latch onto the vocabulary list while your core throbs around his stationary length. 

"Whenever you're ready," he whispers against your ear, sliding his handwritten column of English terms into your line of sight.

You swallow hard, forcing your blurry vision to lock onto the pale blue lines of the notebook paper. You have to focus. You have to block out the throbbing heat radiating from where your bodies are now joined. You have to ignore the maddening ache between your thighs, begging you to grind your hips against him.

With a shaky breath, you press the tip of the pen down and begin to write.

The first few phrases are rough, the ink wobbling with the tremor in your hands, but they're correct. You fix each spelling mistake that tripped you up just minutes prior. 

But unfortunately for you, Hongjoong didn't put you in his lap with the intention of making this easy. Just as your pen moves to the next line, his head tilts. His lips brush along the line of your jaw, trailing downward until his open mouth presses into the sensitive dip of your neck.

He sucks a dark, bruising mark into your skin, the swirl of his tongue dragging flat over your pulse point.

A gasp punches its way past your parted lips. Your hand jerks, the pen skittering close to crossing out your own work as your hips squirm. 

"Focus. Stay still," he murmurs against your flesh, his teeth grazing your collarbone as a warning.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your knuckles turning white around the pen. You refuse to disappoint him again. You refuse to disappoint yourself. You're going to get this right.

You open your eyes and continue to write. 

Every time his hands slide up your torso to cup your breasts through your sweater, you pull another vocabulary word from your brain. Every time his hips give a tiny twitch deep inside you—causing your drenched core to clench tight around him—you fight for control, carefully spelling out each phrase. 

When you finish the final character, all the strength drains from your arm. Your hand drops to the table, the pen rolling uselessly out of your limp fingers.

Hongjoong reaches around your waist, his hand sliding the paper out from under your palms. As he lifts it to read, the shift in his posture causes him to slide an inch deeper inside you. You drop your head back against his shoulder, unable to swallow a breathless whine as you feel your own wetness trickle down his length. 

Above you, Hongjoong lets out a groan of his own. You look up at his face: his jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck popping, but as his eyes scan your handwriting, a slow smirk spreads across his lips.

"You really wanted your reward, didn't you?" he rasps with barely restrained lust as he drops the paper back onto the table. His eyes are burning with pride as he looks down at you. "A perfect score. 잘했어, 자기야."

And with that, the very last shred of Hongjoong's restraint is gone. 

His hands clamp down hard on your ass under your skirt, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he lifts you just an inch, only to slam your hips back down onto his hard length. A loud moan rips from your throat as his hips begin to buck upward over and over, burying himself to the hilt with a driving force that makes you cry out in shock.

"Yes—Joong, yes," you gasp, wrapping your arms backward around his neck, clinging to his shoulders to keep yourself upright as he sets a desperate pace. Beneath you, the wooden chair creaks, straining under the shifting weight of your combined bodies.

As you bounce helplessly on his lap, unable to control yourself, his hands slide under the hem of your sweater. He pulls your breasts out of the cups of your bra, rolling your sensitive nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing a sobbing moan against his ear.

He thrusts up inside you, his thumbs flicking your peaks in time with his hips. "Look at you," he rasps, full of pure lust and pride. "So desperate for your reward, huh?"

Dizziness begins to wash through your head in waves. You can feel yourself starting to sink, your arms growing far too weak to hold your torso upright anymore. Sensing you melting against him, Hongjoong drops his hands from your chest and grabs your waist tightly, yanking you straight up and off his hard length.