20 !!

it wasn’t just the way his glasses framed his sharp eyes or how his uniform was always neat and crisp—there was something about the way he carried himself. always poised, always in control. he never spoke unless necessary, always focused, always serious. but you wanted to see what would happen if that composure cracked, if you could be the one to make it happen.

so when you were paired with him in the back of the class, you saw an opportunity.

jake, as usual, was immersed in his notes, his hand moving effortlessly across the page. the slight furrow in his brow only made him more attractive, and as he adjusted his glasses, you couldn’t help but let your eyes linger on the veins lining his forearms.

your hand moved before you even thought it through. slowly, you traced your fingers along his thigh under the desk, light enough to seem accidental. but when his muscles tensed, you knew he felt it. he inhaled sharply, his pen halting mid-word.

"jake, can you answer the next question?" the teacher’s voice rang out, and you felt his body stiffen even more.

he coughed lightly, struggling to compose himself. "y-yes," he stammered, but you could hear the waver in his voice, see the way his grip tightened around his pen.

pressing further, you let your hand slide up, ghosting along his inner thigh. he flinched, his knee jerking slightly as he shot you a pleading glance. his pupils were blown wide, his breath coming a little heavier.

"the, uh—the answer is…" his voice cracked, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. "th-the treaty of… wait, no, i mean—"

"the treaty of westphalia?" the teacher prompted, raising a brow at his unusual hesitation.

jake clenched his jaw, nodding rapidly. "y-yeah. that."

"correct." the teacher moved on

leaning in slightly, you whispered against his ear, "you’re so easy to mess with, jake."

his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fists clenching around his pen as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded. he looked at you then, his eyes dark with something unreadable, his breath still uneven.

maybe this was just a game to you. but the way his knee still bounced, the way his fingers twitched, and the way his lips parted like he was struggling to find the right words told you one thing—

you had jake sim exactly where you wanted him.

the thrill of power coursed through you as you let your fingers graze the inside of his thigh again, this time slower, firmer. jake’s breath hitched, his hand clenching into a tight fist against his notebook. his knuckles turned white from the pressure, and you could see the subtle tremor in his fingers as he struggled to keep writing.

"jake?" the teacher called out again, forcing him back into the present.

his voice came out tight, restrained. "y-yes?"

"could you read the next passage for the class?"

his eyes flickered to you for a split second, desperation swimming in those dark irises. you merely smiled, feigning innocence as your fingers traced up just a little further. jake inhaled sharply before clearing his throat, attempting to steady himself.

his voice wavered as he began reading, each word more strained than the last. "d-during the… the late seventeenth…" he paused, taking a shallow breath, "century, the treaty of… of…"

his grip on the desk tightened, his leg pressing hard against yours as if seeking some sort of grounding. but you weren’t about to give him that. no, you wanted to see him unravel just a little bit more.

your hand moves with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing over the waistband of his trousers before slipping beneath, the warmth of his skin meeting your touch. the heavy bulge strains against the fabric, thick and pulsing beneath your palm as you press your fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating through the tight space. the pressure of his trousers makes it difficult to move freely, your grip slightly restricted, but that doesn’t stop you from stroking him, teasingly slow, feeling every twitch, every pulse of anticipation.

"o-oh my god…" jake exhales shakily, his breath catching in his throat as his adam’s apple bobs. his hands clutch the edge of the desk, knuckles paling as he fights to keep his composure. his eyes dart across the classroom, scanning every distracted student, every unsuspecting classmate, the fear of getting caught only amplifying the rush surging through his veins. his thighs tense beneath your touch, a subtle shiver running through him as he bites down on his lip, trying—desperately—to suppress the moan threatening to escape.

a soft chuckle escapes your lips, barely audible beneath the low hum of the classroom, but enough for jake to hear. his face is completely flushed, a deep shade of red creeping down his neck, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. his teeth sink harshly into his bottom lip, a desperate attempt to stifle any noise, but it does little to mask the way his body trembles under your touch.

his fingers clutch the book in front of him, knuckles white as he tries to focus, tries to read the passage again, but the words blur together. his voice falters, stuttering over syllables, a broken mess of consonants and vowels slipping from his lips. every time he attempts to regain control, another soft grunt escapes, betraying him. his thighs tense beneath the desk, muscles rigid as he grips the pages tighter, his frustration evident in the way his breath hitches with every subtle movement of your hand.

"are you okay, jake?" the teacher’s voice cuts through the air, making his entire body jolt. his eyes widen, panic flashing through them for a split second before he forces himself to respond.

"y-yea... oh—" his voice cracks, barely above a whisper as his throat bobs with a hard gulp. he clears his throat, trying to mask the tremor in his tone. "y-yeah... i'm fine."

but the way his legs twitch under the desk, the way his grip tightens on the book, and the way his breath comes out in short, uneven puffs say otherwise.

feeling the frustration build from the tight confines of his trousers, you act on impulse, fingers working swiftly to undo the button before dragging the zipper down, the metallic sound barely noticeable beneath the murmurs of the classroom. the moment his length is freed, the heat of him pulses against your palm, heavy and warm, twitching slightly as the cool air grazes his sensitive skin. the thought of being caught barely even crosses your mind—you don’t care. not when you’ve craved this for so long, not when the desire has been burning deep within you. nothing was going to stop you now.

jake sucks in a sharp breath, his entire body jolting at the sensation of your hand wrapping firmly around him, fingers molding to his shape as you squeeze just enough to make his head fall back slightly. before, the teasing strokes of your fingers were enough to make him twitch beneath the fabric, but now—now, feeling your entire hand around him, moving with slow, deliberate strokes—it was overwhelming. a strangled whine catches in his throat, his lips parting as his body betrays him, hips shifting ever so slightly into your touch.

his breath is unsteady, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow movements as he struggles to hold himself together. the words on the page in front of him are nothing but a blur, the letters dancing across his vision as his grip tightens on the book, knuckles paling under the pressure. he can’t do this. he can’t focus, can’t think, can’t even pretend like he’s remotely paying attention when every fiber of his being is drowning in the pleasure of your touch.

his voice is weak, barely above a whisper, but desperate nonetheless. "c-can someone...else read?" he stammers, the words tumbling out in a broken plea, his throat dry, his breathing labored.

the teacher barely spares him a glance before moving on, but jake doesn’t even register it—his mind is elsewhere, completely consumed by the way your hand works him under the desk, his entire body teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

"y/n... please... y/n," jake whimpers, his voice barely above a breath, breaking apart in desperate, hushed pleas. his head tilts downward, strands of his soft hair falling over his flushed face as he struggles to contain himself, his teeth sinking into his lower lip so hard it threatens to bruise. his grip on the desk is tight, fingers curled over the edge as if holding on for dear life, his knuckles turning stark white.

your strokes have become faster, firmer, the slick warmth of your palm working him with an unforgiving rhythm. his thighs tense beneath the desk, twitching under your touch, his body betraying him with every involuntary jerk of his hips. he’s barely keeping it together, every passing second pulling him deeper into the pleasure that coils hot in his stomach, threatening to consume him whole.

"you like it, baby?" you whisper, voice dripping with sultry amusement, your lips just close enough to his ear that he shudders. your gaze never wavers, locked onto him, watching the way his brows knit together, the way his lips part just enough for small, broken gasps to escape. the way his chest rises and falls in ragged breaths, completely at your mercy.

the sight alone sends a rush of heat straight between your legs, the throbbing ache only intensifying as you watch him fall apart beneath your touch. he looks so vulnerable, so beautifully ruined, his body begging for more even as he struggles to hold himself back. his hands tremble slightly as he grips the desk harder, trying so desperately to stay grounded, but it’s useless—you can feel just how close he is, how badly he needs you, how badly he wants to let go.

"aren't you a naughty boy, letting me please you in class, hm?" you murmur, your voice laced with teasing wickedness, each word dripping into his ears like honey. the way you say it, slow and sultry, only makes his body tense even more, a visible shiver running through him as he twitches in your grip. he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, knows how wrong it is—how risky—but the sheer thrill of it, the fear of being caught, only fuels the fire burning in his stomach.

"s-shit, y/n... please..." he whimpers, his voice trembling, barely able to form words as he shifts in his seat. his fingers dig into the edge of the desk, gripping it so hard his knuckles nearly lose color, his entire body fighting against the overwhelming pleasure crashing through him. his gaze flickers nervously around the room, scanning every classmate, every oblivious face, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. the paranoia of being watched, of someone noticing the way he's falling apart under your touch, only makes his pulse race faster.

a soft gasp escapes him as your thumb brushes over his tip, swirling in slow, torturous circles, smearing the precum that dribbles down his shaft. the sensation sends another shudder rippling through his body, his thighs clenching, his breath hitching as his head tilts back just slightly before he quickly regains himself. it’s too much, yet not enough—he craves more, needs more, but the restraint, the setting, the unbearable tension of it all, has him teetering on the edge of something dangerously euphoric.

his hips jerk forward without thought, unconsciously seeking more of your touch, chasing the pleasure you’re so cruelly drawing out of him. every stroke, every movement of your fingers, has him melting, his mind clouded with nothing but the intoxicating feeling of your hand wrapped around him. he’s losing himself in the moment, drowning in the sinful act you’ve trapped him in, and at this point, he doesn’t care—he just needs you to keep going.

“fuck... fuck... fuck—” he whined out, his voice breathy and desperate as he teetered on the edge of his high. his body trembled, muscles tensing before he finally let go, his release spilling over your fingers in thick, hot ropes, dripping down onto the cold, unforgiving floor of the classroom. the sharp contrast between the heat of his pleasure and the chill of the abandoned space sent another shudder through him.

your breath hitched at the sheer amount, watching as he kept coming, his body jerking with aftershocks, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation. his head tilted back against the desk, lips parted and glistening from where he'd bitten down, trying to muffle his moans. his lashes fluttered, struggling to stay open, but the pleasure was too much—his eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed, every inch of him consumed by the intensity rippling through his veins.

his chest rose and fell in uneven pants, the remnants of his climax still coating your hand, warm and slick. the scent of it lingered in the air, mixing with the faint chalk dust and worn wood scent of the classroom, a filthy contrast to the otherwise mundane setting. the only sounds now were his ragged breaths, the faint drip of his release hitting the floor, and the distant hum of the school’s air conditioning.

“please, what?” you whisper into his ear, gently biting on it. jake’s breath hitches at hearing your voice, so seductive and close to him, almost tickling him. his hands are fisted into the sheets, arms feeling like jelly and hardly holding him up.

“more, please touch me more,” he begs, looking up at you with his beautiful eyes. “i’ll do anything if you just give me more.”

you oblige, only to an extent, a sucker for when he looks at you like that. you slowly run your fingertips over his shoulders and down his arms. moving across his chest and briefly brushing past a nipple, jake arching into the touch with a tingle down his spine.

you attach your lips to his sensitive neck, lightly sucking on the skin so it leaves behind a hickey. jake starts panting out breaths, his eyes squeezing shut as he squirms in his spot, his cock bobbing uncontrollably. his moans are almost nonstop, raising in pitch the longer you suck.

“fuck me.” he huffs, becoming impatient with your teasing. he drops his head and reaches a hand down to between his legs, wanting relief from his aching hard-on.

you watch him and right before he could wrap his fingers around himself, you gently tug on the shirt around his neck. jake’s hand pauses in mid air and he gasps at the slight, sudden pressure on his throat.

you pull his head back, his brown eyes wide and blinking up at you, an apology already on the tip of his tongue. you speak before he can get his words out,

“did you ask if you could touch yourself?” you question, letting go of the shirt and opting to brush the wet strands of his hair sticking to his forehead. jake sighs at the touch, shaking his head no and resting his hand on his thigh.

“‘m sorry, i wasn’t thinking. i just want to feel good…” he whispers.

“needy puppy just couldn’t help himself, hm?” you tease instead. jake rapidly nods his head with a moan at being called his favorite pet-name. it draws your attention to his lips, wet from all the licking and damn near drooling he’s been doing and you can’t help but want to kiss them.

“mhm, just a dumb puppy when you touch me.” he agrees. you hum in agreement, guiding his head further back, his back curving to follow your movement. you lean down and press a quick kiss to his lips, jake eagerly chasing after you with a whine when you pull away. with a smirk, you kiss him again deeper this time, forcing his mouth open with your tongue.

he leans into the kiss, moaning into your mouth the angle making it slightly messy and wet. only parting ways to allow yourself to remove jake’s shirt fully, now bothersome to you as you want to reveal more of him. his whines from having your lips on his anymore quickly turn into whimpers as you latch yourself there, leaving more reddish-purple marks along the freshly exposed skin.

no matter how much the pleasure got though, jake refused to even attempt to touch himself again. instead he’d just buck into the air with a sweet cry, or the occasional shout when you bit just a little harder than he’s used to.

“please… can you please touch me there now?” jake whispers once he can’t stand it anymore, his cock red and hot from being denied for so long. the puddle larger than when you started from where he still leaks.

“touch you where love?” you ask just to wind him up more, peaking over his shoulder and watching as another bead of precum rolls down the tip when you softly pinch his nipple between your fingers.

“please, you know where. just touch me.” he frustratedly whines, thrusting his cock up into nothing, his way of saying what he wants. you smile and wrap an arm around his waist and run your fingers down it, softly grazing your fingernails up and down them. you feel as he tenses and shake every time you get closer to his cock and his breathing deepens, watching as your hands tease him.

“you mean here?” you ask, catching him off guard by suddenly grabbing his cock. using your thumb to rub over the wet and sensitive frenulum, causing jake’s breath to hitch and uncontrollably thrust his hips into the touch.

“yes, f-fuck yes!” jake practically cries. you laugh and stroke once just to watch jake’s face turn into one of pure bliss at finally getting what he wants, his brows furrowing before dropping his head from the intensity, loud moans pouring out.

you slowly stroke him, smoothly gliding over his cock with the copious amounts of precum that drip down it. you are sure to rub the sensitive tip with each stroke down, jake shuddering every time to your amusement. each stroke leaving behind obscene wet sounds that fill the room along with jakes’ filthy noises.

“is this what you wanted, hm? what you were begging me for?” you purr, already knowing the answer but just want to watch jake struggle to find his words. purposely stroking faster each time jake tries to speak, choking on his words.

“god yes, feels s-so good..” he manages to moan out, voice cracking towards the end of his sentence. you can only smirk at the broken reply, basking in the way that his body reacts to every little thing you do to him, the control you have over him.

his head cocks back towards you, landing on your shoulder once again on a particularly rough stroke, his eyes pressed shut in absolute bliss. “feels so good, please don’t stop..” he mindlessly chants, almost faint if he wasn’t right by your ear.

you look up and do a double-take at the mirror you recently bought, sitting in front of the bed. you look back at jake with an idea. gently, you take jake’s chin into your unoccupied hand and drop his head towards said mirror. the image is lewd, way his face looks, the way his lips are parted spilling out all kinds of sounds just for you. the sight leaves a throbbing feeling down below.

“look at yourself love. i’ve hardly done anything to you, yet you’re so ruined.” you murmur, watching him through the mirror.

jake’s eyes blink open, making eye contact with you through the mirror before his eyes find himself, taking the sight in. his hair tousled, face painted a lovely shade of pink, glistening from the sweat, and his cock that was leaking all over your hand and onto the bedsheets. he almost can’t believe his eyes, can’t believe that he can look so disheveled.

“’s too embarrassing…” he whines, shutting his eyes and shoving his face into the crook of your neck and hiding from himself. he can’t get the image of how he looked out of his head though, cock twitching in slight interest.

however, as soon as his eyes close, you stop touching him. he immediately whines against your skin, moving his hips in attempt to feel good again. to his dismay, you use your other hand to hold his hip in place in which jake huffs, “why’d you stop, please keep going.”

“i said look at yourself.” was your only reply, stern enough that it was all that needed to be said. jake whimpers before turning back towards the mirror, his breathing comes quick as looks at himself again.

“you’re so pretty jake… so good for me,” you whisper in his ear while making eye contact with him through the mirror. he shivers and his cock pulses at the praise. slowly, you wrap a hand around him and start stroking him again, keeping a teasing pace that you know will drive him mad. “don’t you agree, aren’t you pretty?” you question.

there was no fight when he nodded in agreement, “yes, so pretty for you,” he whines and his eyes start to flutter shut as the pleasure starts to build again from the compliment. you squeeze his cock in disapproval, earning a choked breath from jake.

“ah ah, keep those pretty eyes open for me,” you purr. his eyes fly open, immediately locking eyes with you in the reflection. “unless you want me to stop?” you finish quirking a brow, pausing your hand where it rests on the base of his cock and squeezing it.

“no, no please keep going. i won’t close my eyes, promise.” he pleads, eyes watery and hips trying to chase the pleasure he was feeling. you hum and hold him to his word and also keeping your word and stopping if his eyes start to flutter.

“good boy, you’re doing great.” you praise, bringing your other hand up from his waist, up his stomach, to his chest where you fondle his perked nipples.

jake loudly gasp, the touch bringing him to the edge and he immediately starts sighing out a string of apologies. you didn’t understand what for until you feel his body tense up and warmth as he cums all over your hand.

“’m sorry, ‘m s-sorry, i didn’t mean to cum…” he babbles after he starts to come down, his head to fuzzy after such a strong orgasm. you examine his face in the mirror where you find his eyes closed, lashes wet from the tears that lined them.

“cumming without permission and closing your eyes…” you tsk. jake jumps coming, his head clearing enough for him to realize his eyes were in fact closed and opening them to the displeased look on your face. before he can begin apologizing clearly, you stroke his sensitive cock with no remorse. jake yelps, twisting his body in an attempt an escape the intense overstimulation.

“wait- p-please ‘m sorry… please.” he chokes out between moans, moans that settle between pain and pleasure and he’s not sure which to fall into. the sensitivity is almost too much, fresh tears spring to his eyes and falling against his flush cheeks.

“you just couldn’t help yourself? is that what you’re going to say?” you mock, bringing both hands onto him and ruthlessly bringing him towards another orgasm. as much as jake wanted his body to run away it, he was chasing it, wanting to keep feeling good. so good.

“i- i couldn’t. it felt too good, you’re too good…” he cries. the pain turning to desire as he starts to move his hips. desperately, he fucks into your hands and you don’t even have move them, using your fists to his hearts content.

“’s too much, too much … fuck.” he whimpers aimlessly, words slurring together. he’s so far gone in arousal, he doesn’t even realize he’s the one moving, movements getting sloppier as he gets closer to cumming. his eyes glued shut and his fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh, lips slick with saliva and red as he keeps biting down on them.

you can’t help but to take it all in, how good he looks completely ruined from your hands. how noisy he gets whenever he feels too good. you shift into a more comfortable position as your shorts have gotten progressively wetter as you watch jake wreck himself.

“i-i think ‘m gonna cum..” jake pants, looking at you for approval. he just looks so pretty, a complete mess from a little handjob that you can’t bring yourself to deny him. he’s trembling, using everything he has to hold back his orgasm until you give him permission, how cute.

“cum for me,” you whisper. jake preens and whispers small thank you’s, driving his cock into your grip. his breathing is almost erratic as his orgasm builds to the peak. drawling out praises in his ear, leading him on.

“fuck, i’m gonna - i’m cummi-” he announces, before hiccuping on his words. his whole body quivering as he cums for the second time, more intense than the first. he thrusts his hips roughly into your hands, spraying hot cum everywhere. endless moans streaming out as he rides out his orgasm.

he eventually comes back down, hissing when he pulls his cock from your fists, his breathing slow but heavy and his hands finally releases his clutch on his thigh. he left behind little fingernail imprints from how hard he held on. he swallows, mouth dry from the nonstop noises and opens his eyes to look at you with a dopey smile on his face.

“i don’t know how you always manage to fuck me up like that…” he says with so much admiration in his puppy eyes.

you laugh, pressing a kiss to his sweaty temple. jake contentedly hums, pressing his weight against your chest, getting comfortable and you know that you’re going to be here a while.

© lucidwntrr est. 2025 - please do not steal, repost, or copy !

“please, please, please.”

it’s the only phrase jake seems to be able to get out, because he’s uttered it twelve times within the past five minutes alone. it’s hard for him to say anything else when your hand is moving so painfully slow that he has to blink back tears.

“you can take it, baby. ask for it nicely and i pinky promise i’ll let you cum.”

jake’s stomach tenses, his fingers gripping his shirt to the point the fabric wrinkles. he’s been holding it above his navel for the past fifteen minutes while your hand moves up and down on his slick cock. it’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so good—

“fuck, fuck, mommy—‘m gonna cum!” he squeaks out, the name falling naturally from his swollen lips. it’s so natural, in fact, that it makes him freeze. he opens his teary eyes to meet yours, but you’re already grinning in that way that tells him he’s fucked.

“mommy?”

“shut up,” he groans, tipping his head back against the headboard. your laugh makes his spine tingle and a rush of heat travel its way from his stomach to his cock. it twitches in your hand, oozing precum to make the slide easier on your hand. “please, just… keep going.”

“ask me nicely.”

“i did—“ jake knows arguing gets him nowhere. he sighs, his lips curling downward into a frown. jake pushes his hips forward into your hand, licking his lips. “please, let me cum. i’ll be real good, i promise.” his voice cracks halfway and you know he’s two strokes away from finishing.

“no, do it like before.” his brows kiss together in confusion while his glassy eyes search for some sort of meaning to it in your face. “c’mon. call me mommy.”

his cheeks were previously a pale pink shade from the heat rising in his body, but now they’d become a vibrant shade of red. he opens and closes his mouth like a fish before pressing his lips together tightly and whining. “you can’t be serious—f-fuck!”

“dead serious. go on, jakey.”

he knows you take pleasure in his embarrassment. who wouldn’t with the way the flush spreads to his ears, his lips purse together, and his eyes look at you like he’s pleading for mercy. he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as if it were trying to show off all the hickey’s you’d left on and around it.

“… don’t make me, baby.” he whispered it so softly, so sweetly, that you almost consider giving in.

but where’s the fun in that?

“i can do this all day, baby. can you?” his lips part to let out a strained moan when your hand speeds up. the slick noises of his cock are so audible it brings him shame. his head hangs, forcing him to watch as his abs contract violently from the pleasure and his cock bobs like its trying to escape your hand.

“baby, ple… oh, fuck.” jake’s head tips back and his brows pinch together. he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s trying not to give in. “fuck, just…”

your hand slows to almost a stop, making him groan in frustration. how can you be so cruel? he wants it so bad, so bad the tears in his eyes collect at his waterline. oh, this is the best part—his lips begin to curve downward into a frown like it’ll help him hold back tears any better, the bottom one trembling. he sniffles once, twice, then whimpers. as if on cue, the tears fly down his rosy cheeks. some drip straight down to soak his shirt, others follow the route down his chin and to his neck. he’s so pretty you almost let him finish.

almost. your hand resumes its previous speed. he resumes his previous babbling. “please, i cant, i cant, i—oh, shit.”

“it’s only one word, ikeu. you can do it, can’t you?” the encouragement along with the pure need vibrating through his body is enough to make him nod dumbly, his nose tip reddening like a bunny.

“mommy, please. please, please, lemme cum, ‘m so good—fuck, fuck, oh!” he gasps, almost doubling over when you don’t stop. his hand grips your wrist so hard it might leave bruises. after all, he’s just a big strong man who lets you dumb him down.

“‘s so good… mmm—‘m gonna cum. please, can i? f-fuck!” his words are starting to slur together, his saliva pooling at the tip of his tongue. his eyes shut tightly, his hand leaving your wrist to grip the sheets.

“go ahead, baby.” it’s all he needs to hear to spill over your hand.

“mo-mommy, fuck—!” his cum dribbles over his slit, running down the side of his cock and onto the back of your hand. it happens so quickly, he doesn’t know when it started. a loud moan escapes him involuntarily, his jaw goes slack, and his head lolls back against the headboard. he doesn’t have much to give, but he gives all that he has.

he pants, his shaky hand reaching out to weakly grip yours. it’s a complete turn around from his earlier grip, like he’s now tamed. “s-stop, no more…”

“you can give me another.”

jake blinks dazedly. he’s in for a treat, isn’t he?

a/n: blair where were you!!! you all cry out in unison… i Was schooling. and then i lost the energy to write. and then bts went on tour and im ovulating… ALSO im not a mommy kink person but for some reason sub ikeu w a mommy kink speaks to me. originally i wrote this for jungkook so ntm… Jungkook i miss u.

did anyone else see that one sub!koo tiktok…. no? Ok!

You unlocked the front door. 

And as soon as you knew it, Jake’s lips were on you. 

“[Name]” he whines into the kiss, pulling apart and looking at you with his lovesick eyes, “Missed you so bad, thought about you all day.”

You then nipped on his neck, hands roaming under his shirt. He was sweaty from dance practice, slightly out of breath. You love that though, makes him whine into your heated makeout sessions.

“Did you baby?” he nods as he swallows as you play with the drawstrings of his sweatpants, staring up right into his eyes. He was already hard, of course. 

“So much..” and you knew it, when his words came out more choked. When his breathing became unstable. He never lost control, always waiting for you to make the first move, and you loved that.

Today it was amplified, as if his whole body was submitting to you, not holding back, just waiting for you to do something about his ‘problem’. Maybe it was because he had no strength at all after the ruthless practice hours.

And you put his needy state to advantage. It was addicting.

Your knees rubbing against the hardness between his legs as he was planted under you on the bed. You glance at the glistening sweat on his adams apple as it bobbed , he looked hot this way, nervous for how much you were teasing him.

He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder as you kissed his neck, biting softly. 

“Ah-” 

“Just.. need you. Please.”

You chuckled, the low and sultry, made his heart stammer. Your fingers threaded through his sweaty hair, nails soothing his scalp. “I know, Yunie. I’ve got you.”

He let out a groan at the ‘Yunie’. He absolutely loved that nickname. He grinded against your knees, seeking the touch that you were so cruelly holding back.

“Mm, so needy already?” you spread his legs further with your knees, hands roaming under his shirt once again, grazing his hardened peaks. 

He was. So sensitive there.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth, and exhaled with a curse. The sound music to your ears, you slid his shirt right off, he complied. 

Then your mouth was on his nipples immediately, hands messily  fumbling with his sweatpants. He immediately lifted his hips with a whine to slide them off, just till the midst of his thighs. 

Boxers now visible. Hardness on display. 

You rubbed his boner through his boxers, earning a soft gasp. 

“Yunie~ wanna try something new on you baby.”

He looked up at you, eyes widening with lust and a tinge of apprehension. 

"New?" he breathed, his voice was a shaky whisper. 

"What... what is it?"

-

Compliance. 

The silk was soft against his wrists, the knots unyielding. A matching strip of fabric covered his eyes, his world was absolute darkness. Every sound was amplified, the emotion of fear magnified by a thousand. The thrill of not knowing what was going to happen next. 

The rustle of the sheets, your soft breathing, it made the frantic hammering of his own heart worsen. He was already tied, laid out on the bed, naked and vulnerable.

The tease was just crazy. His fingers clutched the sheets with desperation as he thrust up into nothingness. One moment you were there, and then you weren't. He heard the soft click of the bedside drawer, his heart dropped, knowingly. 

In excitement? He wasn’t sure at this point.

This was completely new. And he couldn’t decide if he exactly hated or loved it. But would it really matter as long as you made him feel good? Truth was, he’s already deep into it, so down bad that he’d let you slap him for pleasure. 

"[Name]?" he breathed out in a question, your name a desperate plea.

You answered by lowering yourself onto his face.

The first touch of your heat against his mouth caught him off guard. Your hands on his chest as you balanced yourself.

He moaned into your pussy, making you groan at the vibration. Then he immediately set to work, his tongue delving into you with need. The fact that he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even touch you how he wanted to, made it so much better. He just had one purpose, to please you. 

But being tied up, no line of sight, wasn’t the best for him. Yeah, he truly couldn’t see anything that you were about to do to him. 

So you turned it on. A low, powerful buzz started directly against the head of his cock.

His entire body seized. A muffled scream tore from his throat as the intense pleasure shot through him as he jerked. You hadn’t touched his dick from the beginning till now, so the first ‘touch’ being the intense vibrations of the vibrator he always used on you, ruined him.

It made his tongue delve into your pussy, and you let out a soft gasp as you ran the toy up and down the shaft of his cock that now leaked pre-cum nonstop.

“Mmph–!”

You just hummed, deep satisfaction going through you as you dragged the toy to slowly circle the toy around his sensitive tip "You like it, Yunie? Like me playing with your dick while you eat me out?"

He simply moaned in response. Slightly high pitched, and you loved that.

His tall nose bridge brushed against your clit once in a while, you groaned every time it did. And it made him go crazy. 

The pleasure that was pushing him towards the edge with terrifying speed, made it hard to focus on eating you out. Despite that, you grinding on his nose only made him choke out a few whimpers. Every single nerve ending of his was on fire.

And as your legs trembled around his chest, so did his. The pressure coiling in his gut was unbearable. He was going to explode. He needed it so badly.

He whimpered, a high and desperate sound, trying to signal his impending release. You lifted off for a bit. 

He gasped, immediately whining your name. Sharp.

But no, you weren’t going to give him that pleasure, you lowered yourself again. He didn’t see it coming, obviously. He took in stuttering gasps as his tongue focused on flicking your clit. 

You were sure his face was a drooling, wet mess by now. 

Then you slowly turned your head around while still keeping the vibrator on his flush cock. His fingers shaking in the restraints, tears running down, masked by the blindfold.

A beautiful mess for you. 

At the edge of him nearing orgasm, you switched the vibrator off, and slowly lifted your hips.

The sudden lack of stimulation was a physical blow. He cried out in frustration, his hips bucking into empty air. His cock was throbbing and aching, beads of pre-cum dripping onto his stomach. 

It was simply torture, he fucking haaated it.

"What's wrong, Jakey?" you cooed, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "Did you need something?"

He glared up into the darkness of the blindfold, head falling backwards. His vision was hazy with unshed tears of desperation. "[Name].. please.."

"Please what?" you asked, grinding down slightly against his mouth.

"Let me..Just let me come..," he begged, his voice cracking. You giggled, it was cute to him, but also evil at the situation. You brought the toy back down, this time on a higher setting.

The highest, actually. 

It was crazy, you knew it, he used it on you before. 

His entire body was shaking, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He was making sounds he'd never made before, broken whimpers and crazy moans that were muffled by your pussy. 

And just as he was settling into the pain, you brought the toy down to his balls. It wasn’t too bad, until he felt your hand instead. Now you stroked him, fast and teasing. 

You spit on his aching cock, then went faster. You felt your own release nearing.

You were riding his face in earnest now, chasing your own release. 

"Right there… fuck, Yunie, f..faster"

Your moan sent a fresh wave of arousal through him. He was so hard it hurt, his balls drawn up tight. Your hand, your moans, how sweet you tasted, it all brought him to the edge.

"Please, baby, please.. please– please..” he babbled against your skin, his mind completely gone.

You lowered down completely on his face now, your body tensing as your orgasm crashed through you. He felt you clench and flutter against his tongue, and heard you cry out his name. 

The hottest thing he had ever experienced actually. Better than when you’re under him.

And as you came, you pressed the vibrator hard against his frenulum and held it there.

The orgasm ripped out of him. It wasn't gentle—at all. 

It was violent. He screamed against your core, his back bowing so sharply he thought he might even break at this point. His cock pulsed, spurt after spurt of hot cum painting his thighs, and your face. It went on and on, drawn out by the relentless buzzing of the toy. It felt like he was being turned inside out.

And you kept it on him, pretty boy could handle some overstimulation.

"Please," he whimpered, trying to squirm away. "Too much..Can't–"

You hips were now off his face and on his chest, pressing it down with your weight. The warmth of your wetness holding him down and the torture on his cock made his tears fall furthur.

“Fuck fuck fuck.. gonna cum–”

Then you took it off, earning a choked sob.

And when the chased pleasure was dying down. You put it back on.

Then off again.

Then on.

And off again, of course. You just liked hearing his sobs, his emotions, his whines. You had never seen him break apart in front of you like this. Or well, behind you. But regardless, it was addicting.

“Gonna cum for me again mm?” you didn’t even need to look back to know he was nodding frantically. The harsh breathing gave it away.

Then he came. Hard. 

“One more time Yunie~”

“Fuck-–”

draft off a request

long awaited sub yunie, i'm trying to finish all members before i work on the rest of the hee reqs !

AND- i just got a yaoi request too? i'm definitely writing it though because it genuinely caught me off guard like god i've never heard of that ship but sure (riize anton x hee??)

You unlocked the front door. 

And as soon as you knew it, Jake’s lips were on you. 

“[Name]” he whines into the kiss, pulling apart and looking at you with his lovesick eyes, “Missed you so bad, thought about you all day.”

You then nipped on his neck, hands roaming under his shirt. He was sweaty from dance practice, slightly out of breath. You love that though, makes him whine into your heated makeout sessions.

“Did you baby?” he nods as he swallows as you play with the drawstrings of his sweatpants, staring up right into his eyes. He was already hard, of course. 

“So much..” and you knew it, when his words came out more choked. When his breathing became unstable. He never lost control, always waiting for you to make the first move, and you loved that.

Today it was amplified, as if his whole body was submitting to you, not holding back, just waiting for you to do something about his ‘problem’. Maybe it was because he had no strength at all after the ruthless practice hours.

And you put his needy state to advantage. It was addicting.

Your knees rubbing against the hardness between his legs as he was planted under you on the bed. You glance at the glistening sweat on his adams apple as it bobbed , he looked hot this way, nervous for how much you were teasing him.

He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder as you kissed his neck, biting softly. 

“Ah-” 

“Just.. need you. Please.”

You chuckled, the low and sultry, made his heart stammer. Your fingers threaded through his sweaty hair, nails soothing his scalp. “I know, Yunie. I’ve got you.”

He let out a groan at the ‘Yunie’. He absolutely loved that nickname. He grinded against your knees, seeking the touch that you were so cruelly holding back.

“Mm, so needy already?” you spread his legs further with your knees, hands roaming under his shirt once again, grazing his hardened peaks. 

He was. So sensitive there.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth, and exhaled with a curse. The sound music to your ears, you slid his shirt right off, he complied. 

Then your mouth was on his nipples immediately, hands messily  fumbling with his sweatpants. He immediately lifted his hips with a whine to slide them off, just till the midst of his thighs. 

Boxers now visible. Hardness on display. 

You rubbed his boner through his boxers, earning a soft gasp. 

“Yunie~ wanna try something new on you baby.”

He looked up at you, eyes widening with lust and a tinge of apprehension. 

"New?" he breathed, his voice was a shaky whisper. 

"What... what is it?"

-

Compliance. 

The silk was soft against his wrists, the knots unyielding. A matching strip of fabric covered his eyes, his world was absolute darkness. Every sound was amplified, the emotion of fear magnified by a thousand. The thrill of not knowing what was going to happen next. 

The rustle of the sheets, your soft breathing, it made the frantic hammering of his own heart worsen. He was already tied, laid out on the bed, naked and vulnerable.

The tease was just crazy. His fingers clutched the sheets with desperation as he thrust up into nothingness. One moment you were there, and then you weren't. He heard the soft click of the bedside drawer, his heart dropped, knowingly. 

In excitement? He wasn’t sure at this point.

This was completely new. And he couldn’t decide if he exactly hated or loved it. But would it really matter as long as you made him feel good? Truth was, he’s already deep into it, so down bad that he’d let you slap him for pleasure. 

"[Name]?" he breathed out in a question, your name a desperate plea.

You answered by lowering yourself onto his face.

The first touch of your heat against his mouth caught him off guard. Your hands on his chest as you balanced yourself.

He moaned into your pussy, making you groan at the vibration. Then he immediately set to work, his tongue delving into you with need. The fact that he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even touch you how he wanted to, made it so much better. He just had one purpose, to please you. 

But being tied up, no line of sight, wasn’t the best for him. Yeah, he truly couldn’t see anything that you were about to do to him. 

So you turned it on. A low, powerful buzz started directly against the head of his cock.

His entire body seized. A muffled scream tore from his throat as the intense pleasure shot through him as he jerked. You hadn’t touched his dick from the beginning till now, so the first ‘touch’ being the intense vibrations of the vibrator he always used on you, ruined him.

It made his tongue delve into your pussy, and you let out a soft gasp as you ran the toy up and down the shaft of his cock that now leaked pre-cum nonstop.

“Mmph–!”

You just hummed, deep satisfaction going through you as you dragged the toy to slowly circle the toy around his sensitive tip "You like it, Yunie? Like me playing with your dick while you eat me out?"

He simply moaned in response. Slightly high pitched, and you loved that.

His tall nose bridge brushed against your clit once in a while, you groaned every time it did. And it made him go crazy. 

The pleasure that was pushing him towards the edge with terrifying speed, made it hard to focus on eating you out. Despite that, you grinding on his nose only made him choke out a few whimpers. Every single nerve ending of his was on fire.

And as your legs trembled around his chest, so did his. The pressure coiling in his gut was unbearable. He was going to explode. He needed it so badly.

He whimpered, a high and desperate sound, trying to signal his impending release. You lifted off for a bit. 

He gasped, immediately whining your name. Sharp.

But no, you weren’t going to give him that pleasure, you lowered yourself again. He didn’t see it coming, obviously. He took in stuttering gasps as his tongue focused on flicking your clit. 

You were sure his face was a drooling, wet mess by now. 

Then you slowly turned your head around while still keeping the vibrator on his flush cock. His fingers shaking in the restraints, tears running down, masked by the blindfold.

A beautiful mess for you. 

At the edge of him nearing orgasm, you switched the vibrator off, and slowly lifted your hips.

The sudden lack of stimulation was a physical blow. He cried out in frustration, his hips bucking into empty air. His cock was throbbing and aching, beads of pre-cum dripping onto his stomach. 

It was simply torture, he fucking haaated it.

"What's wrong, Jakey?" you cooed, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "Did you need something?"

He glared up into the darkness of the blindfold, head falling backwards. His vision was hazy with unshed tears of desperation. "[Name].. please.."

"Please what?" you asked, grinding down slightly against his mouth.

"Let me..Just let me come..," he begged, his voice cracking. You giggled, it was cute to him, but also evil at the situation. You brought the toy back down, this time on a higher setting.

The highest, actually. 

It was crazy, you knew it, he used it on you before. 

His entire body was shaking, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He was making sounds he'd never made before, broken whimpers and crazy moans that were muffled by your pussy. 

And just as he was settling into the pain, you brought the toy down to his balls. It wasn’t too bad, until he felt your hand instead. Now you stroked him, fast and teasing. 

You spit on his aching cock, then went faster. You felt your own release nearing.

You were riding his face in earnest now, chasing your own release. 

"Right there… fuck, Yunie, f..faster"

Your moan sent a fresh wave of arousal through him. He was so hard it hurt, his balls drawn up tight. Your hand, your moans, how sweet you tasted, it all brought him to the edge.

"Please, baby, please.. please– please..” he babbled against your skin, his mind completely gone.

You lowered down completely on his face now, your body tensing as your orgasm crashed through you. He felt you clench and flutter against his tongue, and heard you cry out his name. 

The hottest thing he had ever experienced actually. Better than when you’re under him.

And as you came, you pressed the vibrator hard against his frenulum and held it there.

The orgasm ripped out of him. It wasn't gentle—at all. 

It was violent. He screamed against your core, his back bowing so sharply he thought he might even break at this point. His cock pulsed, spurt after spurt of hot cum painting his thighs, and your face. It went on and on, drawn out by the relentless buzzing of the toy. It felt like he was being turned inside out.

And you kept it on him, pretty boy could handle some overstimulation.

"Please," he whimpered, trying to squirm away. "Too much..Can't–"

You hips were now off his face and on his chest, pressing it down with your weight. The warmth of your wetness holding him down and the torture on his cock made his tears fall furthur.

“Fuck fuck fuck.. gonna cum–”

Then you took it off, earning a choked sob.

And when the chased pleasure was dying down. You put it back on.

Then off again.

Then on.

And off again, of course. You just liked hearing his sobs, his emotions, his whines. You had never seen him break apart in front of you like this. Or well, behind you. But regardless, it was addicting.

“Gonna cum for me again mm?” you didn’t even need to look back to know he was nodding frantically. The harsh breathing gave it away.

Then he came. Hard. 

“One more time Yunie~”

“Fuck-–”

draft off a request

long awaited sub yunie, i'm trying to finish all members before i work on the rest of the hee reqs !

AND- i just got a yaoi request too? i'm definitely writing it though because it genuinely caught me off guard like god i've never heard of that ship but sure (riize anton x hee??)

You unlocked the front door. 

And as soon as you knew it, Jake’s lips were on you. 

“[Name]” he whines into the kiss, pulling apart and looking at you with his lovesick eyes, “Missed you so bad, thought about you all day.”

You then nipped on his neck, hands roaming under his shirt. He was sweaty from dance practice, slightly out of breath. You love that though, makes him whine into your heated makeout sessions.

“Did you baby?” he nods as he swallows as you play with the drawstrings of his sweatpants, staring up right into his eyes. He was already hard, of course. 

“So much..” and you knew it, when his words came out more choked. When his breathing became unstable. He never lost control, always waiting for you to make the first move, and you loved that.

Today it was amplified, as if his whole body was submitting to you, not holding back, just waiting for you to do something about his ‘problem’. Maybe it was because he had no strength at all after the ruthless practice hours.

And you put his needy state to advantage. It was addicting.

Your knees rubbing against the hardness between his legs as he was planted under you on the bed. You glance at the glistening sweat on his adams apple as it bobbed , he looked hot this way, nervous for how much you were teasing him.

He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder as you kissed his neck, biting softly. 

“Ah-” 

“Just.. need you. Please.”

You chuckled, the low and sultry, made his heart stammer. Your fingers threaded through his sweaty hair, nails soothing his scalp. “I know, Yunie. I’ve got you.”

He let out a groan at the ‘Yunie’. He absolutely loved that nickname. He grinded against your knees, seeking the touch that you were so cruelly holding back.

“Mm, so needy already?” you spread his legs further with your knees, hands roaming under his shirt once again, grazing his hardened peaks. 

He was. So sensitive there.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth, and exhaled with a curse. The sound music to your ears, you slid his shirt right off, he complied. 

Then your mouth was on his nipples immediately, hands messily  fumbling with his sweatpants. He immediately lifted his hips with a whine to slide them off, just till the midst of his thighs. 

Boxers now visible. Hardness on display. 

You rubbed his boner through his boxers, earning a soft gasp. 

“Yunie~ wanna try something new on you baby.”

He looked up at you, eyes widening with lust and a tinge of apprehension. 

"New?" he breathed, his voice was a shaky whisper. 

"What... what is it?"

-

Compliance. 

The silk was soft against his wrists, the knots unyielding. A matching strip of fabric covered his eyes, his world was absolute darkness. Every sound was amplified, the emotion of fear magnified by a thousand. The thrill of not knowing what was going to happen next. 

The rustle of the sheets, your soft breathing, it made the frantic hammering of his own heart worsen. He was already tied, laid out on the bed, naked and vulnerable.

The tease was just crazy. His fingers clutched the sheets with desperation as he thrust up into nothingness. One moment you were there, and then you weren't. He heard the soft click of the bedside drawer, his heart dropped, knowingly. 

In excitement? He wasn’t sure at this point.

This was completely new. And he couldn’t decide if he exactly hated or loved it. But would it really matter as long as you made him feel good? Truth was, he’s already deep into it, so down bad that he’d let you slap him for pleasure. 

"[Name]?" he breathed out in a question, your name a desperate plea.

You answered by lowering yourself onto his face.

The first touch of your heat against his mouth caught him off guard. Your hands on his chest as you balanced yourself.

He moaned into your pussy, making you groan at the vibration. Then he immediately set to work, his tongue delving into you with need. The fact that he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even touch you how he wanted to, made it so much better. He just had one purpose, to please you. 

But being tied up, no line of sight, wasn’t the best for him. Yeah, he truly couldn’t see anything that you were about to do to him. 

So you turned it on. A low, powerful buzz started directly against the head of his cock.

His entire body seized. A muffled scream tore from his throat as the intense pleasure shot through him as he jerked. You hadn’t touched his dick from the beginning till now, so the first ‘touch’ being the intense vibrations of the vibrator he always used on you, ruined him.

It made his tongue delve into your pussy, and you let out a soft gasp as you ran the toy up and down the shaft of his cock that now leaked pre-cum nonstop.

“Mmph–!”

You just hummed, deep satisfaction going through you as you dragged the toy to slowly circle the toy around his sensitive tip "You like it, Yunie? Like me playing with your dick while you eat me out?"

He simply moaned in response. Slightly high pitched, and you loved that.

His tall nose bridge brushed against your clit once in a while, you groaned every time it did. And it made him go crazy. 

The pleasure that was pushing him towards the edge with terrifying speed, made it hard to focus on eating you out. Despite that, you grinding on his nose only made him choke out a few whimpers. Every single nerve ending of his was on fire.

And as your legs trembled around his chest, so did his. The pressure coiling in his gut was unbearable. He was going to explode. He needed it so badly.

He whimpered, a high and desperate sound, trying to signal his impending release. You lifted off for a bit. 

He gasped, immediately whining your name. Sharp.

But no, you weren’t going to give him that pleasure, you lowered yourself again. He didn’t see it coming, obviously. He took in stuttering gasps as his tongue focused on flicking your clit. 

You were sure his face was a drooling, wet mess by now. 

Then you slowly turned your head around while still keeping the vibrator on his flush cock. His fingers shaking in the restraints, tears running down, masked by the blindfold.

A beautiful mess for you. 

At the edge of him nearing orgasm, you switched the vibrator off, and slowly lifted your hips.

The sudden lack of stimulation was a physical blow. He cried out in frustration, his hips bucking into empty air. His cock was throbbing and aching, beads of pre-cum dripping onto his stomach. 

It was simply torture, he fucking haaated it.

"What's wrong, Jakey?" you cooed, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "Did you need something?"

He glared up into the darkness of the blindfold, head falling backwards. His vision was hazy with unshed tears of desperation. "[Name].. please.."

"Please what?" you asked, grinding down slightly against his mouth.

"Let me..Just let me come..," he begged, his voice cracking. You giggled, it was cute to him, but also evil at the situation. You brought the toy back down, this time on a higher setting.

The highest, actually. 

It was crazy, you knew it, he used it on you before. 

His entire body was shaking, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He was making sounds he'd never made before, broken whimpers and crazy moans that were muffled by your pussy. 

And just as he was settling into the pain, you brought the toy down to his balls. It wasn’t too bad, until he felt your hand instead. Now you stroked him, fast and teasing. 

You spit on his aching cock, then went faster. You felt your own release nearing.

You were riding his face in earnest now, chasing your own release. 

"Right there… fuck, Yunie, f..faster"

Your moan sent a fresh wave of arousal through him. He was so hard it hurt, his balls drawn up tight. Your hand, your moans, how sweet you tasted, it all brought him to the edge.

"Please, baby, please.. please– please..” he babbled against your skin, his mind completely gone.

You lowered down completely on his face now, your body tensing as your orgasm crashed through you. He felt you clench and flutter against his tongue, and heard you cry out his name. 

The hottest thing he had ever experienced actually. Better than when you’re under him.

And as you came, you pressed the vibrator hard against his frenulum and held it there.

The orgasm ripped out of him. It wasn't gentle—at all. 

It was violent. He screamed against your core, his back bowing so sharply he thought he might even break at this point. His cock pulsed, spurt after spurt of hot cum painting his thighs, and your face. It went on and on, drawn out by the relentless buzzing of the toy. It felt like he was being turned inside out.

And you kept it on him, pretty boy could handle some overstimulation.

"Please," he whimpered, trying to squirm away. "Too much..Can't–"

You hips were now off his face and on his chest, pressing it down with your weight. The warmth of your wetness holding him down and the torture on his cock made his tears fall furthur.

“Fuck fuck fuck.. gonna cum–”

Then you took it off, earning a choked sob.

And when the chased pleasure was dying down. You put it back on.

Then off again.

Then on.

And off again, of course. You just liked hearing his sobs, his emotions, his whines. You had never seen him break apart in front of you like this. Or well, behind you. But regardless, it was addicting.

“Gonna cum for me again mm?” you didn’t even need to look back to know he was nodding frantically. The harsh breathing gave it away.

Then he came. Hard. 

“One more time Yunie~”

“Fuck-–”

draft off a request

long awaited sub yunie, i'm trying to finish all members before i work on the rest of the hee reqs !

AND- i just got a yaoi request too? i'm definitely writing it though because it genuinely caught me off guard like god i've never heard of that ship but sure (riize anton x hee??)

RULE ZERO: DO NOT RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP

When you were twelve, Jaeyun got you both grounded.

He had the brilliant idea of bringing a bottle of whiskey home — something one of his soccer teammates had stolen from his father’s cabinet and hadn’t known how to get away with now that it had been opened and already had a swig taken from it.

Jaeyun didn’t know why he decided to take charge of it, much less bring it home — he could have just let his teammate deal with it alone, for God’s sake. But perhaps because he liked the thrill of secretly carrying it and the astonishment in your eyes when he took it out of his backpack, he did bring it home. 

But the fact was — neither of you drank any of it, yet his brother — the Mr. Perfect, as you used to whisper in each other’s ears — had caught you with your hands on it, and in the end it didn’t matter.

You were grounded for four weeks. No phones, video games, or allowances. You were only allowed to go to school and straight back to your homes — Jaeyun having only the small detour of dropping you off before going to his. 

It made you miss the Seoul Annual International Book Fair. A major literary gathering with author events, book markets, and cultural programs that you had been looking forward to. 

Nerdy, he had told you, which only made your tears flow even harder, and he felt so bad about it that he gave you a voucher the next morning, a handmade thing that got you laughing when he handed it to you.

Jaeyun had never been much of an artsy type. The voucher was irregular, and his handwriting was so bad you could barely decipher the words free wish — but it was his way of trying, and so, you took it, promising you would use it well.

That was probably when it started: the first page of a guide he would never mean to write, on how not to ruin a friendship that felt bigger than him because as he watched you folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of your sweater like a keepsake, he had a sudden clarity that he would do anything not to lose you.

You never really used the voucher.

Eleven years into your friendship, you never once brought it up. 

Perhaps because Jaeyun always did everything for you, the voucher seemed useless. 

When you got asked for a date for the first time in your life, Jaeyun agreed to go shopping with you without much fanfare, although he despised every second of it. And when you called him afterwards, telling him to come over so you could rant about it, he once again was there without the voucher having even passed through your minds. He simply came and stayed there, listening to you, your backs side to side on the hardwood floor of your bedroom until the walls had turned orange and pink with the sunrise.

When you crashed your father’s car and called him crying, he asked where it had happened with his jacket already on and searching for his keys.

And when you moved out of the university dorms somewhere around your second semester, Jaeyun was carrying your boxes and luggage without you even glancing at his side. 

So it felt a bit weird now, seeing you pushing the little thing through the counter — its edges turned so yellow with the advance of the years that he could see it even in the bar’s reddish light — and especially with the words that followed: 

“Sleep with me,” you said. 

RULE #1: DO NOT ACCEPT RECKLESS REQUESTS

Don’t answer requests she makes when she’s drunk, mad, or sad — that’s when she turns reckless. I’m supposed to get her home, get her water, and let time take the sharp edges off whatever she thought she wanted. If I do my job right, she’ll wake up with a headache — maybe puffy eyes — but no regrets. At least not the kind that have my name on them.

Arcano wasn’t as fierce as the name made it seem.

If Jaeyun were being honest, it was, in fact, a terrible bar. Awful, actually.

The seats were constantly sticky, and the tables were permanently stained with something spilled too long ago. The restrooms always smelled like weed and sex, and there was writing on the walls telling you who to call for a good time — but, awful as it was, it was the only bar on the outskirts of the university, and the drinks were cheap, which made it a reasonable choice for anyone who wanted to get drunk in the middle of a weekday. 

Which, apparently, was what you were doing. 

You had called him, your voice softened and a little slurred at the edges, even as you tried to keep it brief — trusting him to hear the truth between your words, as he always did  — and his body went tight, that low instinct already moving beneath his skin with the need to make it better.

Jaeyun came in without question, his eyes scanning through the dim room. Tables first, booths next, then the bar counter, because putting things in order always helped him keep control — but then he saw you, and his heart hitched hard enough to make his hands unreliable.

Arcano was nearly dark, red bulbs offering more irritation than light, and yet whatever sheen clung to its corners now seemed to gather around you; the glint of bottles, the thin neon humming above the bar. Even the noise shifted, bending your way subtly, as if the room itself couldn’t help but want to be near you. 

Or perhaps it was only him — caught on you like gravity, a quiet flaw built into his body that only ever showed itself in your presence.

Across the bar, the music shifted, and someone laughed too loudly as a glass hit the counter with a wet little sound, but none of it reached him the right way, not while you were there, bent toward the counter with your hair falling forward and your shoulders loose with drink and something sharper underneath it.

Jaeyun swallowed and pushed his hair back off his forehead — the gesture automatic in the way habits were — as he closed the last steps in.

You shifted on your stool as he stopped behind you, small and unthinking, leaning back into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to put your weight onto his chest merely because you trusted him to catch it without ever asking. And he did, his body reacting before his mind did, his arms raising and settling just enough to keep you upright.

He didn’t understand how you did it — how you could recognize him without looking. If your bones had memorized the shape of him and refused to forget even here, in a terrible bar, with alcohol in the air and the whole world pretending not to watch, or if you merely felt the same gravity as him, because you, too, had been built with some quiet flaw that only ever showed itself in his presence.

“Hello,” you said, tipping your head back to look at him.

“Hello, Princess,” he said, leaning in just to drop a kiss on your forehead. But you smelled like vanilla and white flowers — the kind of soft sweetness you always insisted on having threaded through every perfume you owned — and he allowed himself to breathe you for a second more before he let go, sliding onto the stool beside you. 

His jeans brushed your bare thigh, and when you turned toward him, he had no other option than to spread his legs further apart, opening space so your knees fit between his; and for a second, Jaeyun’s brain focused on the image, slowly and cruelly, taking the stark line of your skin against denim, the heat of you seeping through a fabric barrier that suddenly felt too thin to be decent. Your knees fit perfectly between his, and the placement was so intimate it might’ve been accidental if he hadn’t felt how quickly his body registered it as right.

He went still.

Not because he didn’t want more contact, but because he did. Because he wanted it in a way that made him feel juvenile, and his restraint could turn into nothing but a costume you’d just tugged at the seam.

So he forced himself to look up, his gaze finding your face like it was the only safe thing left, but it only turned to be worse. 

You were flushed from the alcohol, color blooming across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as if you’d been kissed too many times already. And your eyes were bright in that unfocused way that made his whole body ache with protectiveness and something he refused to name. 

Jaeyun swallowed, dropping his gaze before he could stop it — but that was when he saw the dress. 

Low-cut, and reckless in the quietest way, exposing your skin in a soft curve that made his throat tighten, not because it wasn’t vulgar or blaring, but merely because it was you — warm, real, and too close. 

And resting there, right in the center of it all, was the necklace he’d given you on your fifteenth birthday, the thin chain catching what little light Arcano offered and holding it like a secret. Jaeyun felt something in his chest twist — sharp and familiar. A gift, a promise, a piece of him you’d kept on your skin for years without making a thing of it.

He blinked, dragging his eyes back up, back to your face, as though that could undo what he’d seen. As though looking anywhere else could turn his thoughts into something normal again, but it didn’t.

“You called me,” he said in the end, voice light on purpose, aiming his gaze at the safe edge of your hairline instead of your eyes. 

“Is there a question in this statement?” you asked, your head tipping to the side the way it always did when you were teasing him, letting a strand of hair slip loose and rest against your cheek.

Jaeyun huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost counted as a laugh if anyone else had been listening. The bar noise swelled and dipped around you — ice clinking in glasses, a burst of laughter from a booth, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat — and for a second it made the moment feel ordinary. Like this was just the two of you, playing the same game you’d played a hundred times.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the linguistics genius among us.”

His hand lifted without thinking and brushed the strand away — quick, familiar, and thoughtless — the kind of gesture that belonged to years of friendship, not whatever else was crouched under tonight. He didn’t linger. He didn’t let it become a thing. He just tucked it back like he’d done it before and would do it again. Still, you felt the contact anyway, blinking at him, and it took you a moment to speak again.

“I think there was,” you said, your voice more serious than he expected. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

You turned halfway on your stool to reach into your purse, and Jaeyun took the moment to breathe — really breathe, looking across the room as his hands found and pushed at his hair, steadying himself. 

Overhead, a red bulb faltered, and the neon hissed in — thin, stubborn light clinging on.

“Yun,” you called.

He turned to you again, catching as you slipped the voucher toward him, the piece yellowed into something that didn’t belong to the present. His own handwriting stared up at him, crooked and absurd in the way only a teenage promise could be.

Jaeyun’s lips parted around a question, but the words slipped before they could reach his mouth.

“I’m using it,” you announced, slurring just enough for the words to snag on each other — but not enough to take the weight of the words that followed:

“Sleep with me.”

Jaeyun inhaled too fast and choked on the air, like the sentence had gone straight for his throat and his body refused to swallow it. He coughed once, twice, eyes watering, and hated himself for how obvious it was.

“Drink,” you said, lifting your glass toward him — offering it with the careless kindness of someone who had no understanding of the damage they were capable of causing.

Jaeyun pictured you rummaging through your drawers for the voucher, trying to guess when the decision had formed. Whether it had been planned. Whether it had been impulsive. Whether the dress had been chosen with him in mind—

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

He took the glass too fast, his thumb grazed your knuckle — more an echo of a touch than a touch itself — but his whole body registered it like a confession. And he forced himself to bring it to his mouth and swallow it. The liquor burned his throat, cheap and harsh and useless, and then — for one horrifying second — he tasted you there, sweet and faint beneath the sting.

He set it down.

“What—” he tried, and his voice came out wrong. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Baekhyeon?”

Because it felt reasonable to ask where your boyfriend was when you were asking him to sleep with you.

Your eyes gleamed at the name and then cleared just as quickly. Whatever that feeling was, it was banished with a blink before you reached for your glass again, considering the few drops he’d left.

“We broke up,” you said.

“When?”

“Today — or yesterday.” Your brow creased. “I’m not sure. What time is it?”

“But why?”

You shuddered, already turning toward the bartender for another drink, but Jaeyun reached for your wrist and drew you back in. His hands were cold against your warm skin, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

He let go.

“Princess, talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”

And so you told him, your words coming rushed and messed up, one long stream being pulled out of you because now that you’d started, you couldn’t afford to stop. You told him how Baekhyeon had gotten quieter ever since he started his internship. How he’d been thinking, whatever that meant. How he wasn’t so sure anymore, like your relationship was a class he could drop mid-semester. And when you’d asked where it put you, all you got were half-answers and that look people had when they were already gone but didn’t want to be the villain.

“And it is so humiliating, Yun,” you said, your hands dragging down your face, hiding it as you folded forward and rested on him again — forehead against his shoulder, your whole body fitting into the space between his thighs like it had always known where to go.

Jaeyun reached out without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back as the other slid into your hair, fingers tangling gently there — holding you together in the only way he knew how.

“It’s not like I thought he was going to be my forever one,” you said. “But I thought that — God, I’m — I’m a virgin in university, Jaeyun. Do you know how insane that sounds? Especially after having a boyfriend? It’s like I’m — defective.”

The whole sentence hit and sank in with a dull ache, shifting a fault line in him so sharply his whole body twitched. His fingers flexed against you, tightening at your back before he could stop himself, because this was simply his first instinct: pull you in, hold you tighter, so perhaps he could keep you from breaking by sheer force of his will.

But then he hated himself for it — for the greedy relief that came with the feeling of you against him, for the way wanting and protecting acquired the same face in his body — and he loosened his grip immediately, forcing his touch back into something safer, something that could still pass as friendship.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m feeling terrible,” you muttered. “Like I might have done something wrong in my life.”

“Princess,” he said again, the nickname rolling softly through the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look at me.”

You shook your head, stubborn even like this, forehead still pressed where you’d chosen to hide. And Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, trying to sand the edge off himself before it could cut you.

“You’re drunk,” he told you. “And you’re not thinking straight.”

You didn’t react this time — which somehow made it worse.

“Come on,” he said, his hands slipping away only so they could find you again, but this time, somewhere safer. His palms spread on the bare skin of your arms to guide you up. “I’m taking you home.”

“But—” you began, your gaze sliding to the voucher.

Jaeyun reached for it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, taking it out of your sight like he could make the exchange never happen — like merely hiding it could erase the fact that something had moved inside his chest with your ask, and now refused to calm down.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, and the promise tasted older than tonight.

He helped you off the stool with one hand at your waist as the other caught your purse, looping it around his wrist before he returned it to your elbow — steadying and guiding, making sure your feet landed where they were supposed to.

You swayed into him, coming so close that when you spoke, he not only heard you, but felt it through his skin.

“You always do.”

Jaeyun’s fingers flexed once again at your side.

“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead as he led you through the mess of bodies and sticky tables. “I know.” 

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Outside, it was already spring in theory, but in practice, Arcano’s door swung shut behind you, and the night folded over — winter still pressing into April nights, and making it chilly.

The sidewalk out in front was uneven in that neglected-university-outskirts way, broken slabs and hairline cracks waiting for someone careless, and tonight, that someone was you. 

Jaeyun watched as you made it three steps before you stumbled. It had been nothing significant, just your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but he was watching, and before you could pretend that it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quickly, holding you.

He brought you closer to him on instinct, the lines of your bodies collapsing and melting under the same yellow wash of streetlight, and when you looked up at him, it gathered in your eyes in tiny gold flashes, softening you at the edges, and making you look heartbreakingly close; the tiny gasp you released warming his mouth.

“Easy,” he muttered. 

“I am being easy,” you argued, but you made no effort to disengage yourself from him, and so, neither did he — letting you both stay in the dim hush of the night for a moment more before he finally eased back, shrugging out of his jacket and easing you into it, one sleeve first and then the other. 

Jaeyun gave your purse back, and only when your fingers closed around it did he turn and drop into a crouch in front of you — shoulders broad and steady on purpose.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Taking you home,” he replied. “Get on.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely negotiate a curb,” he argued. “Get on.”

Jaeyun waited then, bracing himself for another surge of protest, but instead, you leaned forward, your arms sliding around his shoulders, automatic, and with the kind of trust that never failed to set a quiet ache behind his ribs.

But if anything, he hooked his hands under your thighs and stood, letting your weight settle against him and your cheek to press into the side of his neck, warm and familiar.

“This is a bit embarrassing.”

“This is practical,” Jaeyun said. “Better than having to take you to the hospital over an ankle you refuse to admit you could break.”

You hummed, and he huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tightening his hold as if you could slip out of his hands.

As if he would let you.

“Princess,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’re going to be the death of me someday.”

You didn’t react this time — either because you didn’t hear it, or because your hazy mind had already filed it somewhere dangerous for tomorrow — but in any case, Jaeyun kept walking.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun’s apartment building greeted you in the same failing way it always did. The hallway light flickered with stubborn inconsistency, always seeming one second away from burning out, and the front door still refused to open unless someone met it with a shoulder and a certain amount of conviction.  

He did it one-handed, you still on his back and refusing to let go even when he had to fumble for the key, his free hand going to his pockets once, twice, while the other kept you anchored against him, steadying you with the same absent care, as though you were simply part of the equation.  

Inside, the living room looked exactly the way it always did — dim, cramped, familiar in the ugly way cheap rent always was. Sneakers lay abandoned near the entrance like they’d given up halfway through the day. A laundry basket sat in the corner with the quiet menace of something that had been ignored too long.

And a few steps in, Sunghoon was there — barefoot, hair damp, skin still carrying that clean, just-showered warmth, as if he’d stepped out of steam and decided the world could handle itself for a while.  

His gaze flicked to you, draped over Jaeyun, then back to him, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“She really can do whatever she wants to you,” he said, flat as anything.

At the sound of his roommate’s voice, Jaeyun felt you shift against him, lifting your head just enough for the night’s air to slip into the space you’d made.

“Hello, Hoon,” you said.

“Hello, Princess.”

The hallway light blinked out, wiping your shadows clean for a quiet beat before Sunghoon shifted, and the sensor caught it, coaxing the bulb back to life. Jaeyun adjusted his grip like it meant nothing, like you weren’t warm against him in all the places he worked hardest not to think about. You shifted at his back once more, settling and slipping, and his shoulders tightened on reflex — prepared to steady you, prepared for anything — except your next words.

“If Yun doesn’t, would you do it with me, Hoon?”

“Do wh—”

“Nothing,” Jaeyun snapped. “She’s drunk, and I’m taking her to my room.”

Sunghoon’s brows rose at his roommate’s urgency, his mouth twitching deeper, but he didn’t push. If anything, he stepped back, clearing the way like Jaeyun needed permission at all.

“Tell me tomorrow, Princess,” Sunghoon called after you, loud enough to be heard down the hall. “Though I’m pretty sure Jaeyun will do it for you.”

Jaeyun didn’t give you the chance to answer.

He was already moving, turning down the hall. And when he reached his room, he shifted your weight higher with a small, efficient jerk of his arms, then shoved the door open with his shoulder.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway faltered again behind you, a brief blink of dark, and then the room swallowed you whole — quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of detergent, old cologne and whatever Jaeyun used to pretend he didn’t care about.

He stepped into his room and kicked the door shut with his heel, shutting the rest of the apartment out — Sunghoon’s smugness, the hallway’s flicker, all of it cut off as if it had never happened.

Yet still, he didn’t set you down. Jaeyun carried you the last few steps to his bed, and when he finally tried to set you down, you clung tighter — arms locking around his shoulders as your thighs pressed against his sides. 

“No,” you said, and there was no explanation required. It didn’t matter that it had been six months since you last shared a bed. He knew your rules just as much as he knew his: you didn’t do beds before a shower — much less in outside clothes. You didn’t even sit on them in anything that had been out in public.

“Princess,” he sighed. “It’s my bed. I don’t have that rule.”

“Your bed is contaminated,” you decided.

Jaeyun went still for a second, like sheer willpower might make you reasonable. But it didn’t. You stayed latched onto him, stubborn as a vow, and he realized — again — how useless he’d always been at saying no to you.

He sighed again.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine — let’s take a shower first.”

He tried to lower you, shifting his hands to set you down properly, but the moment your heels brushed the floor, you stiffened in protest, clinging harder.

“No shoes inside,” you reminded him, as if he were the one being difficult.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a brief beat — his surrender arriving the way it always did with you, tender and doomed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

He crouched carefully, still keeping one arm hooked around your legs so you wouldn’t tip, and reached for the thin strap of your heel. His fingers worked quickly and practiced, undoing what he could without looking like he was paying attention. 

Only when both heels had slipped free did he straighten again — and only then did you finally loosen, sliding down from his back. Jaeyun kept his hands on you the whole time, steadying you through the transfer, guiding you down until your bare feet found the floor without a stumble.

“There,” he said. “Now cooperate.”

Jaeyun went to his drawer and pulled out a t-shirt so old it had softened past saving, turned into the kind of thing that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. But it was the one you always chose when you slept over, and so it stayed — stupidly and hopefully, waiting for you.  

He pushed his hair back off his forehead, his hand lingering there for a beat before he reached for a towel and stood up.  

“Come,” he said then, placing his hand behind his back to encourage you to catch up and grab it.

You held hands across the apartment and into the bathroom, letting go only when Jaeyun reached for the switch and snapped the light on — white and harsh in a way that suddenly made the night tangible.  

“The lock is broken,” Jaeyun said.  

“Wasn’t Jongseong going to fix it months ago?” you asked.  

Jongseong had, but it broke again and again, and by the fourth time, the three of them had decided it was what it was and left it to its habits.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Can you handle yourself?”

You leaned against the sink, head tipping to the side. Your necklace sparkled with the movement, catching the bathroom light in thin, bright flickers, and all at once, he regretted asking.  

It all felt too real, too reckless. What if you asked him to stay and help you, as it had happened a dozen times before Baekhyeon?

He couldn’t trust himself to make good decisions — couldn’t trust himself to help you out of your dress without looking. Not with the voucher still in the pocket of his jeans and your words coiling through his mind, slowly displacing all his other thoughts.

He was suddenly wild under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, reaching past you to set the towel on the counter, then the shirt beside it — lining them up like order could keep the night under control. “Take your time.”  

“Okay.”  

Jaeyun didn’t say anything as he stepped out. He merely pulled the door shut and folded himself down in front of it — knees up, forearms crossed above them, and his fingers tightening against the sides of his jeans for a quiet moment before he let go. 

From inside the bathroom came the soft shift of fabric. Then the small, telltale clink of something against porcelain — your necklace, surely your necklace — before the water finally started to run. And Jaeyun let out a slow breath he couldn’t quite believe in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d guarded a door for you, and he should’ve known how to breathe through it by now.

But tonight had reached in and rearranged all the defenses he’d built, and now he was back at the beginning with nothing solid to brace against. His fingers flexed once again, anchoring himself to the pressure and the bone, and making him almost miss the complaint of a floorboard down the hall.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jongseong’s voice carried from the hallway. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“The lock doesn’t work,” Jaeyun said.

“It never worked.”

“She’s inside.”

“Who?” Jongseong asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Jaeyun, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing a name.

“Oh, it’s been a while,” he said, and Jaeyun’s mouth tightened, the words pressing an old bruise.

It had been six months since you last slept there, to be exact — the same amount of time you’d been with Baekhyeon, and the same amount of time Jaeyun had been pretending the distance was natural. Reasonable. Maybe even healthy.

It wasn’t as if Baekhyeon had forbidden your friendship with him, or your sleepovers at this apartment. Baekhyeon was—

Jaeyun’s mind halted.

For a second, he tried to call him nice, the word rising up like it wanted to be fair, but then he recoiled from the generosity of it.

Nice didn’t matter. Nice didn’t change what it meant to watch you choose someone else. Nice didn’t stop the humiliating clarity of memory: the shape of you curled into his bed like you belonged there, the way you’d mutter his name half-asleep when you couldn’t find the edge of the blanket — then the way he’d learned, almost overnight, how to live without it. And so, he said nothing, merely breathing out, real slow, between barely parted lips, which ended up being louder than anything he could have said.

Jongseong leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staking out the space without saying a word because that was how he always did. He didn’t press — never that. Jongseong just stayed, letting the world breathe between them until it started to feel like an invitation people never knew how to refuse.

Jaeyun looked away.

“She called,” he said. “She was at Arcano. Drunk — not falling-over drunk — but enough.”

“Baekhyeon?” Jongseong asked, not because he was looking for gossip, but because it was logistics. It was the obvious missing piece.

“They broke up — he broke up with her,” he said. “Something about not being sure anymore.”

“Damn.”

Jaeyun hummed in agreement, and because he didn’t know how to bring up the topic, he merely said: “She asked me to sleep with her.”

Jongseong blinked — actually blinked, like his brain had dropped a piece on the floor.

“She asked you,” he repeated.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

“To sleep with her.”

The words hung there between them, obscene in how plainly they fit the shape of the night. Jaeyun breathed out slowly through his nose; the air itself didn’t want to make room for them.

“And you said?” Jongseong asked, though his tone already suggested he knew the answer. Everyone knew Jaeyun’s reputation. Everyone knew he didn’t say no to much — especially not to you.

“I said no,” Jaeyun replied. 

Jongseong stared at him, then let out a low whistle, indecisive whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Don’t make it weird,” Jaeyun muttered.

“I’m not making it weird,” Jongseong said. “I’m just—” He paused, pondering what his next words should be. “You’re kind of famous for not being the guy who says no. Not to her.”

Jaeyun’s lips parted, his tongue already rolling in to say something, but the words stuttered and stammered, refusing to leave immediately, and Jongseong shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway once as if checking whether Sunghoon would appear and make this worse. But when he didn’t, he looked back at Jaeyun and waited again.

Of course he did.

Behind the door, the shower shifted pitch — water on tile instead of skin, the soft scrape of movement as you’d turned under the stream — and Jaeyun’s shoulders tightened at the sound, reflexive and stupid, like his body wanted to go in there and steady you with his hands.

He forced himself to stay where he was.

“You know what the problem is?” Jaeyun asked.

“Tell me.”

“I know her,” he said, and he hated himself for how quickly it came out, like a confession that had been waiting all night. “I know she meant it.”

Jongseong’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But what if it changes something?” he asked. “I could say yes, and for one night I’d get—”

He cut himself off, shoving his hair back as if he could physically push the thought out of his head.

“Fuck — I’d get something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“And then?”

“And then she’d wake up, and something could flick.” Jaeyun said. “Like she’d look at me and realize she made a mistake. Like she’d hate me for letting her.” His grip tightened once, then loosened. “Like I’d lose the only part of her I’m allowed to have.”

The hallway seemed to draw in around him, the air thickening as if it could listen. And Jaeyun lowered his voice in response.

“I’d rather have just a part of her forever than have her entirely for a night and lose her in the morning.”

“That’s — that’s more honest than I expected.”

Jaeyun let out a humorless breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m not done,” Jongseong said, because of course he wasn’t. “You’re treating having her like it’s one thing.”

Jaeyun frowned, irritation returning on instinct because it was safer than admitting Jongseong was right. 

“It’s either you stay in the safe version of your friendship forever — half-measures, unsaid things — or you sleep with her and blow it up.”

“But it could happen.”

“But it also couldn’t — not if you do it in the right way.”

“In the right way,” Jaeyun scoffed. “That clears everything up.”

“When she’s sober,” Jongseong continued, ignoring the sarcasm like it was a symptom. “You tell her the truth she can use.”

“Like what?”

“You tell her you said no because she was drunk.”

“Obviously.”

“And you tell her you care about her too much to risk the friendship over a night.”

Jaeyun’s stomach tightened. The sentence was too clean — neat edges, no mess, nothing anyone could accuse him of — and it sounded like something he was allowed to say. But it wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason lived lower in him, hot and humiliating because of the selfishness of it. 

Jaeyun cared too much to let you choose him with alcohol blurring the corners, too much to wake up and find your eyes clear and horrified — he cared too much to have his name become the sharpest part of your regret.

He didn’t want a night he’d have to defend. He wanted a tomorrow that didn’t require forgiveness.

He couldn’t lose you.

“And if she guarantees nothing will change?” he asked, and his voice sounded small there, drowned out by the fantasy of it.

“You decide,” Jongseong said. “You do it, or you don’t. But don’t lie to yourself that you can keep something by freezing it.”

“I can keep it by not touching it.”

“And you can lose it that way too,” Jongseong said, immediately and all at once making Jaeyun halt. “You’re already changing. She’s already changing. Baekhyeon happened. Tonight happened.” 

“So what?” Jaeyun asked. “You think I should accept?”

“I think you should accept the conversation,” Jongseong corrected. “Not the drunk proposal. Not the chaos. Not the one-night disaster you’re picturing.”

He paused, just long enough for Jaeyun to swallow.

“It’s the best way,” Jongseong added. “Because it’s the only way she gets to choose you with a clear head — and you get to be chosen without feeling like you stole it.”

“Fine,” he said. “I will talk to her tomorrow — when she’s sober.”

“Good.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Jongseong nodded toward the bathroom door with a faint grimace that tried to pass for humor. “Rap on my door when she’s done, yeah? I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t feel like getting murdered for walking in on — whatever this is.”

Jaeyun shot him a look, he wasn’t going to, but if anything, Jongseong’s mouth quirked, teasing and mean, as he turned and started back toward his room, leaving Jaeyun alone with the thin shaft of light coming from under the door, the broken lock, and the sound of you moving on the other side — alive, breathing, and close enough to ruin him if he let himself reach.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The bathroom door opened with a tiny complaint from its hinges. Your figure momentarily silhouetted against the spill of light before he blinked and put you into focus, barefoot, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears, cheeks still flushed from the shower, alcohol, and something that didn’t belong to soap or steam. His old shirt hung off you all wrong and yet perfectly: too big in the shoulders, too long in the hem, but familiar in a way that made Jaeyun’s chest tighten.

Perhaps he was dreaming this night.

“I thought I heard someone,” you whispered.

“It was Jongseong,” he replied, smoothing his tone into something casual, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice the way Jongseong’s appearance now sat warm and heavy beneath his ribs, pulsing each time he breathed, threatening to spill.

“Did we wake him up?”

Jaeyun shook his head and pushed himself up, his joints protesting with stiffness from the position and from the sheer act of not moving every time his instincts had told him to go in and make sure you were okay. “No. He just needed the bathroom.”

You nodded at him, and Jaeyun reached his hand to you, the gesture so unconscious, he didn’t notice he had done it until you reached back to him, fingers finding the slots between his, and intertwining your hands.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, already turning and guiding you down the short stretch of hall.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to his room, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple coming through his open window, and spilling across the rumpled sheets and the scatter of things that made the space undeniably his: a jacket draped over the chair like it had been forgotten mid-thought, a half-open book, and a glass of water caught a thin slice of shine. The air was warmer in here, carrying the faint, familiar mix of laundry soap and skin and something clean underneath everything that had happened.

“Lie down,” Jaeyun said, swinging your interlaced hands toward the bed even though he expected you to refuse, saying something about contamination or demanding clean sheets, and forcing him into the familiar rhythm of your rules because that was how it always went — he was already halfway bracing for it, already planning how to humor you through it without letting his hands linger where they shouldn’t — but you moved then, slipping from his touch and laying on the mattress without protest. And it was somehow worse than anything.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be, and the nickname hung in the air longer than it was necessary.

“Aren’t you coming?” you asked, and he was caught by the simplicity of it.

“Close your eyes,” Jaeyun said. “I’m going to get changed first.”

You made a small sound that almost counted as a snort, like the idea of him needing you not to look was ridiculous. But you did it anyway — eyes shut, face turned into his pillow, going still with the kind of obedience you only ever gave him when you didn’t want to argue.

Jaeyun changed quickly, like speed could make him safer. Jeans off. Sweatpants on. Shirt pulled over his head and tossed it somewhere he refused to look at. He kept his movements efficient, controlled — all about angles and purpose — because he couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford the way tenderness turned reckless when it had nowhere to go.

By the time he finished, you hadn’t moved, and for a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep, your body finally ceasing. But when he stepped closer, you opened your eyes, the dim light catching in them like a held secret, glazing along your lashes, turning your gaze into something soft and deep, as if whatever remained of the light had found a way to live inside you.

And Jaeyun hovered at the edge, forgetting for a beat how to be anything but pulled in.

He sat on the bed, and you shifted closer, cheek pressing deeper into his pillow like it belonged there — like you belonged there.

And the fact that you were smelling like him didn’t help. His shampoo was tangled in your damp hair. His soap clinging to your skin. The boring smell of him with something sweet underneath — vanilla and white flowers — threaded through it all. Like the night had taken the parts of him that were supposed to be private and braided them through you.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight.

“Yun,” you called. “About what I said—”

“Just sleep,” he cut in. “We can talk tomorrow.”

Your mouth parted as if you wanted to argue on principle. But your body betrayed you in the softest way: your breathing deepened, your fingers loosened on the sheet, your forehead sank into his pillow as if it was the only safe thing left in the world.

Jaeyun lay down beside you before he could think too hard about it, keeping the space between your bodies like a rule — a boundary he could hold — but you drifted closer inch by inch, pulled by some instinct that had never learned to be afraid of him. Your knee brushed his leg. Your hand settled near his, warm and lax, fingers curved like they might reach if you dreamed the right dream.

Jaeyun didn’t move. He only stared at the ceiling and listened to you breathe — slow and even — trying not to count it.

Tomorrow, he told himself.

Tomorrow, he would be brave. Tomorrow he would say the right things — the usable truth, as Jongseong had called — the truth you could hold without cutting yourself on it. 

Tomorrow, he would not ruin you, or the fragile shape of a friendship he’d carried for years like a glass of water.

But tonight—

He turned his head just enough to look at you, and stayed awake anyway — guarding the morning like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun woke up to the morning sunlight filtering through the still-open window of his bedroom, and you curled into him, cheek on his shoulder, as your hand rested on his chest.

He didn’t move — he couldn’t bring himself to move — he didn’t even let his breath deepen because his first thought was the same one it had always been, old as instinct and just as merciless: don’t wake you. Don’t jolt you out of whatever gentle, thoughtless trust had guided you here in the dark and kept you here in the light. He merely stared at your hand on his chest.

Your fingers were loose, resting over his heartbeat like they’d found it by memory. Like your body had reached for the most familiar thing in the room and settled before your mind could intervene.

He swallowed.

The sunlight was falling in slow stripes across the sheets and across the line of your shoulder beneath his shirt, turning the old cotton into something almost translucent, and catching on your necklace. Dust drifted through the brightness like the morning was innocent — like the world hadn’t heard what you’d asked for last night, hadn’t seen the way his restraint had shaken under the skin.

He’d stayed the whole night trying to remain as far as he could tell. And still, here you were — curled into him like this was allowed. Like this was fine. Like you belonged in the hollow of his shoulder with your palm over his heart, claiming the one part of him he’d never learned how to hide.

You made a small sound in your throat, barely more than a breath, and nudged closer, your knee tucking nearer, your fingers flexing once against his shirt, and the heat of you spread through him like something inevitable.

His gaze drifted to your face.

Sleep had unmade you cruel in its sweetness; your lashes cast a faint shadow under your eyes; your mouth was parted just slightly, softened by the quiet. There was no teasing there, no armor, no bright deflection — only you, unguarded, and breathing against his shoulder like you trusted him to hold.

Because he would — he always would.

Jaeyun swallowed and very carefully — so carefully it bordered on absurd — slid his arm out from beneath your head, immediately receiving a small sound of protest from you, brows drawing together, and for one panicked second, he thought you’d wake.

But if anything, you only turned your face further into his pillow, drifting your hand from his chest to the sheet between you.

Jaeyun sat up slowly, pushing his hair back off his forehead as if he could physically push the feeling out, and looked at you once more.

Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it higher, covering you with a tenderness that felt dangerously close to a confession — tucking the edge beneath your arm, smoothing it down over your ribs, restoring order because order was the only thing that kept him from doing something reckless — before he stood up, crossing the room barefoot.

Jaeyun left the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind him, careful not to let the latch click.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

The kitchen met him as it always did on weekdays.

The sink was crowded with his roommate’s morning small evasions — a cup abandoned to the drying rack, a plate left half-rinsed as if someone had set it down and decided they couldn’t be bothered to finish. Old coffee grounds sat in the filter, gone cold and sour, and the air held that faint, stubborn bitterness like it had seeped into the walls.

Jaeyun stood in the middle of it all for a moment, then two — trying to make his brain behave.

Tomorrow, he had said, and it was tomorrow.

He exhaled through his nose and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves as if the answer to what to do with his hands might be hiding behind the milk, but not even this they had. There were eggs, half a loaf of bread, butter, something green that had once been vegetables in a kinder timeline, and the strawberries he bought weekly and kept in the back, pretending it wasn’t for you.

He closed the door on impulse, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he reopened it and grabbed the eggs.

Jaeyun had never been a breakfast person, but he needed something to do with his hands that morning, and so, he warmed the pan, melting the butter as he had seen you do a dozen times. 

He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell in, forcing him to fish it out with the edge of a fork with a curse under his breath. The second one cracked clean. And he caught himself staring at it for a second, mildly offended by success.

He scrambled the eggs like he was negotiating with them — low heat, constant movement, refusing to let them burn. The toast popped up too dark on one side, and he had scraped it with a knife.

He got strawberries in the back of the fridge, rinsed them, and set them on a plate.

And by the time it started to look like something someone might eat, he heard you, softly coming down the hall and making the air shift, the apartment itself holding its breath.

Jaeyun turned, and there you were in the doorway — his shirt hanging off you, hair a mess, eyes brighter than they had any right to be.

Your gaze landed on the plates — on the counter, catching the eggshells still on it, the crumbs of his burned toast, and the strawberry tops before it moved to him.

“You made breakfast,” you said, the corner of your lips shifting into a smile.

“I’m aware.”

You padded toward him, bare feet on the kitchen tile, and suddenly you were so close, he could smell you, his soap still clinging to your skin. Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks still a little flushed, but the embarrassment had already arrived; Jaeyun could see it in the way you held your shoulders, in the way your gaze didn’t stay on his for too long.

“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.

Jaeyun leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing because if he didn’t put his body in order, his face might betray him. “You were drunk. You called me. I picked you up. That’s not like it never happened.”

“I remember what I said.”

Jaeyun went still.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t,” you said. “Or that I said it only because I was drunk — I mean, I was drunk.” 

You paused, heat creeping up to your cheeks and making it a tone warmer.

“Jaeyun, I’m—” You pressed your palm to your forehead briefly, as if you could push the shame back inside. “I’m in university. I’m still a virgin. And it’s not even because I’m some — saint. It’s because I kept waiting for the right moment.”

Your voice dropped. “But now it just feels like I’ve been standing still while everyone else moved.”

Something moved in Jaeyun’s chest then — sharp, protective, and making him push himself off the counter before he meant to, closing the space between you in a step he didn’t ask permission for.

“Princess,” he called, his voice as soft as the way his arms eased apart, but he didn’t touch you. Didn’t put his hands on your shoulders or tuck your hair back or do any of the things his body begged him to do on autopilot — because this was morning, and you were sober, and this mattered.

“You don’t owe anyone a timeline,” he said. “And you don’t have to make it some performance to prove something.”

“I know, Yun, it’s just that—” Your mouth tightened, lips pressing as you searched for the shape of the truth. “When I think about it, I keep coming to the conclusion that it would be safe if it were with you.”

“Do you remember that party at Seoyeon’s where they did that stupid bottle game, and we both had our first kisses in her parents’ closet?” you asked. Jaeyun blinked at the sudden turn of topic, but nodded anyway. “It was awful and so awkward. The guy made it so awkward. And the whole time I remember — the whole time I remember wishing it had been you on the other side of the bottle, because it would’ve been easier if it were you.” You swallowed. “If it were you, I’d be safe — and it’s still true, I know it would be okay with you,”

“You’re the person I trust the most in this world.”

The whole sentence went straight through his ribs and sank there, spreading through the parts of Jaeyun that had learned to stay careful until his restraint loosened another notch, and his chest went tender with it, so sudden it almost hurt.

In his mind, he was back at Seoyeon’s party, you laughing and brushing the situation off in front of him, cheeks flushed even in the low light with what he thought was shyness. And perhaps it had been. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely wrong: you’d been shy there, but not because you’d just had your first kiss, but because you’d wished he was the one there. He, your best friend — and the thought came so suddenly he couldn’t prevent it — he wanted it to be him, too. He wanted to be your first in every way that counted.

And that was exactly what you were offering to him.

Jaeyun swallowed, his fingers flexing on the counter.

“Do you truly want it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“But nothing can change between us,” Jaeyun said. “We start as best friends. And even if this — if this thing doesn’t work and we turn out to be awkward, we end as that. Best friends. No matter what.”

You stared at him for a second.

“Are you afraid of losing me?” you asked, teasing like you could make this lighter if you tried hard enough.

Jaeyun could hear the invitation in it. The offer to laugh. To dissolve the moment back into something safe. But when he looked at you, his eyes were solemn. So solemn that whatever retort you’d been about to throw at him got stuck somewhere between your lips and your courage.

“Yes,” Jaeyun said, and the teasing fell away.

Your breath caught for a moment before you exhaled, your face softening into something older than jokes.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Your gaze flicked to the counter again, to the two plates resting there, and he felt like it was some type of evidence. Proof this wasn’t only shame and late-night chaos, but morning too. Domestic, ordinary, real.

“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, “we’re doing this?”

Jaeyun’s mouth twitched. “Eat.”

“That was not an answer.”

He reached past you, grabbing a fork, and placing it in your hand with exaggerated seriousness.

“Eat,” he repeated. “Then we talk.”

“Jaeyun.”

He held your gaze, and the air between you tightened with something that had nothing to do with breakfast.

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. “We’re doing it.”

“Good,” you said, and then, because you were you, because you couldn’t help yourself: “When are we doing it?”

Jaeyun stared at you.

“Are you—” he began. “Are you trying to schedule sex?”

“Seems reasonable.” You shuddered. “Or do you want us to do it now—”

“No,” he cut in, eyes narrowing, but the fondness in it betrayed him. “Tonight.”

“Don’t you have classes?”

“Are you having second thoughts?” he countered.

“Tonight,” you agreed. “My place?”

“That makes more sense,” he said, not only because he didn’t want his roommates hovering around, but because if he kept you here, if he kept you in his bed again, he didn’t trust the part of him that wanted to pretend you didn’t already belong.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Jaeyun straightened, grabbed his own plate, and turned away from the counter as if he hadn’t just scheduled the end of the life he’d been carefully maintaining like a lie. As if he’d invited you to the movies instead of into the most dangerous part of him.

“Eat,” he said again, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”

You took a bite of eggs, crunching your nose. “These are terrible.”

“They’re edible,” he argued.

You smiled around your bite, and in the brilliance of it, Jaeyun noticed with sudden clarity that you might not be drunk, you might not be mad, but it had been a reckless request.

And he had just said yes.

He should’ve panicked.

He should’ve backed out and clung to his rules until they cut him open.

But he only watched you — standing in his kitchen with his shirt draped around you, alive and real and trusting him with clear eyes, and he couldn’t make himself care about the danger.

RULE #2: DO NOT TOUCH HER IMPROPERLY  

Some touches are allowed because they keep her safe — elbow, shoulder, wrist, maybe her waist; small steadying things I can explain without it sounding like a lie. Improper is anything I do for myself. Improper is touching her like I’m owed something just because I’ve been here a long time.

Jaeyun liked electrical engineering — he really liked it — perhaps more than he’d ever admitted out loud.

There was something about how he could take a mess of a problem — wires crossing like arguments, values that looked meaningless until he stopped panicking and actually looked — and reduce it to rules that held. KCL. KVL. The calm mathematics of not lying to himself. Find the reference. Label the nodes. Define the direction. Solve.

If he couldn’t control other things — timing, people’s feelings, the way you could laugh like nothing was wrong while something in him quietly broke — then at least he could control this.

At least here, the world had edges. Here, the answer existed, and he found some calmness in it.

But not tonight.

Jaeyun sat in the last row with his book open and his pen in hand, trying to make his body obey.

But the professor’s voice moved through the room, muffled by the low hum of the projector and the whisper of AC that never quite cooled the lecture hall. Something about the transient response. Something about step inputs and settling time. Jaeyun stared at the diagram on the slide until it started to blur, because all he could see was you in his kitchen, barefoot on his tile. His shirt on your body. Your mouth around the word tonight like it was a dare and a promise and a joke all at once.

He wrote a line of notes, realizing a moment too late that it didn’t make sense; it was just a string of symbols that meant nothing. His jaw tightened. He scratched it out so hard the paper tore, then froze, breathing through his nose like he could sand himself back into something normal.

He tried to listen again, forcing his gaze to the board, and his brain into the shape of equations.

But the truth was: he wasn’t there anymore.

He was already walking to your studio apartment. He was already at your door, pressing the code of your keypad as he had done a thousand times. 

He was already hearing your voice say his name the way you always did when you wanted something — and he hated that the wanting in him answered like a trained dog.

His leg bounced under the desk as his eyes moved to the clock.

The second hand dragged itself forward like it was doing it on purpose, like time had decided to become cruel just to prove it could. Jaeyun forced himself to look back down at the board. Forced his jaw to unclench. Forced his foot to stop bouncing.

It didn’t work.

He dragged a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping his scalp, and stared at the open page like he could threaten it into giving him peace.

Step response.

Damping ratio.

Overshoot — his chest felt like overshoot.

Jaeyun exhaled slowly, then made a decision, closing his book with a sound sharper than it should’ve been in the lecture hall, a final clap that made the person in front of him glance back, but Jaeyun didn’t care. If anything, he slid the book into his bag, capped his pen, and stood.

Outside, the late afternoon air hit him with a faint bite — winter pretending it hadn’t left yet. And the campus was loud in the way it always got near the end of the day: students spilling out of buildings, scooters whining by, laughter too bright, life too easy.

Jaeyun walked straight through it, taking the quickest route off campus, cutting between two buildings, and down the narrow street that always smelled like fried food and stale cigarette smoke.

He didn’t stop to think — didn’t even breathe; he only followed the line to your apartment complex, pushing the door open and taking the stairs, two at a time.

At your door, the keypad was there, small and impersonal, a little square of plastic and numbers that shouldn’t mean anything. But Jaeyun had always been stupidly good at remembering what mattered, and your passcode was one of those things he picked up without asking, without naming it as intimacy — the way he learned strawberry was your favorite fruit when you were both twelve, the way he memorized the sound of your laugh before he realized he was paying attention. Four digits. He knew it — he had used it a dozen times, but as his finger found the first digit, he froze because him knowing it all too well, suddenly felt like trespassing.

Jaeyun stared at the numbers. His hand still in the air, suspended, and ridiculously caught between two versions of himself. The one that had always been allowed inside your life, the one that had walked into your space carrying groceries and textbooks and your bad moods like they were part of his schedule, and the one standing here now, with the taste of tonight still sharp in his mouth, and the knowledge that tonight is not errands or emergencies.

He exhaled, slowly, trying to make his body act normal — trying to make his hand stop trembling with the sheer idiocy of wanting.

But couldn’t, and when he raised his hand again, he only knocked at the door and waited, hearing his own pulse in his ears, a stupid, loyal metronome that refused to slow down. 

And then — movement.

The smallest sound from inside. Footsteps. A shift of air through the crack of the frame, like your apartment exhaled before the door even opened.

Jaeyun straightened without meaning to, shoulders going back like he’s bracing for impact. His hand dropped to his sides, finding his pockets because he refused to be caught halfway through panic.

Warm light spilled through the gap, and the scent of your place followed it — something clean and faintly floral, the trace of whatever you always used that made you smell like comfort when you hugged him goodbye. And there you were, framed in the doorway as if you’d been waiting in the exact spot where he would have to see you all at once.

For half a second, Jaeyun couldn’t breathe, his lungs catching, devastated by you.

“Hi,” you said. It was the same word you’d always used, yet it didn’t sound the same. “Did you forget the code?” 

Jaeyun swallowed, forcing his face into something neutral.

“No,” he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. But if anything, you hummed at him, requiring no further explanation, as you opened the door a little wider so he could come in.

Jaeyun had molded the moment when he would step into your place in his mind enough times to believe he would be prepared when it finally came into reality. 

Yet it didn’t.

He tried to don a neutral aspect, tried to speak — make some joke — but the words stayed in, hooked into years, and yanked, allowing nothing but air to pass through his lips.

Your apartment was small in the way studios always were — everything close enough to touch from the same spot, everything bearing the faint imprint of your routines. A blanket was folded too neatly on the end of the bed. A mug sat on the counter that looked like it had been rinsed and set down without being fully put away. A stack of books with their spines cracked in the middle like they’d been loved, not displayed.

And there was you — too close, too real.

You’d changed since he’d last been here, but at the same time, you were the same girl he had known his whole life, and the combination of both made something in him tighten until it felt sharp.

Jaeyun shut the door behind him with his foot, careful not to let it slam, yet the click of the latch sounded louder than it should’ve, and he stood there for a beat too long, backpack strap still across his shoulder, hands in his pockets.

“Shoes,” you remembered, because you couldn’t help yourself, and a laugh escaped through him, familiar enough to settle him.

Jaeyun bent, unlaced his sneakers, slipped them off with quick, efficient motions before he lined them near the door and dropped his backpack.

When he straightened, you were still watching him, draped in a dress that didn’t try to be subtle.

It hugged you way too prettily, clinging to your waist and hips like it had been made with the sole purpose of making him forget he’d ever learned how to breathe. The neckline dipped just enough to show skin, and right there — resting against it like a quiet, years-old claim — was the necklace he’d given you. 

“Jaeyun,” you called. And he knew this tone — he knew it so damn well. It was your do something. 

And so he did, striding in your direction, his hands already reaching for your face, cradling it on his palms before he looked down at you with a small question that he couldn’t come to pronounce because you were already replying by closing your eyes, tipping your head up so he didn’t need to do much to catch your top lip within his.

It was your first kiss. Jaeyun had known you for his whole life, but it was the first time he had come to know your mouth, and it felt almost like a travesty of the universe.

You tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something so familiar that his chest ached, threatening to break open and groan escaped him when you parted your lips, allowing him to dip his tongue inside, pressing against yours until he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t you.

You and the way your hands found the front of his t-shirt and curled on it.

You and the way you pulled him along with you as you stepped back — and back, until the back of your knees had hit the mattress, and you had no other option but to fall on it, his hands bracing around your face, one knee bent and pressed where the skirts of your dress had pooled in too high.

You didn’t say anything as you reached for him, rushing your hands beneath the blue shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.

“Wait, Princess, wait,” he asked. “Slow down.” 

“Is this how you always do it?”

And he could have lied, could have merely said yes, that was how he took all the other girls, but he didn’t.

“No,” he said. “It’s because it’s you and me.”

You stared at him, and suddenly the room felt too small for your heartbeats, too quiet for how loud everything inside of him turned.

But then, you leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time — giving him space to meet you properly. 

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing and feeling your pulse through the tip of it as his other hand followed the line of your shoulders, moving further and further until his palm had found your waist, his fingers spreading on you the way he always did to anchor you — except that now it was less anchoring than keeping you.

You shifted beneath him, your leg sliding close enough to brush the inside of his thigh, and Jaeyun felt it like a jolt — small, accidental, and devastating — traveling straight through his length, and making his breath catch.

He forced himself to hinder — force himself to keep his head clear. But his body was already answering you, heat gathering with every centimeter of contact, the novelty of it turning molten and bright in his blood — wanting to move, to press in, to take what you were offering without thinking. 

“Tell me if—” he started, then stopped, trying to rearrange his thoughts. 

“If what?”

“If you want me to stop,” he managed. “Say it if you—”

“I won’t,” you said, and the certainty in it hit him like a punch.

Jaeyun exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours — not kissing, not moving — just breathing the sweet scent of you, vanilla and white flowers, the same he always had as he counted the seconds like he could make them behave through the sheer force of his want.

“You’re sure?” he asked — because he had to — because he knew that this was the line where everything became real, and everything before this was going to feel small in comparison.

“Yes, Sim Jaeyun,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

Jaeyun’s fingers found the strap of your dress, sliding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his pulse was climbing, easing it down through your shoulder slow enough that it felt like a question you could stop without words — yet you didn’t — and the dress shifted with a soft whisper through your body. 

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the skin he’s uncovered — one brief kiss, then another — until the dress loosened and pooled lower, until he could guide it away and reveal your lingerie set, pinkish in a way that only made your skin warmer under the lights of your apartment. 

His breath hitched.  

You were beautiful in a way he’d always known, but also in a way he’d never allowed himself to study — never this close, never with permission. Never with the soft spill of your skin under his hands, much less with the heat of you turning every familiar detail into something obscene and new. 

His hand splayed over your belly, the tips of his fingers skimming the lower edge of your bra before he slid down, finding the band of your panties and hooking it lightly.

“You’re—” he began.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, Jaeyun,” you murmured. “I dress like this because I just happen to have no bad sets.”

The laugh that left him was helpless, more air than sound, relief threading through it because you were still you, even here, even now, just in your lingerie set and with skin turning reddish because of his kisses, and it truly didn’t matter that you interpreted him wrongly this time. 

“Right,” he managed. He couldn’t argue with anything you said — not right now — not never. “Of course.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer — not frantic, not desperate — just needy, and Jaeyun went still for one beat to let himself feel it: the pull, the permission, the way your hands on him turned his years of restraint into something soft and breakable.

“Of course,” he whispered again, bending down and kissing you, your temples first, and then your cheeks — his lips pestering over your face with soft pecks before he moved lower, discovering that one sensitive spot underneath your jaw, and when you gasped, he took it as an incentive to move to the column of your neck, his mouth parting as his tongue slipped out in a tiny tease that got you gasping softly — almost silently, hands closing at the shoulders of his shirt as if you couldn’t help yourself.

“You’re sensitive,” he murmured, tucking his discovery carefully alongside all the other details he’d collected about you over the years.

You called for him, but if it had been a warning or a submission, you lost interest in the rest of your thought as he kissed you again, open mouth and tongue rolling against your skin, surely leaving a mark, and making a moan to rumble through your lips instead. 

Jaeyun’s eyes flicked up to your face, and he didn’t let go — not even when his hands slipped to your back, the tips of his fingers finding and curling on the clasps of your bra. Not even as he opened it and slid further into you, kissing the tip of your breast and sending goosebumps through your skin. 

He never let go.

And when his lips parted, tipping his tongue out, and making your hands move to the back of his head, fisting at his hair almost bitterly, he only smiled against you, the movement adding another coating to the sensation and making your arch against him.

He licked you softly, licked you hard, covered the areola with his lips and pulled the tip into his mouth, pulled more and harder, until your back arched even more and created a gap between the mattress that his hands took no time to fill, his fingers spraying through your skin and holding you still as his mouth moved, leaving your nipple just to create a path through your body, trailing down to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

Jaeyun lifted his head then, just enough to look at your face properly, catching the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips had parted because your breath had turned pant, your chest moving too fast and allowing your necklace to sparkle.

The room was suddenly too small for how loud his blood had gotten. 

For a moment, he didn’t kiss, didn’t lick, didn’t give either of you the mercy of motion; he only held still and watched, like he needed to see what he was doing to you before he let himself do more.

“Princess,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could decide on anything else. 

You looked at him, and your gazes locked as they had done a dozen times across the existence of you, yet the moment acquired that dream quality because you were here, bare in a way he’d only imagined in the abstract — late at night, in the quietness of his room, in the version of his imagination he kept locked away like contraband — and the distance between wanting and having had narrowed to a single breath.

Jaeyun swallowed, trying to steady himself, before let the moment break by degrees — his palm slid down the slope of your stomach, slow enough to feel like asking, fingertips grazing your skin as if he were relearning it; as if touching you like this rewired something in him that had always been too careful until his fingers finally found the band and paused there, hooked lightly under the elastic.

He looked back up at you then, thumb stroking once along your hip as his other hand held you steady at the small of your back, refusing to let you drift away from him — from this.

“You okay?” he murmured, and it sounded like he meant all of it.

You nodded at him, and he moved — quietly relentless — his knuckles brushed your thighs on the way, accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all, and the sound you made hit him physically. 

He had never been so hard in his whole life.

He guided the panties lower, and lower, until they slipped free; and for a beat, he just held them, as though the simplest thing in his hand had become proof that the night had finally crossed into real.

Then he set them aside without looking, his attention snapping back to you immediately — hand returning to your inner thigh with a firmer hold than before. 

“If I do anything you don’t like — you tell me, okay? We have to communicate.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed. 

His thumb drew one more slow line along your inner thigh, watching the way you answered it before he allowed himself to lower his head again, kissing the inside of your knee this time — soft — almost innocent, if the moment hadn’t been burning at the edges. Then another kiss, slower, lingering, his mouth warming you as his hands guided you open with a care that felt reverent. 

“You are just — beautiful,” he heard himself say.

You let out a small sound that wasn’t quite a breath and wasn’t quite a laugh, startled by how earnest he was being. Your cheeks warmed, and you turned your face just slightly, like you could hide behind the angle.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, aiming for teasing, but it came out too soft for anything but shyness.

And Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, a helpless curve that didn’t reach humor so much as relief. And his hand tightened once at your thigh, then gentled, thumb stroking a quiet line as if to soothe the flush he’d put in you.

“Yeah?” he said. “But is it okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, the word threaded through the quiet laugh that escaped you. You didn’t dress it up, didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t hand him the because — you just let the answer be simple. But it wasn’t simple at all, not to him because he heard the rest in the way your gaze found his and held: yeah, you said, because it’s you.

The first touch of his mouth against your folds was light enough that he didn’t even taste you, but your body still reacted: a sharp inhale, a pull through your spine, the instinctive arch that made his own breath break low in his throat.

And when you tipped your hips to him, he mouthed you again, his hands sliding further into you, thumbs finding the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it — leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in, the tip of his tongue kneading the sensitive flesh around, slightly rubbing before he pressed it, unable to prevent the sound that escaped his throat then — something between reverence and desperation. 

It took your smile away — your lips parting in a gasp as your fingers met and wove through his hair, pulling him in a demand that he had no second thoughts before obeying, giving you another lick — a harder one.

His tongue twirled all around the edge, then he pressed a kiss over it — a long, tender wet kiss before he lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body because you were clenching around nothing, and it suddenly felt too evil, and Jaeyun would never be evil to you.

He pushed his tongue against your hole, and then, he pushed again until his tip went inside it, and he had to control his will to roll his eyes back.

Even his boldest fantasy hadn’t come close to how sweet you actually were. And the thought landed too tender to survive, cracking him open into something darker because being careful had started to feel like another kind of denial, and he couldn’t come to continue to restrain himself when you had given him all the permission. Jaeyun lifted his head just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and honest, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull him back. To tell him to stop. To make him good again.

Yet you didn’t. And something within him shifted. His hands held you firmer, spreading you open as he went back to you no longer soft-edged, and decided to stop hovering at the threshold, giving you what you were asking for.

Jaeyun’s grip tightened as he worked on you, alternating between broad strokes and precise licks on that one spot that never failed to make you cry out his name.  

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your response came almost immediately — a broken moan that seemed to come from somewhere so deeply inside of you, Jaeyun felt your own desperation reverberating through his entire body.

You were getting closer, he could tell by the way your thighs kept quivering under his hands, your breathing becoming more and more ragged with each pass of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough — he needed to see it: the moment pleasure turned undeniable, the moment he could stop wondering if he was reading you wrong.

Jaeyun retreated with a torturous care, pressing a final kiss to your folds as he pushed himself back onto his knees and earned a protest from you.

“Jaeyun—”

“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I need you to hold yourself open for me. Can you do that, Princess?”

You nodded despite yourself, spreading your legs further apart — pushing the soles of your feet against your sheets for some leverage and fuck.

The sight of you like this — glistening with your fluids and remnants of his saliva — the sight of you so ready for him.

He could hardly breathe.

He brought one hand down through your thigh, his thumb resuming the circular motions on your clit while his other hand moved to your seam, teasingly brushing the tips of his fingers through before he slid a single one inside.

You were so wet already, he slipped with no resistance, and it was so dizzying — everything about it was so dizzying — he hardly heard you panting as he began to move his finger in and out, your stomach tightening and giving a small convulsion, but you kept your legs apart as he had asked you to.

It was a false deed, honestly — as if Jaeyun could command anything when both of you knew — he was the one to always follow. 

But he really didn’t care.

When Jaeyun felt you opening up to him, he added a second finger in, curling them slightly to discover that one spot that soon enough got you into a mess — squeezing him with your release as your hands grabbed at your sheets. Your lips parted around his name, and your hair turned wilder as your head pushed against your pillows, arching your back in that one beautiful bow before you melted again.

“Princess,” he called, and you clenched at the endearing name, a velvet heat that he felt in his very soul.

You hadn’t done anything to him, but Jaeyun felt utterly undone by you. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps just by watching you.

God — he could come just by watching you.

You were so wet. His hand was coated with you, white slick dribble coming out of your cunt, making each of his moves obscenely loud in the quiet night, yet — all he could think was how stunning you were like this, so lovely and so his.

He wanted to keep looking — to hold the moment still, to learn it by heart, and make it something real enough to survive the morning. But he wanted to look away, too, all at once — startled by the sheer size of his wanting.

You had so much power over him, it was terrifying even to examine the way you owned his soul. When your gazes caught, his heart seemed to burst in his chest.

Was he doing it for you, or doing it for him? He couldn’t tell anymore.

He curled his fingers deeper inside of you, making you mumble something unintelligible, a sob ripping through your chest and already threatening to turn into a release. Jaeyun couldn’t help but grin at the sound, reveling in the way your body trembled and arched underneath his touch.

You thrashed and thrashed as he still tended you the way you needed, stroking the spots inside that made you shudder and rubbing at your clit until he heard you panting, his own name falling from your lips in a breathless moan before it turned into whimpers, and when you came around him, he leaned in to kiss you.

Jaeyun stayed close through the last shiver, like he didn’t trust the world not to startle you out of it. He kissed you again — slower now, softer — catching your mouth as your breathing stuttered, and pretending that he could take the edge off the intensity just by holding you there. His hand eased from its grip into a gentler touch, smoothing along your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His forehead brushed against yours as his hands smoothed over your body, taking you through until he could cup your face, and his thumb could reach for the corner of your mouth, wiping away the evidence of his kiss with a tenderness that didn’t match how wrecked he looked. He swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, and forced himself to slow his breathing until yours started to follow.

“Still okay?” he asked again, softer, as if the question mattered more now than it had before.

You nodded at him, managing a flimsy sound that might’ve been yes, and Jaeyun pressed another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried, almost devotional, as if he needed to apologize for his own intensity.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need. Water? A minute? Do you want me to hold you, or-?”

“Jaeyun,” you cut.

“Yes, Princess?”

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling and weaving through his hair, holding him still.

“I need you.”

It might have been the words, the small plea that took Jaeyun anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit flimsy because you couldn’t control it still, but either way, he gave in, slipping from your hold only so he could take his t-shirt off. 

He almost choked when you stood with him, your hands reaching for his lower abdomen, nails scraping his skin slightly before you took his belt and unbuckled it. 

“Princess,” he called, the questions already on his tongue, shaped by habit, and the need to do this right.

But you didn’t give him time.

Your hands moved for his jeans, unzipping them as if you’d decided you were done waiting, easing them down in one smooth, impatient motion. The room seemed to go hushed around the sound of it — denim shifting, breath catching — until the only thing left was the sudden, helpless awareness of his length slapping against his abdomen.

Your hand found him, fingers curling around him almost beautifully, closing and molding with a care that didn’t match, and making his whole body go taut, breath pulling tight in his chest like it had nowhere to go. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because he did, too much, too fast, the kind of wanting that threatened to ruin the rest of the night by sheer impatience.

He caught your wrist gently, holding you as his forehead dipped toward yours again, his eyes shutting.

“If you do that,” he began. “I’m not going to last.”

The honesty of it landed between you, sharp with embarrassment. And when he opened his eyes again, there was something almost pleading in the way he looked at you — like he was asking you not to laugh, not to make him feel small for how quickly you could undo him.

“Another time,” he promised, realizing the implications of his words a fraction too late. Not just later tonight. Not just when you feel like it. But again. As if he’d already decided that there was going to be a future where he got to learn you — and be learned — without rushing.

But you didn’t tease him. When you looked at him, your gaze holding his until the heat in his face had nowhere to hide, you merely nodded.

“Okay,” you said.

You were no warmer than Jaeyun was, but when he touched your waist, your skin shivered, a fine tremor running under his fingertips.

“Okay,” he echoed.

You let him ease you down onto the sheets, smoothing you into place as he followed you down, bracing himself over you without crushing you, and kissed you — slow, mouth soft, reverent in a way that made the moment feel almost holy.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered. “Tell me if—”

“I know,” you breathed, and the words sounded so much like trust — Jaeyun’s throat worked, and he kissed you again and again and again, only letting go to reach down beside the bed for his jeans, fingers finding the pocket by feel — clumsy in a way he never remembered being. His breath caught when you made the smallest sound behind him, and he hurried to get his wallet free, forcing it out with a practical shuffle before the faint and quick tear of foil came in the hush.

He slid it on with shaky hands that he hoped you wouldn’t notice.

But you did — of course you did. 

When he climbed back over you, you reached for his arms, your fingers brushing down until you found his hands.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your brows knitted, and searching his face like you were afraid you’d pushed him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Jaeyun went still.

“Because it’s you,” he replied, not giving himself time to consider how much he had exposed with this mere phrase. 

Of course he was shaking. He’d wanted you for so long it had grown into something foundational, something he’d learned to live around and never touch. And now you were here beneath him, looking at him like he was allowed — like he was chosen — and his wanting hadn’t been foolish after all.

His throat worked. He tightened his fingers around yours, trying to make the shaking stop by force.

“If I mess this up, you won’t ever let me hear the end of this,” he smoothed.

You laughed at him — familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest, easing everything inside him as if the sound of you had always known where to press to make him breathe again.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll keep it all as another of our secrets.” 

“What other secrets do we have?”

“What you had under your bed when we were teenagers,” you began. “That you couldn’t sleep without a lampshade until you were twelve. Where we were on your eighteenth birthday. That you cried watching The Notebook—”

“Everyone cried watching The Notebook at least once.”

“Baekhyeon didn’t—”

“Did you watch it with him?”

“It’s my favorite movie, of course I did,” you said. “But don’t worry, it was just once — it’s funnier with you anyway.”

“Obviously,” he said. “Everything is funnier with me — and we are about to have a lot of fun.”

You laughed again, softer and only because he was allowed to — he kissed you again, his hands smoothing your thighs, your calves, his fingers moving and curling around your ankles and pulling you to him, lifting your legs to his hips.

You stiffened as his tip made contact, your body going taut beneath him and he stopped like he’d been trained for it, like every instinct he had rewired itself around not hurting you. His grip shifted back from your ankles to your thighs — his thumbs stroking small, steady circles as if he could coax your muscles out of panic.

“Princess, look at me,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, a little bit too frantically as if you were afraid he would really stop it, and Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, a sound that stood somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. He kissed you once, slow and grounding, then another at the corner of your mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we go slow. I’m right here.”

He shifted — barely enough to change the angle, but you seemed to feel it and his thumb reached for you seam, wetting the tip of it with your fluids, and finding your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you closing your eyes, moving your hips, and welcoming whatever he was giving.

Jaeyun made himself still enough to read you, his eyes tracking your face with the kind of focus that might’ve felt clinical, if it hadn’t been so tender. He watched your breathing first, then your mouth, then the tiny shifts in your shoulders before he slowed and it eased again.

He moved in careful increments, pausing whenever your breath changed. Waiting whenever your brows pinched. His hands steadied you — firm at your thighs, gentle at your waist, and holding you through the newness of it.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Is it okay?”

You nodded and he lowered his forehead toward yours.

It was slow at first, all about him discovering the new shape of you, but soon enough, it was confident and knowing. When he drew back, he knew exactly how to move back in, how to make you tighten around him, and his name to escape from your lips a little bit more frantically as his rhythm increased.

Your fingers spread through the back of his neck, fingers twisting at the hair at his nape and bringing him closer and closer, as if you couldn’t help it. And when your breath turned ragged and your fingers tightened, Jaeyun pressed his mouth to your temple, whispering your name like a promise he could finally keep.

Even if only temporarily.

“Yun, I’m going—”

“It’s okay, Princess,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

And this time he meant it in every way.

“Come for me, babe.”

You twisted under his body, even as he kept you pinned in place with his hands on your hips, squirming and whimpering your way through it, finishing with an almighty shudder as you came a second time, and it was so beautiful, and overwhelming — he tried to stay careful. He tried to keep his breathing even. But you said his name like you needed him, and something in him cracked clean through.

He buried his face against your neck, a shaky sound trapped in his throat. “Princess—”

He didn’t have room for anything except you.

No thought. No control. Just the force of feeling, cresting too high and too fast, until it dragged a groan from him with your name inside it — like that was the only thing he could say when he finally lost himself — and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed and spilled inside of you — groaning your name. The echo of it carved into your skin as he buried himself, his fingers molding into your skin with an intensity that left behind indentations as the waves of his pleasure washed over.

Jaeyun hadn’t realized how noisy you both had been, but the room felt suddenly too quiet after. 

And for a beat, he only stayed still — his forehead tucked against the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the air between you, the feeling of your pulse under his mouth, your fingers still lost in his hair, and your bodies so tangled, he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and you began — his whole soul afraid that the moment would slip away the second he admitted it had happened.

But then, you made a small sound, and it made him force his head up — just enough to look at you.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then paused, thumb hovering at your lips because he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you like this now that the moment was gone. 

“You okay?” he asked, the question already worn thin by the number of times he had used it through the night, but it felt heavier somehow, meaning more than any of the earlier ones ever had.

But if anything, you only nodded — leaning into his touch as your lashes fluttered shut.

“Just stay,” you whispered.

And so, he stayed — rolling you both through your bed, his back sinking into the mattress as he drew you to his chest, giving you a place to rest as if it was any other night and you were merely best friends falling asleep together. He stayed until your heartbeat evened out against him and the room turned orange and pink with sunrise, dust motes catching in the full light like glittering hush, and the night had inevitably bent itself into morning.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Jaeyun lay on your bed, holding a breath in his chest as if it could keep the morning from happening. The sun slipped through your parted curtains and spilled across the room — patient and indisputable — turning everything into proof.  

Your dress was still pooled on the hardwood, your panties right above it, and his jeans were so close it could’ve been one thing. Your bra was still at the edge of the bed, pink, half-tucked into the sheets he couldn’t remember tangling.  

He let the breath go, and the mattress answered, making you stir — just a little — your head rolling off his chest until your chin found him again.  

When your eyes opened, the light caught and held — as if it had nowhere else to be.  

Jaeyun felt the instinct to speak. Something practical. Something safe. Something that could be filed under morning conversation and good friend behavior.  

Are you okay? he thought. Do you need water? 

Do you want me to make breakfast again and pretend I don’t care when you mock me for it?

But you didn’t give him time.  

You lifted your head — sleepy as it was certain — brushing your nose against his before you caught his lower lip between yours and kissed him in a way that made teasing feel like a promise.

Jaeyun went utterly still, his hands hovering, useless with hesitation. He had spent years learning which parts of you he was allowed to hold — elbow, shoulder, wrist; the small, steadying touches that could be explained without telling on himself.  

But this was your room.  

Your bed.  

Your morning.  

And you were kissing him like you’d never once needed an explanation, catching his lower lip — so gentle it hardly counted as a bite — holding it for one heartbeat longer before you let him go and eased back.

Jaeyun blinked, and the muted morning light dazed him — your room pressing in with a kind of hush that made it feel like a dream: sun-warm sheets, the sound of breath, the closeness of you like something he hadn’t earned but had been given anyway. He let it hold him for a suspended moment before he leaned in and kissed you again, this time with more feeling than thought — one hand found your waist, as the other slid behind your neck, tilting you up to him.

Your breath caught at that, and for a moment, Jaeyun feared he had gone too far — too fast. He’d finally slipped enough to not be able to lie and pretend he hadn’t broken his second rule, but then you shifted, sliding a leg over his hips, straddling him like it was the most natural place in the world to be, and something in him went quiet with the rightness of it.

He didn’t move first. He didn’t take. He only held where you’d placed him.

And when you parted — pulling back just enough for you to breathe — it carried the kind of practicality that had always been your shared language. 

“I need a shower,” you said.

For a beat, Jaeyun blinked at you, incapable of understanding the words. But then, his brain latched onto it, and he felt thankful. A shower meant tiles. Water. Soap. Clean lines. A task that could be completed. A thing he could do without interpreting your mouth, your eyes, the way your kiss had said stay.

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay, yeah.”

Jaeyun shifted carefully, guiding you off him with hands that tried to remember what permitted felt like — waist, ribs, shoulder — anywhere that could still pass as gentle logistics instead of want. His gaze skated away from your face on instinct, as if looking at it too directly might pull him back under, and slipped out of the bed.

You followed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, slightly swaying — more due to sleepiness than weakness, but Jaeyun’s body reacted anyway. He reached for you, his hands steady on your arms.

He helped you up. Guided you through your studio: past the small table with the stack of books, past the mug you never fully put away, and into the narrow bathroom where the tiles were warm and the mirror caught the gold of morning and gave it back to him as evidence.

Your skin carried so many marks from the night before that his breath caught.

He looked away so fast it felt like a flinch.

Jaeyun moved like he was trying to fix the world.

He turned on the light first. Then the fan. Then the tap — hot first, then cold, adjusting in small increments until the water felt right because putting things in order always helped him keep control. 

He watched the water steam faintly as it ran, watched it like it was a system he could calibrate.

He set a towel within your reach. Folded it once, then unfolded it because the fold looked too neat and he didn’t want you to notice how nervous he was. Then he reached for your shampoo and put it back where it already was, because he suddenly ran out of things to do, but his hands still sought for something.

You leaned your hip against the sink and watched him with that quiet softness that made his chest feel too full. The bathroom was suddenly too bright for how careful he was trying to be.

“Yun,” you called, and he turned to you like a man answering a question in class — focused, braced, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Yeah?”

You tilted your head, gaze flicking once before you merely stepped past him, your hands brushing and taking his, pulling him to the shower with you.

The steam gathered immediately, beading on his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the morning until the world became smaller and quieter.

“Sometimes, I can hear you thinking,” you said. “Did you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

You laughed at that, but didn’t say anything. You merely turned around, reaching for the shampoo bottle he had previously rummaged and gave it to him. 

“Wash my hair,” you said. 

And so, he did.

Jaeyun took the bottle, pouring shampoo into his palm — more than he needed, because his hands were unsteady — and rubbed it between them until it warmed and foamed. Then his fingers slid into your hair, working the suds in small circles at the crown of your head, careful and thorough, moving outward as the steam gathered and the water ran down your spine. His knuckles grazed your ear once. An accident, maybe. But you let out a sound — more a sigh than anything, and something in Jaeyun tightened anyway, a flare that made his chest feel too warm. His jaw flexed at it, and he forced his hands to stay where they belonged — his attention to stay on the sequence, because sequence meant control: lather, rinse, repeat.

He rinsed you with his palm shielding your forehead, water sluicing through your hair in clear sheets. The gesture was intimate in the most domestic way — protective, practiced — as if he’d been doing it for years.

And maybe that was why it did him in.

You must have felt the pause in him, the way his body went too still behind you, because when he finally finished, you turned to him, reaching for the bottle, and pouring shampoo into your own palm as you stepped closer — the warm line of you almost meeting the warm line of him, and slid your fingers into his hair.

Jaeyun didn’t know what to do with himself.

He merely bent a little so you could reach, letting your hands take over with a quiet competence that made his throat work. Water ran down his temples, traced the line of his jaw, caught at his lashes. He kept his eyes on the tile like a prayer — like if he looked at you, he’d lose the last clean edge of himself.

You rinsed him, and only when you tapped his hands — did he straighten again.

Then you smoothed soap over his bare skin, starting at his shoulders, your palms unhurried and warm. Down his collarbones. Over his chest.

Jaeyun’s breath broke when you reached his lower abdomen, your fingertips hovering dangerously close to the ache he’d been holding back, and making a sound slip from him — low, involuntary — rushing before he could trap it.

“Princess,” he said, but the word carried no warning at all, and you merely allowed your fingers to rest there, steady as the way your gaze met his.

“You said another time,” you remembered. 

Jaeyun froze.

Not because he didn’t understand. Because he did. Because the memory arrived with humiliating clarity: your hand curled on him in a way that made his honesty slip out raw and breathless last night.

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose. Steam beaded along his lashes; water traced the line of his jaw. He still didn’t look at you — not fully — like eye contact might knock the last brace out from under him while he was still negotiating with himself. Like he was trying to find the border between permitted and improper and realizing you’d moved it with one sentence.

“Are you asking me?” he began. “Or—”

“I’m asking,” you said.

His gaze found yours.

“Okay,” he said, and this time the word didn’t sound like procedure, but like agreement. Like trust.

He took your wrist and guided your hand, not down, not yet, but to his jaw, to his throat, to a place he could handle without losing himself.

“Slow,” he said, and you nodded at him, letting your fingers linger.

Your thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw first — testing, almost absent — before your hand slid lower and lower, following the line of his throat, his collar bones. Water ran between your knuckles and his skin, warm and constant, making every touch feel softened at the edges, as if the steam had filed down the danger until it could pass for tenderness, but Jaeyun’s pulse changed immediately, his heart racing as though it too wanted to reach for you through his skin, meeting where your fingers brushed against his chest.

Jaeyun’s lips parted in a soft gasp as you reached for him, tentatively brushing through his extension. Starting from the already flushed tip and moving to the prominent veins all over him and then, all the way back, receiving an almost imperceptible buck of his hips in response.

“Okay?” you asked, and he nodded, but it wasn’t an answer so much as a reflex — his body trying to behave when his mind had gone helpless and searched for something to say — something small enough to fit inside a bathroom, inside steam, inside the ordinary noise of water hitting tile.

But there was no small word that fit because how could he say that anything you did with him would be okay?

How could he say that if you asked for his heart, he would open his ribs for you? If you reached in and took it, he would hold still and even tender you if you faltered.

Jaeyun swallowed, throat tight, breath catching on the way out as he reached for you, his fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb reached for where a drop had taken place on your skin. 

“I’m okay,”  he said then, the closest answer he could give for what he meant. If you could feel the shape of the unspoken right alongside the spoken, you didn’t show it. 

Your hand merely closed around his length, fingertips tracing the same places his mind had traced a thousand times in private, and every pass of your hand felt like it rewrote him — like your touch didn’t just touch, but claimed a truth he’d been denying for years.

Jaeyun’s breath hitched as you guided him closer, his eyes shutting as his forehead tipped to the curve of your neck.

“Princess,” he whispered, not really sure if he intended to say something, but the sudden call made you pause, your hand motionless enough to make his breath hitch again, his hips bucking and chasing for the friction still. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, and perhaps it had been the words, perhaps it had been the way he said it, more like a plea than a request. But you didn’t — even when his grip tightened on you, his finger shaping bruises on your hips, and his lips parted, leaving a matching one at your neck.

You didn’t stop, even when he came into your hand. You merely gentled him, moving to his stomach, his chest, smoothing him down until his breath wasn’t so ragged and his heart had come into peace beneath your touch.

“Yun,” you called, and he hummed at you, still pressed close, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he’d forgotten what to do with the air. Water clung to his lashes. Steam softened the hard lines of him into something boyish, something undone. For once, he wasn’t braced for impact — he was simply there, breathing, and letting you see him, and it was strange how it made your kiss just even better.

How he could simply melt into you.

You smiled at that — small, warm — kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then a place beneath his jaw that made Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipping just slightly to give you access, like his body wanted to cooperate even when his mind still tried to keep score.

“Princess,” he breathed again, and this time it sounded less like a plea and more like disbelief.

Your hands found him at your hips, guiding it down through your body, the swell of your ass, giving him enough time to grow on it, and take the lead, brushing over warm skin, following curves with a care that made it feel devotional rather than desperate. 

“Okay?” he murmured, because he couldn’t help — he couldn’t ease — not until you had nodded, brushing your noses and making something within settle with the gentleness of it.

Jaeyun exhaled and stepped closer. One hand halted at your waist while the other slid down and around, his fingers tightening briefly against your skin before he shifted, and lifted one of your legs — guiding it up to rest against his hip.

His tip brushed against your seam with the new position, barely anything, but you drew in a breath that didn’t quite make it back out to you, and a faint, trembling noise escaped through your lips instead, and he couldn’t help the soft, almost-gentle smugness that warmed his smile.

He rolled his hips against yours, and your head tipped back, eyes closing and lips still parted on that same faltered breath, allowing sunlight to catch on your skin in the shift, warm and liquid-gold along the lines of you.

“Bed,” you whined, and you didn’t need to tell him twice. 

Jaeyun turned the taps off, not really checking if he had done it properly, before he took you in his arms again, folding your legs around his waist as he walked you back down the short stretch of your place. Water tumbled from you both — tiny drops trembling loose with each step, catching the light before they fell in a thin, gleaming trail on your floorboards.

But you didn’t complain, you didn’t even say anything. When he placed you on the mattress; you merely spread your legs further — wordlessly making room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Condom,” you reminded him. “Do you have more?”

For a moment, the question didn’t make sense, but then, he nodded at you, slipping from your touch — just enough to reach for the wallet still tossed on your floor.

“How many did you bring?” you asked, and although Jaeyun had listened to it and understood, he didn’t reply, he allowed the question to hang in the air, a flush of warmth spreading up to his cheeks because the memory of him piling it at the chaser before he went to his classes last evening was too fresh still. 

Just enough, he had thought like he wasn’t, in fact, hoping.

Hoping that it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.

Jaeyun’s fingers fumbled once at the wallet before he forced them steady. He didn’t let himself look at you while he did it; if he looked, he’d lose the last clean thread of control he had left, and so, he merely tore the foil, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and the practical motions that followed felt like an anchor — something procedural to keep him from drowning in the fact that you were watching.

He climbed back onto the mattress, moving slowly, knees sinking into the sheets between your thighs. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted automatically to make space for him, your body already well known in the shape of him.

Jaeyun paused above you.

Water still clung to your hair, darkening the strands where they stuck to your neck. Your skin gleamed in the soft light — warm, flushed, kissed by steam and morning and the evidence of him. You looked up at him with your mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, eyes steady and it hit him so hard it almost made him gentle to the point of breaking.

“Princess,” he said, but if anything, you reached up, fingers catching at the back of his neck — not pulling him down, only holding him there — close enough to feel your breath on his mouth. Close enough that he couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wanted it.

Jaeyun lowered his forehead to yours and breathed once, then twice, as if he was counting himself into calm.

“Tell me if—” 

“I know,” you cut, and he snorted at that, his hands finding your thighs, and spreading there with care — measuring you, reading you, bracing you the way he always did when something mattered and he couldn’t afford to do it wrong.

He pulled in slowly, pausing each time your breath changed. Waiting when your fingers tightened in his hair. Listening like your body was the only language he trusted.

“Okay?” he murmured against your mouth.

“Okay.”

Jaeyun exhaled, giving himself a moment before he shifted his weight and settled in deeper.

You made a small sound at that, and Jaeyun halted — caught mid-motion as his eyes stayed on your face, searching for the smallest crack of discomfort, for anything he might have missed and could never forgive himself for.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “Is it too much?”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s — good.”

That answer landed somewhere under his ribs and stayed.

Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a beat. And when he opened them again, he looked wrecked in the quietest way.

He kissed you once more, slower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, beneath your jaw — mapping comfort into you the way he mapped calm into circuits, the way he tried to fix the world when it was too big.

And then he moved again, careful and deliberate, letting the moment become real one breath at a time.

The sheets gathered under your fingers. The room narrowed to heat and the sound of his name caught in your throat. Jaeyun held you like he could keep you safe simply by refusing to rush, like tenderness was the only rule he needed now.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, blinking under the morning light and making him swallow, his chest swelling then, big enough to break open with love for you. And perhaps, you had felt it too — heard it in his voice, this sickening desperation, because your hands found his face, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he was burying deep inside of you, his tip forming an eminence on the lower part of your belly as he worked on you with slow, long thrusts, and making you come in the morning haze.

Jaeyun collapsed beside you, his back sinking into the mattress as you followed rolling so you rested over his chest.

“Always,” you whispered, the word coming so suddenly, Jaeyun blinked down at you, his head rolling so he could search your face, confused if he had asked you something in his own haze. But sunlight picked strands of your hair, reflected through your damp skin. And he couldn’t make sense of anything.

“What?”

“I’m always okay when I’m with you,” you said.

He knew that he shouldn’t — but Jaeyun felt so right about it.

He felt so right when you called him Sunday afternoon, a tiny can you help me with something? rolling from your tongue and making him sprint to your place, being greeted with you already in your lingerie and you didn’t lie — you had no bad pairs.

When he brought you down onto the bed, he didn’t even care about taking it out of you; his fingers merely reached in between your thighs, holding the piece as he slid inside of you.

He didn’t know then, if his hands were still doing their job or if they’d defected. If he was still keeping you safe — or if he’d finally started touching you like he’d wanted to for years, and breaking one more rule.

But as he held you, listening to you breathe quickening and setting against the curve of his neck, he couldn’t make himself care.

Again.

RULE #3: DO NOT BE POSSESSIVE  

I’m her best friend. I always have been. That doesn’t give me the right to be possessive. If I can’t be calm about her, I at least have to be kind. If I touch her, it has to feel like a question she can stop — not a claim. And if someday she chooses someone else, I have to accept it. I have to accept it like it won’t split me in half.

Jaeyun woke to movement.  

Not the slow, sleep-warm kind he’d grown used to in the past weeks, but something quicker — restless. Drawers scraped open and knocked shut again in the same nervous motion; fabric whispered against fabric, and hangers clacked as they were shoved aside.

He didn’t open his eyes — not yet. He listened to you instead: your bare feet skimming the floor, the breath you kept trying to hush, the tiny hitch of frustration when something wasn’t unfolding the way you needed it to.  

And that — that was what pulled his eyes open at last. You sounded wound tight with it, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand the idea of you being anything but fine.

You were half-dressed — shorts on, bra, hair still messy in the way only the mornings after managed, the frizz denoting the number of times he had made you come the night before, arching and pushing your head against the sheets — one of his t-shirts clutched in your hands like it belonged to you more than it belonged to him.

“What—”

You looked over your shoulder at him, guilty only for the fraction of a second it took before your face rearranged into something else.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I’m late.”

Jaeyun pushed himself up on his elbows, the sheets slipping down his waist. He blinked slowly, trying to coax his mind into one piece through the morning haze.  

“Late for what?” he asked — voice rough with sleep and something worse.  

“My exam,” you said, already turning and moving another hanger. This time you pulled a blue plaid shirt free — the kind you’d been loving to borrow and make him come to collect it himself, your scent worked into the fabric like a quiet claim disguised as comfort.  

“You’re stealing that,” he said.  

You didn’t even bother to look guilty. “Borrowing.”  

“My wardrobe is becoming empty.”  

“And yet,” you said, turning to him with that familiar tilt of your mouth, “you really don’t hate it.”

Jaeyun didn’t answer. He merely watched as you stepped in close again, stealing the air from between you, as you pressed a kiss to his mouth — soft, swift, like a blessing you left behind on purpose.

And the second you pulled away, he moved. Jeans in his fists, he dragged them on as he went, stumbling through the doorway — desperate to be the first thing at your heels.

He caught you at the exact moment his roommates did — both of them lingering in the living room, their backpacks slung over one shoulder, caught in their coffee-stained routines — until the second they saw you and stopped like they’d walked into an invisible wall.

Sunghoon’s gaze went straight to the shirt.  

Then to Jaeyun.  

Then back to you, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

Jongseong’s eyebrows lifted, slow and serene — the kind of calm that only existed because he liked chaos best when it belonged to someone else.

“Morning,” Jongseong said.

“Morning,” you replied — too bright. “I’m late.”

“Exam?” Jongseong offered, easing into conversation the way he always did: polite, steady, giving everyone an out.

Jaeyun cleared his throat. “She’s late.”

“I am late,” you echoed, pointing at him like it was somehow his fault you’d woken up tangled in his sheets instead of your own — in a room with no alarm clock at all, because Jaeyun despised morning obligations. “But yes.”

You crouched by the door, fingers quick on your laces, and slipping your shoes on.

Sunghoon’s eyes tracked you the whole time, amusement sharpening at the edges of his expression as Jongseong, bless him, kept the conversation where it belonged — safe, ordinary. 

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you,” you chirped, already halfway upright again. “Do you have exams too?”

“We’re finishing our exams too,” Sunghoon said. “We should go out after. Celebrate.”

Jaeyun’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down whatever sound wanted to come out of him.

“Arcano?” you asked, and Jongseong’s expression tightened into immediate refusal. He despised the bar, convinced it was what got him hospitalized during his first semester. “I know it’s terrible, but Yun has classes until late tonight — it’s the most reasonable for him.”

For a moment, the room went strangely quiet.

Jaeyun’s gaze found yours and held, warmth rising in him — quiet, disarming — and he went still with it, not knowing where to put the feeling. His mouth parted on a reflex, then he swallowed it back.

Jongseong’s eyes flicked to Jaeyun, then back to you.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if anyone ends up in the ER again, I’m haunting all of you.”

“That’s fair,” Sunghoon said.

“You don’t have to—” Jaeyun began.

“I — we want to,” you cut in, the words coming as gentle as it was final before you stood and took the knob. “Text me the time!”

You slipped out with a bright, hurried smile, the borrowed shirt hanging off you like a secret, and making Jaeyun step forward, holding the door open so he could stand in the doorway, lingering in the shape of you leaving, and the way you’d arranged the world so he could follow.

When Jaeyun finally clicked the door shut, silence filled the hallway for exactly two seconds before Sunghoon whistled. 

“So,” he began, but Jaeyun didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed on the closed door. “Friends-with-benefits?”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“Oh, it is that.”

“It’s not—” Jaeyun started, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he turned to his roommates. “I mean, I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”

“But you should,” Jongseong said, his voice neutral enough for Jaeyun not to hear the warning it carried until the air in the room shifted.

“Baekhyeon talked to me yesterday,” Sunghoon said.

“What?” Jaeyun asked, more as a reflex than in fact, understanding what it meant. “Why?”

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked to the door before it moved to Jongseong. And Jaeyun didn’t need anyone to spell it out — his roommates had already talked about this when he wasn’t there.

“He wanted to ask about her,” Sunghoon said. “He didn’t come in aggressive — just pathetic.”

Jongseong’s mouth flattened. “Careful.”

“I’m not being cruel,” Sunghoon replied. “I’m telling the vibe. He was clearly bothered, like he knew what he’s doing was humiliating.”

“What did he say?” Jaeyun asked, his voice warped to his own ears. “Exactly.”

“That was it,” Sunghoon said. “He just asked if I’d been seeing her around.”

He paused. 

“And if she was with someone else.”

Jongseong’s eyes cut to Jaeyun, concern flashing there before he forced his expression back into stillness.

“And?” Jaeyun asked.

Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “I am not stupid, I didn’t say you both have been acting like bunnies over the past few weeks.”

“Do you think she told him something?”

“No,” Sunghoon cut. “That’s the thing — I think he has been trying to contact her, but she has been ignoring him.”

And suddenly, it made sense — all those times he’d watched you skim your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, before you set it aside and you looked back at him, a smile forced into place.

God — he’d been so silly for overlooking it.

“He broke up with her,” Jaeyun said. 

“We are not telling you this to make you stressed,” Jongseong cut in. “We are just telling you so you can decide — this thing of yours is working for now, and I am glad for you — she apparently doesn’t want Baekhyeon back, which is great, but it might be someone else someday, and you will have to decide if you are okay with having only a part of her again.”

The apartment fell silent at this, and only then did Jaeyun notice how fast his heart was beating. It hummed against his ears, so loud he couldn’t even think.

When you were both younger — ten, maybe eleven — you had camped in your parents’ garden, your backs side by side on a too-thin blanket and a tent that never stopped letting the wind in. The world had been so silent, you’d whispered that it felt like there were only the two of you in the world, wouldn’t it be nice? You had asked. Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and said something dumb to make you grin, too young to consider anything.

Now, in his hallway with your perfume still on his skin and your borrowed shirt still bright in his mind, he understood what you’d meant. It would be so nice — so nice — if the world really could narrow down to just the two of you, and choosing you didn’t mean risking everything else. And he didn’t know whether that thought made him in love or made him dangerous.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

By the time Jaeyun arrived at Arcano, you were already on the dance floor with Jongseong and Sunghoon.

And it was stupid, honestly, how whenever he thought he was getting used to your existence, you managed to surprise him — newly lit, newly impossible — you stood between his roommates, eyes sparkling, arms half around Sunghoon’s shoulders as you both shouted the lyrics of a song that was too loud and too familiar, and Sunghoon was singing like he meant it, even if he was off-key on purpose. Jongseong yelled the chorus at your back, his face turned upwards as if the ceiling had personally offended him.

Arcano was the same as it had always been — red bulbs that made everyone look like a rumor, sticky floors that clung to the soles of your shoes like the place didn’t want anyone leaving sober, and bass so loud it turned thought into vibration. The air smelled like cheap liquor and perfume and sweat and the faint bite of citrus from a just-spilled drink. 

And it’s too much — everything was too much.

But the moment he stepped further, you turned to him — not searching, but sure — as though you knew he was going to be standing there.

Gravity, he thought.

He moved through the bodies like he’d done it a hundred times — shoulders angled, hands careful, a quiet apology here and there, never shoving, never rushing. The bass beat against his ribs and still he stayed steady, eyes on you the whole time as if the rest of the room was just static.

You didn’t meet him halfway — you never did — you stayed where you were, your body turned subtly toward him, and only when he got close enough, your hand lifted, fingers finding his. And the moment you held him, the noise of Arcano seemed to dull around the edges, like the room had agreed to give you a fraction of quiet.

His hand was cold while yours was warm, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.

And God — he wanted to kiss it. 

You had changed since the morning, trading the shorts and t-shirt for a white dress, but his shirt remained, draped around your shoulders, and making his breath catch — he tightened his grip only enough to be sure you felt him back.

“Hi,” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but soft in the way you always became with him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sunghoon shouted. “We were about to file a missing person report.”

Jaeyun huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. He had gone to the apartment after his classes to drop off his backpack, but he didn’t feel like explaining, not when you were squeezing his hand — small, and private.

“Did you eat?” you asked, and Jaeyun felt the absurd tenderness of it. The fact that you could be in a bar, sweating and laughing and alive, and still your first instinct with him was care.

“Yes,” he lied automatically.

Your eyes narrowed. “Yun.”

“I ate.”

“You ate what?” you asked, and Jaeyun opened his mouth, but his words stalled, and so he closed it again.

“He didn’t eat,” Jongseong said.

“He did that thing where he decides worrying is a food group,” Sunghoon agreed.

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed, but his hand stayed linked with yours like the connection mattered more than winning. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t argue, or at least, not right away. You just watched him for a second, your expression shifting into something softer and knowing, like you could see through him even in red light and bass.

“I am getting you something,” you said. “Stay here — don’t wander.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “He literally can’t. He’s on a leash.”

Jongseong barked a laugh. “Be nice.”

Jaeyun opened his mouth to protest, but you were already gone — your smile tossed back at him before you turned toward the bar and leaving him to stand there, eyes following, and tracking the small obstacles: the drunk guy who swayed too wide, the table edge that could catch your hip, the slick patch of floor near the booths. All the little risks the world liked to place in your path, as if daring him not to rush up and fix it before it could hurt you.

You barely had reached the counter when he approached you. 

For a moment, Jaeyun thought it was a guy merely trying his luck with you, but then he shifted, red light catching on his features and Jaeyun recognized him immediately. 

Baekhyeon.

Your body stiffened as he leaned in, his mouth close to your ear for a moment before you shifted sideways, trying to create space. Jaeyun couldn’t hear the words leaving your mouth, but your body was speaking loudly enough: no.

Yet Baekhyeon didn’t step back; when you seemed to be about to leave, he reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, and forcing you to stay.

Jaeyun didn’t even think, Sunghoon shouted something behind him, but he was already moving, shoving through people, and cutting a direct line toward you.

“Just listen.” Jaeyun heard Baekhyeon say, his grip still on you. “Just for a second.”

“I said no,” you said. “Let go—”

“Let her go.”

Baekhyeon turned at the sound of his voice, eyes unfocused and caught in that ugly space between sober and drunk. For a second he only stared, his brain having to wade through the noise to understand what he was seeing. But then, something in his face tightened, reading the truth between the lines and understanding, all at once, that you weren’t alone here. That you weren’t waiting to be won back. That whatever space he thought he still had in your life had been filled.

Or worse — that it never existed at all.

Jaeyun inhaled, his chest filling with a silly compassion toward Baekhyeon because he, too, wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found himself being dismissed from your life like this, but then Baekhyeon’s hand tightened on your wrist, making your fingers contract in pain, and Jaeyun exhaled, letting it all go. 

He would crawl through hell, cut himself open until his body had become numb to pain, but Jaeyun surely would never hurt you — never.

“Let her go,” Jaeyun repeated.

Baekhyeon’s laugh echoed oddly loud in Arcano’s air.

“Here he is,” he said. “Always showing up like a good little — what is it? Lap dog?”

Jaeyun’s jaw flexed once. He’d been called worse — he could take worse — but then Baekhyeon’s gaze slid over you again, slow and mean, taking in your dress, your flushed cheeks, the smile you’d been wearing five minutes ago like it was a crime, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand it. 

He stepped forward.

“Baekhyeon,” Jaeyun warned, and the other released your wrist, flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture as he looked around the bar. 

For a moment, Jaeyun believed Baekhyeon had given up, putting an end to it, but then he turned back at you again, eyes brighter than ever.

“Tell me,” he said, loud enough that people nearby started to glance. “Did you ever actually care about me? Or was I just—”

He looked at Jaeyun.

“—filling time until your lap dog finally got his reward?”

Jaeyun didn’t decide to shove him — he didn’t plan it — his body merely moved like it had been waiting for permission from something older than thought.

His hands drove into Baekhyeon’s chest, making him stumble back, hard, and knocking into someone behind him. 

Drink spilled onto the floor, and the scent of it rose almost immediately — sharp citrus and cheap sugar, muddled by the stale sweetness already living in the boards. It cut through the sweat and perfume for half a second, bright as a peel torn open, before the warmth of the room swallowed it again and left only the sour bite of liquor drying in the air.

“What the fuck—?” Baekhyeon barked. 

“Yun,” you called, but it was already too late.

Baekhyeon launched himself at Jaeyun, his knuckles across Jaeyun’s cheekbone with a hot, skidding sting.

For a beat, the impact didn’t hurt the way it should’ve — it was just information — pressure, heat, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth.

But then, something in him snapped.

The image of Baekhyeon’s hand around your wrist flashed behind his eyes like a match struck in dry tinder, and Jaeyun moved before his mind could catch up.

His fist drove forward on instinct, a short, brutal arc — no finesse, no warning — just the need to hit back, to end it, to make Baekhyeon understand with his body what his brain refused to learn.

The punch connected.

Jaeyun felt it in his knuckles, in the jolt up his arm, in the startled give of flesh beneath bone — and the sound that left Baekhyeon was small, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected consequences to be real. Jaeyun didn’t wait to see what it did to his face. He only stepped in closer and did it again.

Baekhyeon fell on the dirty floor, Jaeyun above him, fist in the middle of another throw, when someone hooked an arm around Jaeyun’s chest from behind and hauled him up.

“Stop it,” Jongseong snapped. “You’re going to ruin your damn face.”

But Jaeyun barely heard him. He was still leaning forward, still straining toward the floor like if he just landed one more hit, the feeling in his chest would finally loosen, and make sense. 

Jongseong tightened his hold, bracing his weight behind Jaeyun’s back like an anchor.

“Yun,” you called.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Jaeyun froze like you’d put a hand straight on his spine. His fist hovered, trembling with leftover momentum, and then your hands were on his face — warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if you could physically pull him back into himself.

“Yun,” you said again, closer now, eyes searching his like you were trying to find the part of him that still knew you.

And just like that, the fight drained out of him in a shuddering rush. His shoulders sagged. His breath broke. He let Jongseong hold him up for a second longer than he should’ve needed before he leaned on your touch.

“Princess, I—”

“Come with me,” you said. “Can you?”

For a second, Jaeyun couldn’t find the shape of an answer. Not because he didn’t have one — but because he had too many, a lifetime of yeses he’d never said out loud. His body was still buzzing with violence, his knuckles still singing, but your hands on his face made the world narrow into something he could survive. You were asking like it was a choice, like he was a person with options, when the truth was simpler than that: he had been following you since he was old enough to recognize your voice in a crowd. Since gardens and tents and school hallways. Since the first time you turned and expected him to be there — and he was.

“Yes,” he breathed, and the word came out rough, almost broken with how easy it was. Because you could’ve asked him to walk through fire and he would’ve stepped forward without thinking, just because you were the place his instinct went when the world got sharp. His hand rose, uncertain at first, then settled at your wrist like a question he’d spend his whole life answering the same way. 

Always.

You looked past him to Jongseong and nodded, a quiet reassurance, and Jongseong finally released Jaeyun.

“Come,” you said, your fingers slipping into his.

˖ ⟡  ݁˖

Arcano’s neon shrank behind you with every step, its red glow thinning into something distant and irrelevant, but Jaeyun’s body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The adrenaline still sat high in his chest, making his breath feel too big for his lungs, his heart beating like it was trying to outrun what had happened. He kept swallowing like he could force it down.

You didn’t talk much at first. You didn’t need to. You just walked — your fingers laced through his.

And every time his grip tightened without meaning to, you squeezed back once, small and reassuring. It’s okay. I’m here. 

The street was cooler than it had any right to be, so closer to the summer, late-night air cutting cleanly through the smell of booze still clinging to him. The city sounded normal — cars passing, a laugh from someone’s balcony, a distant siren that didn’t belong to you. It was strange, how quickly the world returned to ordinary after a fight. As if nothing could be important for more than a few minutes.

Jaeyun glanced at you once, then again.

You looked furious in a contained way, like your anger had somewhere to go now that you’d gotten him out. Your mouth was set, your brow faintly pinched. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand, absent and grounding, like you couldn’t help checking he was still there.

Jaeyun’s chest tightened.

He wanted to say something useful. He wanted to apologize in a way that would actually fix it. But every sentence he tried to build collapsed into the same thing: I saw him touch you and I lost my mind.

Instead, he stayed quiet and let you lead.

You pushed the code into the keypad of your door with muscle memory, the little beep sounding too loud in the stairwell before it buzzed open and revealed your apartment.

Quiet in the specific way your place always was — soft, contained, familiar, smelling like clean laundry, faint florals, the lived-in warmth of your routines. The small lamp near your bed cast a gentle yellow glow that made everything look calmer than it felt. Books stacked neatly where they always were. A mug by the sink. A blanket folded too precisely at the end of the bed like you’d been trying to keep your life in order by force.

“Shoes,” you remembered. “Then sit by the counter.”

Jaeyun did as you said, slipping out of his shoes before he went to your counter and sat down on a chair, his hands on his thighs, and palms down, like he was trying to behave as you rummaged around — drawers, cabinet, a small basket you moved too roughly — the soft clack of objects knocking together filling the silence between you.

“First aid,” you muttered. “I know I have it.”

“Princess,” he said quietly.

“Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t going—” he began, but stopped, suddenly understanding. You weren’t being dramatic, but practical, anchoring the night into tasks: disinfectant, gauze, bandage. The same way he always did when his emotions got too big to hold comfortably.

You found the kit with a little gasp before you crossed back to him and set it on the table with a soft thud, kneeling slightly so you could see him properly.

“Give me your hand,” you said.

Jaeyun hesitated for a fraction of a second — then extended it.

Your hand closed around his, gently turning it over in the light, and beneath this sudden clarity, you frowned, eyebrows knitted, lips pressing into a thin line. The wounds were worse than it seemed. There was a cut over his fingers, bleeding as a darker bruise spread over. You reached for them, the tips of your fingers wandering through his skin as if you could erase them with your bare touch.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Jaeyun went still, your words reaching past the cuts and hitting something deeper.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”

“It’s my fault—” you started. 

“No,” Jaeyun cut in. “No. He did that. Not you.”

You turned to the aid kit on the kitchen counter, dropping your gaze like you could hide behind the small, practical motions of it — like if you focused hard enough on gauze and antiseptic, he wouldn’t see the way your eyes had gone wet. But Jaeyun did. He always did, in the quiet, unfair way he noticed everything about you.

“I hate that you got hurt because of me,” you said.

Something in Jaeyun’s chest tightened — sharp and aching. 

He leaned forward in the chair before he fully knew he was doing it, his uninjured hand sliding to your wrist, fingers curling gently around your skin as he pulled you onto his lap.

The motion was clumsy with the chair and the counter and the first aid kit half-open, but the moment you settled, your thighs bracketing his hips, the world narrowed into something that made painful sense.

His hands came up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, cleaning your tears like he had done when he got you both grounded at twelve, and like he’d done again years later, on the night you crashed your father’s car — your hands shaking on his wrists, as he told you to breathe.

He made you look at him.  

Your eyes were wet and bright, with tears, the shine gathering at the lower lid until it spilled and traced down your cheek, and his chest ached at that low instinct already moving with the need to make it better.

“Don’t take the blame,” he said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”

Your breath hitched.

“It wasn’t your fault — he grabbed you and said those things. He—” Jaeyun’s throat worked, and for a second his voice broke. “I heard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t know how to be calm about it. If there’s someone to blame here, it isn’t you. It’s me.”

You stared at him for a second before your hands lifted, your fingers finding and resting at his wrists as they always had.

“Yun,” you whispered.

Jaeyun’s breath shuddered out, and he leaned forward without thinking.

You met him halfway.

Your kiss was soft at first — careful, like checking whether he was still Jaeyun, whether you were still you. Like asking permission in the only language that didn’t require words.

But Jaeyun answered too eagerly.

His grip tightened at your cheeks, desperately — like he needed the proof of you. His mouth moved against yours with a yearning that felt out of proportion to the moment, and he hated himself for it even as he did it.

He kissed you like he was still at Arcano. 

Like he was still shaking.

Like the only way to stop the night from replaying was to overwrite it with you.

This wasn’t protection anymore. It was possession.

He wanted proof that you were still here.

Your hands slid into his t-shirt, fingers curling at the thin material the way they always did when you wanted him close, and it was enough to steal a sound from him — quiet, and yet completely wrecked — his arms slipped, and tightened around your waist, pulling you nearer until there was no space left to misunderstand.

“I’ve been trying to be good. I keep failing when it’s you,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to be only your friend anymore.”

There was a lost moment — a second where none of you moved, and Jaeyun thought that he finally did it — he had finally ruined the friendship, but then, you leaned in again, lips on his as your knees tightening around his hips, your weight settling into him like you’d chosen the place on purpose.

And it made him exhale like relief.

His uninjured hand slid along your side, finding you. The curve of your waist. The line of your ribs. The warmth of you under your dress like a living proof he couldn’t talk himself out of. He paused every time your breath changed, as if he was listening for the smallest no, for any flicker of doubt.

But you didn’t give him one. Instead, you tipped your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered his name in that soft, wrecked way that always pulled something honest out of him.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “Tell me and I—”

You kissed him before he could finish, fingers threading into his hair, holding him so close, he not only heard the next word, but felt them. “You.”

Jaeyun’s throat worked.

He lifted you — not smoothly, not perfectly, because the chair was in the way and the table was too close and the first aid kit lay open like a dirty evidence — but he did it anyway, with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still humming under his skin. He carried you those few steps like it mattered, like the distance between your kitchen and your bed was a threshold he needed to cross carefully.

When he set you down, you caught the back of his t-shirt and pulled him after you. His restraint cracked in the smallest way — enough to let a kiss turn deeper, enough to let want show itself without becoming rough.

He braced his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, forearms on either side of your shoulders, head dipping until his mouth you again, again and again, pressing kisses along your cheek, your throat, the place beneath your ear that always made your breath hitch and he made a question of always finding it. His hand slid down your arm to your fingers, lacing them together above your head for a moment like a question, like an offering, and when you squeezed back, he let himself believe you.

His shirt went first, easing off your shoulders like a last, familiar layer — then your dress, and then your bra, quietly as the breath you released when he leaned in again and kissed the tip of your breasts, one at a time before he moved to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.

When he reached your panties, he didn’t care about taking them off; he merely kissed you over them, the thin lace not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt and making you shiver, hands coming to his hair and threading almost bitterly, but if anything, he hummed, giving you another kiss and then, another. Open mouthed and tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit, and making you squirm in his hands, head thrown back, and sliding away a bit.

He pulled you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he could push his face back between them, licking a flat, slow stripe over your cunt. The lace did nothing to hold your fluid this time, and he tasted you through, his eyes closing almost instinctively to savor it better. 

“You taste so good,” he couldn’t help but say. “So fucking good.”

A grin broke across your face — bright, and disarming — and Jaeyun forced his arms to push him up, kissing it like he could keep it there, among your already flushed cheeks, and your hair messy against the sheets because God — he was so in love with you.

“Princess,” he called, not really sure if he had something to say. But you hummed at him anyway, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and slipping your fingers underneath it.

His abdomen tensed and contracted as you wandered through, your trembling fingertips grazing through the lines long memorized, and pushing the piece up and up, until he had no other option but to lift his arms and help you take it off. 

Jaeyun groaned as you moved to his belt, unbuckling it with the same ease you unzipped his jeans.

“Shit,” he murmured. 

“What?”

“Condoms,” he whispered. “I — we used the last one yesterday. I was going to buy after Arcano.”

“That’s okay.”

It was his turn to halt, your words catching somewhere between sound and meaning. “What?”

“That’s okay,” you repeated, and when he didn’t move, you arched up beneath him, lips finding his ear. “I am saying that you can hit it raw, Yun.”

He made a sound — small and involuntary — the kind of honest noise his body made when his mind was still trying to pretend it had control.

You blinked up at him for half a second — then a laugh slipped out of you, warm and bright, the exact laugh you’d always used to turn moments into something survivable. Not mocking. Just delighted, but Jaeyun’s face heated immediately, color climbing up his neck.

“Don’t,” he managed, as if the word could stop you from seeing him like this — undone by you, made soft by a sentence and the brush of your mouth near his ear.

But you only smiled wider, eyes shining with the kind of fondness that hurt.

And Jaeyun — God, Jaeyun — looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with how much he felt. Like love had taken up residence in him years ago and never once paid rent, and now it was everywhere: in his breath, in the way his hand hovered and then settled, careful, as if touching you was a question he wanted to keep asking for the rest of his life.

He exhaled, a little shaky. Then, because he couldn’t help it — because you were laughing and alive beneath him, and he was hopeless — his mouth twitched.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Princess,” he whispered, the words rough with tenderness.

You shook your head, not quite dismissively, but more like you couldn’t believe how silly he was — how silly he was for you. 

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Hips up, babe,” he instructed, and you met him there, your body moving on a quiet arch, as you pushed at your feet, and allowed him to curl his fingers at the band of your panties, sliding them away.

His attention snapped back to you immediately — hands returning to your inner thigh, your calves, taking over your ankles, and pulling you toward him. 

You shivered as he pushed himself inside of you, your fingers digging into his back as your lips parted on a quiet moan that he made up for you — Jaeyun simply not being able to be quiet at the feeling of you around him with no limitation and groaning loudly.

Jaeyun never thought he would be the type of guy to be emotional over taking a girl without a condom, but it was you with him, and when he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, he could feel every ridge, every pulse of you around. And it was almost too much, the intimacy of it making his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name.

Jaeyun hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together for a quiet moment before his forehead dipped and rested against your shoulder, his breathing uneven, as if he was trying to keep the night from turning reckless again.

He was so careful with you it felt like devotion.

But then, you drew him closer — insistent — and he finally let his body answer with the same honesty his voice had tried to avoid. Jaeyun kissed you until you tasted like him. Until your hands clung. Until the space between your bodies stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like a lie. Each thrust of his hips pronounced with a wet clash, and the sound of your headboard hitting the wall.

And it was too much, honestly — you were too much.

When you came, he followed — quietly, inevitably, his breath breaking as if your body had taken his and led it somewhere he’d never learned to survive. Yet still, he didn’t punish you; he stayed close, slowly towing your climaxes for as long as he could. And when he finally stilled, he pulled back with a tenderness that looked almost like it broke him to let you go.

Jaeyun eased down and let his head rest against your lower stomach, breathing there for a second — then another — almost as if his lungs needed to relearn how to work. Your hand found him, threading into his hair, fingers combing gently until his face softened and his eyes fell shut. And, for the first time all night, his body stopped bracing.

RULE #4: DO NOT LET HER KNOW YOUR TRUE FEELINGS  

If I say it out loud, I make it her problem. I put something heavy in her hands when she never asked to carry me. And I’m afraid — plain and simple — that if she knows, everything changes. And if everything changes, she might step back. She might leave. I can survive wanting her. I can survive swallowing it. I can’t survive losing her. So I’ll keep it useful: jokes, rides home, answers at 2 a.m., the kind of loyalty that looks harmless from the outside. I won’t say I love her. I won’t say I’ve always loved her. I won’t turn our friendship into a question she has to solve.

Jaeyun stayed where he was a little longer than he ought to have, his palms splayed at your sides, lips parted against the skin of your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, and then, at your hips, your thighs, covering all the way to your knees and back up again. 

You shivered as he nipped at the tender skin just inside your hip, your fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before you eased again — slow, and unconsciously, keeping time with your breath.

“Jaeyun,” you whispered, and perhaps it had been the way your breath changed then, caught on something that he couldn’t quite hear, but his heart wavered in his chest.

He knew you enough to know it was the beginning of a confession. He just didn’t know what kind. And that was what scared him: not the truth itself, but the possibility of it. That you might be about to ask for distance. That you might be about to reach for a word that would make him either the safest thing in your life — or the mistake.

“Could you turn the lights off?” you asked. 

It could have sounded silly then. But it was something old between you — something you’d done as kids when you needed to confess something embarrassing, something heavy. As if darkness could make secrets smaller. As if not seeing each other’s faces could make bravery easier.

Jaeyun propped himself up, knees pressed against your mattress as he reached for your lampshade and turned it off.

The room darkened instantly, but not completely — not with your curtains still open and the city’s light streaming in, painting the walls in soft silver and distant neon, scattering stripes on your sheets.

Jaeyun hadn’t noticed how still you both had become until a car passed outside, its tires whispering over the asphalt before it was gone, and the room held onto the quiet that followed, too complete, too attentive.

The sheets rustled softly as Jaeyun lay back down beside you, not touching you — not yet. He just stayed close enough that when you turned to him, he could feel you through the dark, but then you reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers as you had done when you were nine and whispering that you’d heard your parents arguing and didn’t know where to put the feeling, you were thirteen and admitting you were terrified that one day you’d grow up and he wouldn’t be yours to keep.

“Talk to me, Princess,” he whispered.

“Baekhyeon wasn’t wrong,” you said, the words scattering through the space of your bodies so quickly, Jaeyun took a moment to catch it all, and when he did, he went very still, eyes sharpening on your face.

“Not about you,” you added. “But about me — he wasn’t wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember my first date?” you asked.

Jaeyun let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t contain humor. Of course he remembered. He remembered the outfit. He remembered your perfume. He remembered how a strand of hair didn’t quite stay on your pins and he kept fixing it while you paced through your room. He remembered how his fingers lingered there for one last time before you slipped through the door.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”

You stared at your hands for a beat, thumb brushing against his knuckles. 

“I thought you would tell me not to go,” you admitted. “But you didn’t, and so I went, and through the whole day I kept thinking oh, it would have been so much better if Yun was here,”

“The same thing happened with Baekhyeon — I kept wishing you were there with me instead, and I thought it was just because you’re my best friend and everything is funnier when it’s just us. I thought it was just because I feel safer when I’m with you, but—” you paused. “But through these last weeks, I just realized that I truly wished you had asked me to stay,”

“I truly like us.”

Nothing in the room moved, but something in him did, his internal footing slipping, the world turning unstable while his body stayed perfectly still beside you.

You weren’t saying I wanted you to forbid me. But I wanted you to want me enough to risk it.

Jaeyun’s mouth parted, but his body acted like it was still losing its footing. His breath snagging, throat tightening, the words jamming as if speech required solid ground he no longer had. And in the middle of his silence, you created your own answer.

“Never mind, I just—” you began, slipping from his touch and slipping away, but he caught you then, fingers closing around yours again and keeping you there.

“I’ve wanted to tell you to stay a thousand times.”

Your breath caught at his words, your gaze lifting to his and holding, steady and unblinking, the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly too honest to survive. His grip tightened on your fingers, then gentled again, careful not to turn it into a claim — only a question he was asking with his whole body.

“I wanted to,” he said. “When you had that first date. When you called me after and tried to laugh about it, like it didn’t get under your skin. When you—” His breath caught. “When you started seeing Baekhyeon, when he called when we were together. Every time — every time damn time — I wanted to ask you to stay.”

Jaeyun lifted your joined hands to his face, turning them slightly so the backs of your fingers brushed his cheek. 

“But I didn’t,” he whispered. “Because I thought if I told you to stay, that was when I was going to lose you entirely — and you know, Princess, I can handle being your best friend forever. I can handle being the one you call when you’re sad or drunk or mad — even if it’s just for you to leave once the moment passes. I can handle having only parts of you.”

His voice lowered. “But I can’t handle losing you.”

You turned toward him properly then, shifting until your faces were close enough that when you spoke, he didn’t just hear the words that followed, but he felt them.

“I would have stayed,” you said. “Every damn time — I would have stayed.”

Jaeyun made a sound that didn’t belong to him — small and raw — the sentence going straight through his ribs and lodging there.

His grip on your hand tightened — and his forehead dipped toward yours, hovering there as if he didn’t trust the space between you not to change its mind. 

“Stay, Princess,” he asked.

“I’m going nowhere.”

FINAL RULE: NO MORE RULES  

I wrote rules that were supposed to keep me from ruining us. I thought that if I could define every boundary, I could pretend I could control the outcome. Don’t accept reckless requests. Don’t touch her like I’m owed. Don’t be possessive. Don’t say the words that might make her leave.

A small guide for surviving her without losing her.

But I’m not losing her.

She’s here. She’s not a maybe, not a mistake, not something I have to handle with gloves on. She’s with me — clear-eyed, chosen, real. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat I need to solve. It feels like something we’re walking into together.

So this is the last rule: no more rules.

Not because I’ve stopped being careful with her — fuck, I’ll always be careful with her. But because I don’t need rules to keep her close when she’s already choosing to stay. Because I don’t have to hide love inside procedure anymore. Because I can finally stop bracing, and start living in the simplest truth I’ve ever had:

David’s key turned slowly in the lock, a deep sigh escaped his chest. The door creaked open, and there he stood—tall, broad, every inch the detective the city expected him to be. But expectations were heavy, especially being the detective that solved every case.

David stepped inside, silent except for the low thud of his boots on the hardwood. No greeting, no shrug of his coat. Just the slam of the door behind him.

he didn’t have the energy to put on a brave face for you tonight. He was tired. The kind that sleep couldn’t fix.

You were in the kitchen, warming up his dinner. His eyes meet yours-and it wrecks him.

He reaches you in four long strides, and then he’s on you—face to your neck, arms around your waist, clutching you like you’re the only thing keeping him together.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain. He just needs.

Your hands move on instinct—into his hair, down his back, over the thick fabric of his coat. You can feel the way he trembles. Not with cold.

He said nothing for a long time.

But you felt everything in the way he held you.

Like he was trying to ground himself. Like he needed to touch something good and kind, to remember the world wasn't made entirely of horror.

His shoulders shuddered once—then again. And then he was quietly falling apart in your arms, his badge and bravado left somewhere between the crime scene and the front door.

You didn’t ask what he’d seen. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You just held him tighter.

As his silent tears dampened your shirt, your heart sank. You knew the darkness he carried, knew the things he had to see to protect others, to try to bring justice to this damn town. But you also knew how he carried his own trauma.

When he unlatched himself from you, his eyes were puffy and red and his bottom lip quivered just a bit.

You held his face in your hands, a simple gesture that meant I see you, I know you. I love you.

“Come here,” you whispered, helping him shed his jacket. You took his hand and led him to the couch.

He sat heavily.

“I’ll be right back with dinner. And a beer?”

He nodded.

“Whiskey?”

He nodded again, confirming his choice of drink.

You plated dinner and poured David’s whiskey and a glass of wine for yourself.

You curled up on the couch beside him while he ate. The show you put on was something mindless and didn’t require much attention- neither of you were watching it, regardless.

For a while- after glasses had been emptied, refilled, then emptied again- you just breathed together.

You didn’t need to fill the silence. It wasn’t empty—it was full of unsaid things. Of grief and guilt and too many hours spent on the job and not home with you.

You stood, gently taking the glass from David’s hand- setting it on the coffee table.

“C’mon. Hot shower make you feel better.”

He arose without protest, letting you lead him to the bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off his socks while watching you scurry around getting him a fresh towel and washcloth. You even went as far as laying out his favorite pair of sweatpants and t-shirt.

He didn’t have a favorite pair of anything until you came around. The t-shirt had become his favorite the first time he saw you wear it. You had made the most delicious breakfast one morning- wearing nothing but his shirt. Then, after breakfast, he bent you over and took you right there on the kitchen counter. It had been his favorite ever since. The sweats were his favorite because you bought them for him- insisting he ditch the jeans and be comfy. He’d never been comfier.

You stood between his legs, trying to coax him into the shower.

He looked up at you with glassy, tired eyes- there was something in them you couldn’t quite read.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Thank you.” He said, voice meek.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow. Full of ache. Full of everything he didn’t have words for.

He kissed you like you were the first clean breath he’d had in days.

He hadn’t meant to ignite anything—just wanted to confirm you're real.

But it lights something anyway.

You loosen the collar of his shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons, and he lets you undress him piece by piece. Not hurried. Not lustful. Just needy in a way that isn't about sex. Not yet. It's about skin. Warmth. Proximity. Something to soften the sharp edges still carved into him.

You pulled away slightly; reluctantly. You wanted nothing more than to comfort David, but you loved him too much to take advantage of him in any way.

Your face must have said what you were thinking before your mouth could.

“I want you, baby.” He said, voice still quiet, rough, “Need to know I’m still a man. Still human. Wanna..Make you feel good.” He said, his hands resting on your hips.

“I just want you to be sure. Don’t wanna..you know…hurt you. Want you to be in the right state of mind, to.. consent.” You mumbled, combing your hands through his messy dark strands.

“I appreciate you lookin’ out for me like that, honey, I do.” He said. “It means more than you know. But I’d never regret makin’ love to you…or just do it to make myself feel better..You’re everything to me.”

His words melted your insides. They were earnest and true and made you wanna give him everything he ever wanted. Not just your body, but your heart and soul- all of you.

Your eyes scanned his face as his hands skimmed your body. His fingers tracing your ribs, your hips, the dip of your waist, as if memorizing proof that you were real, that this was real.

“I’m alright, darlin’. I want you, if you’ll have me.” He murmured, voice rough.

Your eyes flickered to his lips and back up to his unyielding baby blues. “Of course I’ll have you. Always will.” The last words came out barely a whisper, but loud enough to be carved into David’s memory.

Always.

Within a moment, his mouth was on yours—hungry, uneven, the taste of desperation more potent than the whiskey he’d had just before.

Your clothes and the remainder of his were shed in frantic, clumsy motions, but not for the sake of lust alone—it was about stripping away the day, the blood and grit of the job until there was nothing left between you but skin. Until he could remember he was flesh and bone, not just the badge, not just the case files but yours. Yours to hold, to care for. To love.

The moment you were bare before him, he slowed. “So beautiful..” He muttered before sealing his mouth to your chest, sucking at your skin until you were putty in his hands. He wanted to taste every part of you, claim every inch, erase the bitter tang of violence with the sweetness of you.

His hands gripped and kneaded the soft flesh of your ass. He pulled you flush against him, his cock rock hard against you.

He then pulled you on into his lap and you began to grind your slick heat along his length, earning a moan from him that went straight to your core.

He held you- not as if you were something fragile-but as if you were something solid and grounding. And to him you were that- an anchor. His anchor.

He coaxed you out of his lap and onto the bed.

You gently laid your head on the pillow, watching David’s every move.

He climbed over you, eyes full of hunger and desire.

When you pulled him down closer to you, he followed like gravity itself bound him to you. He pressed his face to your neck, kissing, breathing, grounding himself in the rhythm of your pulse. Your hands traced the slope of his broad shoulders, the tension in every line of muscle, easing him open with touch alone.

“I’ve got you.” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You’re here, with me.”

He groaned low in his chest and slid his hands along your body, wanting to memorize every inch. His touch was reverent, then hungry, then reverent again- balancing on a delicate scale.

When he finally pushed into you, he broke. His breath stuttered, his face burying into your neck.

“God—” he rasped, voice cracking, “—you make me feel alive.”

He clung to you, moving with a raw, aching need, every thrust carrying more than desire—passion and warmth. Love.

And you gave him everything: your hands gripping his back, nails in his skin to remind him he was real; your voice whispering his name like a prayer; your body grounding him in the here and now.

He muttered sweet nothings in between moans and curses as he thrust into you, eating up every moan and sigh you were giving him.

You felt the familiar heat curl in your belly, David’s cock hitting inside you just right. He wanted you to come undone under him, to feel you clench and spasm around him; to know he was making you feel good.

Every thrust was a plea, every gasp against your lips a confession he couldn’t voice any other way. He drove into you as deep as he could, angling his hips to hit your g-spot. It was too much- the way he was touching you, kissing you, holding you while the sound of skin on skin rang in your ears. It pushed you over the edge. Your body went taut as waves of pleasure crashed over you. David worked you through your orgasm, eating up every moan and sound like it were mana from above.

His body trembled with the effort of holding himself together, and yet in you, he unraveled—safe to break, safe to want.

Your moans tangled with his, the room filled with the slick sounds of your bodies moving in sync. He moved faster, harder, chasing the edge, but his eyes never left yours.

“Fuck, babygirl..Gonna-mm- gonna cum.” he panted, voice ragged.

“Give it to me David, I wanna feel you.” you whispered, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

That undid him. With a strangled sound, he buried himself in you, thrusts faltering as release tore through him. His body shook, his face pressed to your neck as he spilled inside you, groaning your name like a prayer.

You held him through it, legs tightening around his waist, arms around his shoulders, keeping him anchored while waves of shuddering breaths left him spent against you. His heart pounded against your chest, heavy and real.

When the aftershocks faded, he stayed inside you, head on your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat. You felt him steady—stitched together by your hands, your lips, your love. Not perfect, not whole, but human. And that was enough.

David’s pleading blue eyes convinced you to shower with him. But you didn’t really need much convincing to begin with.

The bathroom filled with steam as the water ran hot.

For a moment, David just stood under the stream of water, in hopes it would wash his worries away.

It didn’t.

But it helped. You helped.

You ran the soapy cloth over David’s body with reverence, minding the little cuts and bruises he’d been collecting.

He just stood there, letting you clean him-enjoying your caring, attentive hands.

The simple act had him gazing at you like you were something holy; like you could wash his soul clean too.

You simply smiled under his heavy gaze and reached for the shampoo. David let out a something between a moan and a growl when you dragged your nails across his scalp. You continued to comb your fingers through his wet hair- making him feel good and scrubbing out the stubborn hair product he liked to use.

When you both were clean, he kissed you slow and easy, savoring the sensation of your warm lips and the hot water running down his back.

You were both slick with soap suds and water- the nonslip shower mat your only saving grace. His mouth found your neck again, pressing heavy, wet kisses and small nibbles all the way down to your breasts.

It was slower, sweeter than before. There was no rush, no urgency to reach the finish line. He was taking his time with you as if the water bill wasn’t due next week.

He lifted your leg up over his hip and slid into you in one slow motion, savoring the wet, smooth, heat.

Your moans echoed off the tile walls, the intensity of the sound drove him absolutely wild- in the best way.

He continued to kiss you deeply; all teeth and tongue. When his mouth wasn’t connected to yours, he was leaving little bite marks along your skin, not enough to bruise, but just enough to remind you of the moment in the morning.

David-who was thriving off your pleasure- thrusted into you faster now, driving you towards your second orgasm.

He hiked your leg up higher, singing your praises- how tight and wet you are, how pretty you look taking his thick cock.

“Thats it, sweet girl. Mhmm, takin’ my cock so good.”

And with that, a toe-curling orgasm came over you, sending electricity through your veins. He held you through it, his grip tightening as he approached his own climax.

Your orgasm sent David over the edge, with a few more thrusts he was spilling inside you again with a loud groan. You held him through this one too, gently coaxing him through his high.

Neither of you moved. He continued to hold you close while he gently lifted your leg off his waist.

“God, you’re perfect.” He whispered, stroking your wet hair. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You mumbled into his moist skin. “So much.”

You embraced each other for a while longer. Water bill be damned.

-

When you and he crawled into bed, David curled toward you like a man seeking shelter from a storm.

You pressed your forehead to his. Let your fingers dance over his ribs, slow and grounding.

His hand slid under your shirt, not for anything more, just to feel skin-to-skin.

And when he finally fell asleep—deep, exhausted, and safe—you stayed awake a little longer.

Watching him.

Protecting him, for once.

You woke to the rustle of sheets and the sharp inhale of breath that wasn’t yours. In the dark, your eyes adjusted to the outline of broad, strong shoulders sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to catch up with the world that had just torn him out of sleep.

“David?” your voice was soft, still husky from sleep.

He didn’t answer at first.

You slid closer, your hand brushing across his back, slow and deliberate, reminding him you were there. “nightmare?”

His jaw flexed. “Yeah.” A single word, gravel-low. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he could scrub the images out of his head. “I was sleepin’ so good too.”

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He leaned back into you, just a fraction, like he couldn’t quite help it, like his body yearned for yours. (It did)

“It’s just us. Just the quiet.” You whispered.

His breath shuddered.

Slowly, you shifted around to face him, climbing into his lap so he couldn’t look away. Your hands cupped his face, thumbs smoothing the furrows between his brows. He finally lifted his eyes to yours

“Sorry to wake you up.”

You kissed his temple, lingering. “It’s alright.”

For a long moment, he just breathed against you, the sharp edges of him softening under your steady touch. His hands—those hands that were always gripping too hard, always fidgeting—slid to your waist and held on, not rough, not desperate, just grounding.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.,” he muttered against your hair, voice quiet but raw.

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

“You never have to wonder. You’re stuck with me.” You chuckled slightly.

The tension in him broke. He smiled- small, but still there. “No one I’d rather be stuck with, baby.”

Eventually, when the silence settled, you guided him back down against the pillows. He resisted for a moment, restless energy still sparking through him, but your steady presence anchored him. You stayed close, one hand resting over his chest, feeling the uneven thrum of his heartbeat slowly begin to steady beneath your touch.

You didn’t tell him the nightmares would go away, because they might not. Instead, you offered what you could: quiet, warmth, the simple reminder that he wasn’t alone in the dark.

Once you finally make him understand that you want the same thing, he still feels a little bit insecure. You found a nice place, just around the corner of the cellblock. Safe from walkers, far enough from the others as not to be interrupted.

He's tense anyway. You can feel the strain in his muscles when you put your hands on his shoulders. Threatening to snap any second and move quickly, either to run away or fight and protect you. That won't be necessary though. It took some convincing, but you got him to put his crossbow onto the ground and stop looking out for possible threats.

How? Well, it wasn't all that difficult. Turns out, pushing him against a stone wall and stepping real close has him putty in your hands in no time.

It's a good thing there's fences, because your face is very distracting. If there had been a walker approaching the two of you, he wouldn't have noticed it until it bit him, maybe not even then.

Daryl is still nervous, you can see that. Unsure of where to put his hands, he awkwardly places them on your hips. Is that too straightforward? A million thoughts rush through his head. You give him a soothing smile. He tries to return it, but ends up just grimacing.

Deciding to end his misery, you lean in and give him a gentle kiss on the lips. He's a little bit relieved when you don't do anything more immediately. Those are a safe ground, he's used to having you kiss him like that. And yet... they always leave him wanting more.

You haven't moved away, instead hugged him a bit closer. God... it feels too good to have you this close without the fear of being caught. He was worried he'd overwhelm you, but you seem at ease. If he's being honest with himself... It's he who is in over his head. You're so close and you smell nice... He can feel your heart beat against his chest, smaller body pressed into his.

You left him space, but it doesn't take long for him to act. His warm hands stroke your back, then he places one in the nape of your neck, carefully tugging on your hair. You lift your head that had been resting against his leather jacket, and before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours.

It's a chaste kiss at first, like the one you gave him. Not hesistant, not really, but careful. He isn't sure how far you were willing to go but when he doesn't feel you pull away, he feels confident enough to continue. Parts his lips slowly, experimenting a little bit. He angles his head slightly different then, making it easier for you to reach him. You open yours too, allowing his tongue to slip inside. It feels amazing. Daryl wishes he'd done this sooner, 'cause apparently, you don't mind him being out of practice.

No, even better, you seem to actually enjoy it, arms around his neck, pushing him back into the cold wall. What really does it for him though is the little sounds you make. They're pretty, like everything about you. Quiet, but not shy. You like what he's doing and that motivates him a lot.

He wants to hear it again. Parts from you for a split second to catch his breath, then dives in again, and it's messier this time. His lips slant against yours, a little dry and rough just like him and he licks into your mouth. It's a stark contrast to the earlier restraint but you're not complaining, no. You're far from it as he bites your lower lip, not quite enough to make it bleed, resulting only in a small sting.

A strand of his hair falls into your face, tickling your cheek, but you don't mind, not when he's kissing you like this. It probably looks like he's eating your face off. He's clumsy but eager, nose bumping into yours. His stubble is scratchy but it feels good against your skin, this is fun. Your smile into the kiss.

His hands come up to your face, cupping your jaw carefully, as if to make sure you won't pull back. You couldn't if you tried to, with the iron grip he has you in. Good thing you don't want to. Instead, you match Daryl's enthusiasm, kissing him hard. You press him into the wall, caging his body against it. If someone saw that... No, you probably wouldn't even do anything about it. Wouldn't have it in you to care and stop, it feels way too good.

Meanwhile, Daryl is ecstatic. He hasn't ever felt this good just kissing anyone! Actually, he used to not even like it very much. Maybe that's because he didn't know you back then. He is the one that's overwhelmed now, overcome with passion. His chest rises and falls quickly, he pulls back for a second, allowing you both to catch your breath. He takes in the sight of you, and it's almost enough to have him do something else to you on the spot. You look incredible, lips swollen from the kiss, eyes hazed over with want. He probably isn't any different. And then you give him that smile, the one he dreaded back when you weren't together because it made him forget about that fact. Now, it's his favorite thing in the world (apart from kissing you).

His eyes soften, thumb stroking your cheekbone. He's glad you got him him to try this. Though you're gonna have to deal with him wanting to do it all the time, now. His heart warms at the thought. He leans in to kiss you again, not as gentle as in the beginning but just as loving. Before he can deepen it, you pull back slightly, just enough to flash him a teasing grin.

"You're really getting better at this, you know!"

"Shut up." He swallows your giddy laugh, pulling you into his arms.

The vibe was a bit unfamiliar this time.

Maybe it was because he knew you were somewhere in the building — tucked away in the dim-lit waiting room outside the small studio, flipping through the stack of comics you brought for him.

Maybe it was because he could still faintly hear your voice as you conversed with the workers conducting the interview, your laugh echoing faintly in his head.

Or maybe it was because he'd been thinking about you more than he meant to lately.

Shit, almost every single song on the album was written about you.

The interviewer leaned forward, smiling as if he knew the ladies would love the next question that he was about to ask. That he — a man in his late thirties with a too-neat mustache and a suit that tried way too hard to keep up with the late 70s trends — would finally get that promotion and the raise that he's been 'working so hard for.'

"So, Michael... what's something that you'd look for in a girl? I mean, we know that — as attractive as you are — you got all the ladies fawning over you. I'm sure they'd like to know your ideal woman."

Michael laughed softly, eyes dropping to his hands, then looked up towards the ceiling. He always did that when he was lost in thought, trying to think of the right words to say — while also not saying too much.

"Well," he said, his voice warm, "I like someone who's like me, I guess."

The interviewer blinked.

"Like you how?"

Michael shrugged, a thoughtful, honest shrug.

"Someone who likes fun things. Like, comics, climbing trees, y'know, things like that, but..." he chuckles, "I don't know — I'd still like someone that's, uh, not too high maintenance. Just natural. Very modest and sweet like, y'know?"

He paused, and for a moment, he didn't feel like he was in the studio anymore.

He was in your backyard, watching you climb one of your old oak trees, the California heat causing your blowout to frizz, but that's what is so beautiful about you.

Then he was in your living room, laughing next to you as you both read the latest The Amazing Spider-Man comic book. Not just admiring the artwork before him, but also the way your features lit up as you read the words on the delicate page.

Then he was at the annual carnival — the one he had to sneak out of late-night rehearsal for — his obviously silly disguise now discarded as he sat on the Ferris wheel with you. You two have been there for a couple of hours now, and those hours flew by faster than you anticipated.

You two had just shared your first kiss, your cheeks both warm in bashful shyness as you confessed your love to each other. He held your hand, soft and warm as he traced his thumb over your bare nails.

"I've never met someone like you.

I want to spend forever like this.

Just us."

He blinked, returning to the present.

"Someone real and authentic. The thing I find most attractive in a woman is their heart."

The interviewer nodded, scribbling notes, completely unaware of the shift in Michael's expression — the softness in his eyes, and the way his smile still lingered moments after he answered the question.

Now, even with all that, you would think that the interviewer knew who he was talking about.

There have been countless rumors in the tabloids about your relationship with Michael Jackson, but none were confirmed or denied. They just lingered and would come up in conversation from time to time as you met with other high-status figures like yourself.

Well, at least everyone else in the room knew exactly who he was talking about. The interviewer grew too busy imagining his own name on the byline of a magazine cover.

"Beautiful answer, Michael," he said, still scribbling. "Your fans are gonna eat that up!"

Michael just laughed and nodded politely, but his mind was already drifting again. Not to his fans, not to his upcoming album, not to the interview itself.

But to you.

He wondered if you coincidentally heard any of that from the room next door. How you'd react once the press put two and two together, or the way you'd smile that shy little smile you always tried to hide behind your hands.

"Alright, that's a wrap," the director called out, clapping his hands. Michael blinked, leaning up from the couch and sitting up straighter as the crew began to move around him. The interviewer stood, smoothing out his too-tight suit jacket, muttering a small 'thank you'. Poor guy was already rehearsing the headline in his head.

Michael thanked everyone — soft, sincere, the way he did since he was a small child — but he didn't linger. He stepped out of the studio, out of the lights, into the hallway.

And into the waiting room next door.

You were exactly where he knew you'd be — your legs curled up next to you on the couch, flipping through a Scooby Doo comic you brought for him to read in between breaks. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, casting a warm glow over your features.

You looked up the moment you sensed him. "Hey," you smiled. God, his heart fluttered in his chest; he couldn't even hide it anymore.

"Hey," he echoed, voice softer than he meant it to be. You closed the comic and let it rest in your lap.

"How'd the interview go?"

He shrugged, flopping down on the couch next to you, close enough to feel your warmth, but not close enough to be obvious.

"Eh, it was fine," he said. "They asked about the album, the tour with my brothers in a couple o' years. And then," He hesitated, eyes drifting to the floor. "They asked about my type — my ideal girl."

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh? And what'd you say?"

You tilted your head.

"The truth?"

He looked at you then — like, really looked at you — and for a moment, the room felt too small, the couch making the distance too close.

"That she's, um," he trails off, feeling his shyness start to take over. He takes a sharp inhale, averting his gaze. "Someone who doesn't try to be anything she's not — real authentic. Likes the same things I do. Who makes me feel like I can just... be myself."

He continued, voice barely above a whisper.

"Told 'em she's very sweet. Modest, but also really playful. Someone who climbs her favorite oak tree and plays video games and laughs at my stupid jokes." He smiled — still a bit shy, but sure.

"And I told them she has the most beautiful heart I've ever known. My definition of perfection."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Michael chuckled softly as he watched your reaction, his head shaking in amusement.

"Surely you knew I was talking about you."

You should probably respond now, but you have yet to find the words — any words — to amount to the love you have for him. But no. The room fell silent, but it wasn't awkward or tense. It just felt full of everything he's been holding back, everything you'd been too scared to say since the moment on the Ferris wheel. The growing love and desire that has been accumulating for months.

You exhaled slowly, moving closer to him on the couch as the comic in your lap slipped away.

"Michael..." you whispered.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "I just wanted you to know."

You didn't exactly say anything. But you didn't mean to move either.

It just kinda happened. The way the air got heavy, and his gorgeous eyes looking at you the way they did, then the confession he just made. Your hand lifted before you could second-guess yourself, fingers brushing his cheek in a touch so gentle it made him inhale sharply.

Then you kissed him again. A soft press of your lips to his, and you suddenly felt like this kiss was an enough answer.

Michael froze for half a second before melting into it, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held you any tighter. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and a little dazed.

"You don't have to wonder about anything, Michael," you whispered. "I feel the same way about you, too. Felt that way for a very long time."

He could help but chuckle, the relief in his expression almost humorously boyish.

"You're the most amazing person I've ever known... You already have me if you want me."

Sunlight peaked through the crack of the otherwise blackout curtain, spawning a direct beam of light against her face. The warm glow arose a mild irritation as she stirred awake with a gentle huff, the only comfort of the early wake up call being that of a familiar weight of muscle slung across her waist.

It seems that in the night, he'd attempted to fuse himself against her, like he could somehow merge them into one with nothing but stubborn determination and a strong set of arms.

If it weren't so damn restrictive, she'd have found it sweet. Then again, everything Michael Jackson did somehow warmed her heart. The hold (both physically and metaphorically) he had over her wasn't fair, but she never complained. Being with Michael was like orbiting close to the sun. Warm and bright, but if you stepped too close, completely devastating. That was the risk she ran. People had always warned her about the price that came along with his lifestyle, but a year of being considered 'his' had taught her that he was multi-layered. You couldn't put him in a box.

Yes, with fame came harsh consequences, even more so with the jolt in status that had been unleashed with the release of Thriller, but he was so much more than the persona his celebrity had inflicted. Beautiful. Charming. Hilarious. And most unknown to the world that was so quick to slap a label on him, was his heart. The playful consideration, that longing to be wanted. He was so much more than the pop legend they portrayed him to be. Still, the title suited him well and he had no complaints about playing the role. It served a purpose and he relished in the power bestowed on him. After all, he hadn't put all those hours in to come up empty handed.

But the Michael she knew, underneath the bravado made her feel safe and loved. As she turned in the iron clad grip of his arms, she didn't note the stray Spiderman comic book on the bedside table, nor the empty glass of orange juice from the night before. Her focus fell to the man beside her, the mess of dark curls spread across his forehead and the peaceful look splashed over his face as he basked in the much needed sleep he'd been lacking with the pressure his career dictated.

If she tried hard enough, she could pretend this was the way they lived their lives everyday. Comfy, in her apartment, with only the sounds of the birds chirping echoing through the open window, letting a cool sweep of fresh air leak into the once stuffy room. Still, she loved him and embraced all the challenges that came along with being involved with a man of his stature.

With that thought in mind, she knew she had to get up. He was due to attend rehearsals with his brothers soon. The Victory tour was fast approaching and while Michael had begrudgingly had no choice but to agree to be present, he was a professional and wouldn't settle until he completed the thing he set out to do. The sake of his sanity relied on a shower before he left for the day and that thought alone presented itself loud and in charge until she did something about it.

Struggling to free herself from the restrictive hold he had over her waist, a small laugh escaped her lips as she pried his large hands from her hips and managed to successfully plant her feet on solid ground.

The air was cool, goosebumps rising against her soft flesh. So much so, that the chill forced her hand to reach down and throw a white over-sized t-shirt over her bare frame.

It was Michael's. Or to be more precise, it had been Michael's.

Their first night together, after the echoed praise, unholy chants of each others names and the joining of bodies, she'd slid out of bed and stole the shirt from his closet. The soft fabric, the stretched neckline and the scent of him warmed her so much, she never quite had the heart to give it back.

She didn't want to wake him.

Seriously, she didn't. Michael barley slept as it was, quoting himself to be somewhat of a night owl. She knew there was more to it.

Sleepless nights plagued with a mass of over thinking. Insomnia had got the best of him and so those rare nights when he did find himself drifting into a dream filled slumber, like last night, reluctance ached her bones, with a tender need to allow him to stay tucked neatly in her bed, away from the destructive world outside her doorstep.

But like clockwork, it happened again.

The action of it amost instantaneous, the subtle shift of his body against the mattress as the ivory material settled against her thighs, like his body ached with a fear of abandonment when she wasn't around. His head lifted, dark eyes narrowed in a tired squint he didn't try to hide, but his tense form eased once he spotted her just out of reach.

"What's the time?" He grumbled, voice rasped from sleep and much deeper than he had ever allowed the public to hear.

"Seven fifteen." She spoke softly, brushing her hair back from her face.

With a longing whisper of her name, Michael carelessly threw himself back against the pillows. "Come back to bed, please."

Michael was good at that. Tempting her into bad habits. Truthfully, it didn't take much. Just a glance at the coffee tinted hues flickering in her direction and she was an utterly gone.

Mostly.

"I wish I could, but you have rehearsals this morning. And I'm not dealing with Jermaine if you're late." She pouted almost too naturally and then stretched her arms above her head, the hem of his old t-shirt skimming her upper thighs. "You know how irritated he gets."

"Oh boy." As though she'd personally offended him, Michael allowed a frustrated groan to fall from his lips and dragged a heavy hand across his face like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Those wandering eyes of his not once leaving the long expanse of her legs, his jaw clentched while his usually tame thoughts ran wild. "You can't mention my brothers name when you look like that."

"Like what?" She feigned innocent, ignorance despite feeling the burn of his gaze.

"Like you're beggin' for trouble." His voice dropped, almost impossibly low. Giving her no time to react, he was on her, arms snaking around her waist, tossing her back against the mattress with a lazy form of dominance. "An awful distraction." He husked, his weight pressing her into the sheets as he continued to mutter against her ear. "One day, I'm taking this shirt back. You look better without it anyway."

Barley catching her breath, a teasing grin rose against the corners of her mouth. "That's cruel of you. I'm attached to this shirt."

Lips curling into a smirk, his mouth ghosted against her own, voice thick with familiar sense of desire. "Yeah, well... I'm attached to you, baby. A bad habit I can't kick." Then without missing a beat, he kissed her. Slow at first, then rough enough to make her forget about the rehearsals and his brothers entirely.

There was something about each kiss they shared. All that time they'd spent together and she'd never grow tired of it. With his body against her own, Michael's intoxicating warmth crowded her in the most delicious way. This was something far from innocent and the more it transpired, the more she lost herself in the moment. Time began to blend together, so much so, it became blaring obvious that not even a full scale hurricane could draw her away.

With expert ease, his tongue slid into her mouth, brushing against her own. Michael then pushed a knee between her own, a hand beside her head holding him up as the other grasped at the swell of her hip like he could keep them in this moment forever, if he only held her tight enough. It was almost dizzying, the way he hummed in triumph as he sucked on her tongue and got a real taste of her first thing in the morning. Suddenly any exhaustion he felt evaporated and all that remained was his a blazing need for her.

"Well, good morning to you too." She spoke, breathless once the kiss broke, as the heat simmered between them.

Michael smirked, fingers pinching at her delicate waist while not so subtly dragging his eyes over her body. Flushed skin on display covered by nothing other than that distracting shirt. "It's 'bout to be."

Before she could come up with a response, Michael had already brought his head back down to seal their lips together again. The familiar flick of his tongue against hers prompting a pathetic whimper to vibrate against their mouths.

Now, she knew him well enough to know that if she could see him, that cocky smirk wouldn't just be felt, it would be on proud display. The undoing of her by his hands was one of his favourite things.

Michael was always been that way inclined. He didn't want to be good at something, he wanted to be great. The best. The same could be said from a career standpoint or something as simple as winning a game of twister when he finally convinced his family to play. He had a competitive streak and that definitely followed him into the bedroom.

"You know I love it when you make those sounds." He muttered softly, pulling back only slightly so he was able to kiss down her jawline and along her neck.

"You-" She wanted to speak. Really, she did. But the attack against her sensitive skin, the bruising movement of his mouth proved to be a consuming distraction. "Fuck."

"What was that?" Michael paused his movements, breathing heavy as he looked down at her like prey. His already obscenely pink lower lip had deepened in colour, the smug grin still prominent and growing wider by the second. The familiar tone of his eyes darkened, the blown pupils leaving only a small ribbon of brown to surround it. He was gorgeous. He didn't know it all the time, but she certainly did, having fallen victim to that look one too many times in the past.

A moment of clarity seemed to catch up.

"You-" Her breath hitched while her fingers trailed the exposed expanse of his chest. "You have rehearsals. "

"Yeah, well..." Assured hands inched against her thighs, lifting the white fabric higher, exposing more of her to the cold air that had encouraged her to place it on in the first place. "They know I didn't want to agree to this tour." There were layers to his words, a heated frustration he tried to bury deep. Michael wanted more for himself, no longer wanting people to associate him the days he needed a group to keep him relevant.

Ambition clawed at him like a vice, telling him he had more to give and prove to the world that doubted the legacy a black man could hold. He's proved he'd earned his spot at the top billing order with his latest solo project and now he couldn't help but begrudge the fact he was still playing band of brothers with the same group he'd been forced into from the age of five.

Brushing the tip of his nose against her own, his voice dipped into a whisper. "They can wait a little while longer." And like a starved man seeing food for the first time, Michael's eyes gleamed in delight as he finally ripped the offending material over her head. "There she is."

Michael dipped down, his hands cradling her face in an almost possessive hold as he stole a kiss. It was common for him to be gentle, but this time, it didn't last long. Before either of them could gage the change, his mouth descended lower. A mirage of movement. All teeth and lips. The inability to remember her name had suddenly kicked in as he lapped his tongue against her nipple, tugging it almost painfully between his teeth only to sooth it with a lingering lick while a hand busied itself with her neglected breast.

No one could get her off the way he could. He knew her body, the way it worked and the things that she loved. He'd learnt the art of bringing those tempting moans to the surface and that was almost reward enough. Every time they did something like this, it was like they switched roles. With an open mouth, she'd sing him sweet lullabies and he knew exactly what to do to bring those high notes to the surface.

"You like that, don't you?" His voice thick with desire, knee barley pressing against her centre with a clear agenda. The goal was to drive her crazy, he was good at that. His mouth curled into a satisfied grin against her breast, knowing he had her right where he wanted her. There was no coming back from this. No clarity that could break through that incredible mind of hers to remind her to be responsible. Michael loved seeing her like this. How she tried her hardest to be rational, only for that to be utterly ripped from her with every indecent lick gracing her abdomen. It only made him want her more.

Hips rising off the mattress, desperate for some real fiction, she hated herself for how easily she fell for his little games. Her mind begged for her to come to her senses, but fogged over in a lustful haze when she found herself in this state. It was no use. She wanted him. Anything he was willing to give her. His fingers. His mouth. His cock. So long as he was the one touching her this way, she didn't care about anything else that was happening in the world beyond her bedroom. "You're an asshole." She muttered, half breathless, knowing he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

A soft spout of laughter fell from his lips, a hand falling to her hip to pull her closer. "You should be a lot nicer to me." He suggested with a demonic arch of a brow, his face coming up and aligning with her own.

"Why's that?" The muttered whisper kissed his mouth, his dark hues drinking in the sight of her in the early hours of the morning.

"Because..." He started, lips brushing against the soft pillows of her own, a dimpled grin taking over his features. "I have the power to make you feel real good right now." Surging forward, he didn't wait for a response, lips claiming hers in a heated echo of dominance, one that warmed her from the inside out. Long fingers clawed the meat of her thigh, guiding her leg up and around the slim apex of his waist.

Michael was bare under the covers, having fallen asleep that way the night before. If her eyes were open, she would see the smooth skin, the slightly uneven blotchiness he'd grown so insecure about despite her protests of how beautiful he was. The heat from his body trapped her against the mattress, a breathy hitch of a sound falling from her lips.

There were so many divine creatures in this world. Michael had taken the time to appreciate so many from afar, but he swore to himself, the heavens must have taken their time when it came to the craft of the women beneath him.

"You want me to make you feel good?" He pulled back briefly to mutter against her mouth, hand cautiously caressing her ribs, higher and higher until she felt his tumb grazed the underside of her bare breast. She arched instantly, a desperate plea for more and Michael couldn't stop it, the lively groan, low in his throat, casting vibrations where their bare chests met. His lips descended, lower, a leisurely trail of his mouth against her jaw and with an instinctive tilt of her head, she easily allowed him the access he silently asked for. The sharp sting of his teeth against her pluse illicited an addictive gasp, and in the next moment, his tongue flicked out, soothing the redness he'd created.

Michael laughed then nipped against her earlobe. "You're so beautiful like this."

"Stop teasing me." She protested, trailing her nails up the delicate line of his spine.

Again, he laughed, breathing hot air against her skin. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sorry at all. He got off on this, enjoyed knowing the effect he had over her entirety. With a surge of confidence, she caught his mouth again, relilish in the way he opened up, a messy collide of tongues and teeth, breathless whispers churing into one.

"I want you." She breathed against his lips, pulling back enough to see the blowout, depraved look tainting his usual kind eyes. "What are you waiting for?"

"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" His voice soft for the first time since he woke, large hand sliding to her waist like he was trying to map out her body from touch alone.

A shiver ran down her spine, the effect he had over her wasn't just physical but deeply rooted into the essence of her being. She knew a life without him, but it felt so long ago now.

"No." She breathed out, eyes fluttering at the feel of him so close.

For a long beat, he studied her, his tumb tracing maddening circles against her skin. "By now, you definitely should. Can't you feel it?"

A soft pink glow rose against the apples of her cheeks because yes, she very much could. The hardened length prodding against her hip, ready to take her as she was. He wasn't her first, but he had become her everything and time spent tangled in the sheets together always felt like more like a celestial event than a simple shared moment.

His gaze was searing, but then he leaned in and kissed her again, heavy but slow, as though he didn't have any time restraints when they both knew the truth. "I'm gonna take care of you."

Holding himself up, Michael allowed himself a glance, starring down in unadulterated awe at the sight below him. It didn't matter how many times he's seen her like this, she would always set his heart racing. Sometimes, he still failed to understand how it was possible he got the luxury to see her like this, how she trusted him so intimately. If divinity lived in a person, it would be this women. Michael felt like he could write albums of content with her as his muse, but no words would do her justice. The burning ache for more built up and with an aching sigh, he pulled away only brief enough to reach into her nightstand draw and and take out a familiar, foil wrapper.

Baring his new found possession, his slender fingers handed the item over. "Put it on." He muttered, lips teasing nipping the sensitive flesh of her collarbone. Holding himself up, he watched in wondement, the way she feverishly ripped into the packaging and with a quite kind of precision, rolled the latex onto his hard length. The touch of her hand already setting his body alight. With a heavy sigh, Michael's forehead dropped against her own, a shared smirk settled on both their features.

"Don't get shy now." She teased, but the words lost momentum the second he reached between their bodies, taking the base of his cock in hand to line himself up against the sticky, sweet entrance he's come to adore.

The second his tip pushed into her opening, a gasp was torn from her lungs. Like their brains worked on the same wavelength, their eyes found each other, a burning gaze as he surged forward with his skilled hips and pushed fully into her, stretching her walls with ease, like she was made for this, made for him specifically.

Time wasn't on their side, just outside, they both knew they would find a car waiting. Bill (Michael's trusty bodyguard) would be checking his watch, wondering what was taking them so long, but neither of them seemed to take note.

With little thought and ample need, he barley gave her time to adjust before he found himself moving against her, sliding almost completely out before spearing back in, knocking the air from her lungs with each precise thrust. The sight of Michael lost in pleasure burnt into her brain, something she didn't want to lose sight of, but each movement brought a new surge of pleasure which made it impossible to keep her thoughts straight. Rolling her eyes to the back of her head, he showed no signs of stopping, if anything, his pace grew faster and in an attempt to keep a hold of him, her nails scratched into the brown flesh of his back.

The consuming weight of his body against hers, the force of his thrusts, it was too much and not enough all at once. Her hips moved against his, finding a perfect rhythm in the intimacy of her bed. A large hand encased one of her own, lifting it above her head, fingers intertwined with the sound of his desperate pants echoing down her ear. With their bodies pressed so close together, a beading sweat slicked their skin, her lips pressed to his jaw as he whined her name.

"You're so pretty. So... so pretty." The muttered words barley escaped his lips, like he wasn't aware he was saying them in the first place.

"So are you." She urged, pressing her lips against his protruding collarbone, earning a deep groan from him as Michael moved to nip at her earlobe. With a tentative twinkle in his eye, he stopped his movements, buried deep with the slick warmth of her walls, to his own detriment as much as hers. Impatient for more, her hips attempted a desperate wiggle, but with a fierce determination, Michael pinned her hips, keeping her perfectly still.

It never used to be like this. Their first time, three months into dating, after some coaxing on her part, they finally let go of their inhibitions, but he had been painfully shy. So much so that she had questioned if he's ever done this before or if she had been the unknowing soul to deflower Michael Jackson. Never quite answering her question, he assured her he knew what he was doing, but definitely allowed her to take the lead.

Nowadays, his confidence had improved tenfold and that was only made more apparent by the hungry gleaming gaze those dark optics of his shined with.

"Who's making you feel this good?" He uttered, brushing the bridge of his nose against the delicate arch of her jawline.

"You." She whimpered, body aching and ready to go.

The mocking laugh that he released shouldn't have lured her in the way it did, but arousal pooled, staining the sheets beneath her.

"You gonna be a good girl?" Michael husked, unmoving, relishing in the immediate nod she gave, but it wasn't enough. "I know you can speak, baby. Tell me."

"I'll be good." She whimpered, the ache between her legs growing by the second. "I promise. Please, Mike... I need you."

A hot sigh of relief feel from her swollen lips once his hips began to move again. The movement almost sob inducing as the sound of their bodies pressing together set the soundtrack for the morning, overshadowing the sophisticated bird song just beyond the window.

A strong hand grabbed against the meat of her hip, harsh and bruising, but so deliciously addictive that the uttering of his name soon followed, over and over like a broken record or a sort after prayer. Burning and so fucking delicious.

With the tilt of his head, his mouth devoured her own, pouring every thought and emotion into a hazy kiss. Messy and a little off kilter as his tongue moved against her own, forcing her to move her own head and an angle that ached, but she wouldn't dare correct.

Sweat gathered at his hairline as he pulled her thighs tight around his hips, gasping as the slight movement helped him slide further into her warmth, his tip hitting that designated spot bound to drive her crazy.

"Michael!" She gasped, face flushed and twisted from the overwhelming surge of ecstasy, like she could feel everything all at once and yet, nothing at all.

"Come on, darlin', let go, I wanna feel you." He urged, quickening his pace in a manner she always found impossible.

"Fuck - ah..."

The burn ripped through her, his name the sin on her lips as her orgasm tore through her body, possessing her with the inability to control her limbs as she thrashed and withered beneath him. Her voice hoarse with praise, clinging onto the last waves when suddenly her release triggered his own.

His formally precise movement, the ones that came from a dancers hips, turned sloppy, thusts falling out of a rhythm to a well timed groan as he spilled himself inside the latex and eventually fell against her warm body.

Ragged breaths and rapidly rising chests filled the space around them. When was the last time she's felt so fulfilled?

Sweaty and satisfied, the temptation to forget the world around them was easy enough. If either of them thought they could avoid consequences, maybe they would. In the safety of her bed, Michael felt normal. She's seen versions of himself he'd forever hidden from public viewing and stayed. She valued him not for his status, but for the man that lay beneath it.

A small, soothing hand cradled the back of his neck, careful to avoid the tender flesh that lived a few inches North. She was good that way, knowing what he needed and when was the right time to put those actions into practice.

"Baby, we need to get up." She gently encouraged once she had finally caught her breath, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline, completely unphased by the dampness clinging to his skin after their earlier escapade.

A hard groan could be heard, the sound bouncing off the four walls around them and landing deep in his throat. "Girl, why'd you gave to remind me? I was at peace pretending for a while."

A light giggle passed her lips, his attitude, as bratty as it was, somehow still charmed her. Nudging his shoulder, she watched in amusement as he pulled himself from her and flung his body down on the empty space beside her, honey brown eyes narrowed in mild irritation both of them knew to be a lie.

"I'm sorry, Michael." And she was, he knew that. "If I could keep you here forever, you know I would."

"Yeah..." He nodded, lips quirked into a small grin. "I know."

"But you can come back tonight and you know..." Brows arched, her voice dipped in tone. "my bed will always be waiting for you."

"It had better be." Pouncing forward, Michael trapped her against the mattress, prepping a series of well throughout kisses over every inch of skin he could get to and relishing in the delightful laugh he recieved as a reward.

Eventually, she managed to tear away with a playful push against his shoulder. "Go and shower. You stink."

Sliding out from the warmth they'd created, her gleaming eyes watched as he moved across the room with a gentle, "Stop looking at me." To which she rolled her eyes, but found it hard to follow his order. In fact, her eyes stayed trained on his retreating figure until he hid himself behind the ensuite bathroom door.

With him out of sight, her bare feet touched the cold ground for the second time that morning. Picking the white shirt from where it had been thrown, she pulled the comforting piece of fabric over head and exited the safety of her own room.

In the main space of her apartment, she moved gracefully towards the other bathroom where she cleaned herself up before she started with her day.

Back in the kitchen, busy hands moved to make breakfast. Michael wasn't much of an eater, he never had a big appetite and unless reminded, he could go days at a time forgetting the fuel he needed to keep up with the energy his twenty five year old body held. As much as she tried talking to him about it, the worry of her words never got her anywhere. Pretty quick into their realtionship, she'd taken note that nagging only laid the foundations of his own stubbornness. To get Michael to do something, you had to physically place the thing in front of him and make it seem like it was his idea.

Slicing fruit and filling a bottle of orange juice was the least she could do to ensure his day started as well as she hoped it would continue. Gutting the seeds of a fresh pomegranate plucked from her fruit bowl, her actions were placed on a temporary pause when a knock at the door alerted her to a guest.

It was no surprise as she crossed the room and flung the door open, the face that greeted her back was the harded, worn exterior of an overworked bodyguard.

"Hello, Bill." She spoke politely with a smile.

"Hey, kid." He acknowledge with a stern nod. "Where is he? He's going to make us late." As if to make a point, Bill raised his arm, kind eyes falling to the face of the watch strapped to his wrist.

With a small laugh, she invited him in with a gentle promise that she would go and find him so they could go on their merry way. She knew the pressure he was under. Working for the Jackson's really should have been something that came with a manual, but Bill navigated the challenge well and frankly, she didn't know what Michael would do without him. Having troubles with his own father, Bill had somehow became a surrogate for the life he could've had.

Closing the door behind her as she entered her bedroom, her soft voice called out to her boyfriend as her gaze fell to the door of her ensuite, opened a few centimeters to reveal a small stir of steam developed from the shower he must have taken.

With no sound of running water and with the assumption he must be getting ready, she crossed the floor as quietly as she possibly could, carefully sliding into the room and allowed herself to oggle glorious the sight that greeted her.

The well toned muscles of his bare back, strong and flexed, proof that the body of a dancer would always triumph. His skin smooth and taut, a mouthwatering shade of brown, marbled with a contrasting lightness where the pigment had been stripped, but still looked as perfect as the rest of him was. He hated it. She knew that and as she trained her eyes upwards, the view of him covering the lighter spots on his face with a darker foundation shade in the mirror was made visable.

As if sensing her presence, his gaze met her own stare in the reflection and the beautiful smile he was known for began to curve against his lips, a subtle, but very real flush rising against his cheeks, flashing a peak at those famous dimples she adored so much.

"Hey, stop watching me." He laughed, though she could hear the subtle insecurities lay deep within his tone. "I'm shy."

"After what we just did?" She teased, giggling as the redness of his cheeks flared further.

With the initiative to step towards him, she found herself standing in front her lover, jumping up onto the bathroom counter and sitting with her back pressed to the mirror. As she reached to take the foundation bottle and sponge from his hands, Michael's large, protective grip instantly fell to her waist, further elongating that breathtaking smile. All perfect teeth and lips. She found herself questioning how she got so lucky.

"You're so pretty." She spoke offhandly, not realising she's said it until his forehead came down to rest of her shoulder, hiding his flaming face from view. "None of that, come on, let me help."

Eventually, Michael pulled back and allowed her to pile a light layer of make up on his face, something he used to be deeply insecure about until he realised she loved him exactly as he was. If it were up to her, he wouldn't have to hide away like this, but Michael refused to go outside without it and so she helped when he allowed it.

With a squeeze against her waist, the depth of his dark eyes focused entirely on her, the way she looked and felt, so heavenly and entirely his. She took over all of his senses and Michael didn't mind one bit. "You smell good." He muttered, doe eyed and in love.

"I smell like you." She countered, tilting his chin down so she could cover a small spot beneath his eye. "Look up."

He did as he was told with little argument, but laughed. "I like that you smell of me. Makes me feel like I marked my territory."

"Yeah? I always knew you were an animal." The laugh he gave was reward enough and then she remembered why she was rushed off to find him in the first place. Clearing her throat, her hand rest against the apples of his cheek, thumb carefully brushing the delicate skin beneath his eye. "Bill's in the living room."

"What?" His voice rose in pitch, eyes wide as he took into account the thin white t-shirt barley covering her tempting frame. "And he saw you? Like this?"

Before he could spiral further, the sound of her merry laughter broke through the surface and his eyes softened almost instantly.

"Relax, would you?" Pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, she finally finished with the make up she'd been applying to his face and neck when she jumped down and handed him the long sleeved, Mickey Mouse sweater he'd picked out for the day. "We're grown. I think he knows what goes on between us when he isn't around."

"Yeah, but..." Michael's voice carried low while he shrugged into the magenta material, smoothing the fabric over with large hands once his head poped out the neck of the fabric. "I don't want him to say anything."

"You're over thinking, baby. You know he cares too much to embarrass you on purpose." With a simple peck to his lips, she felt his smile against his own and then playfully nudged him. "Brush your hair. I'll finish cutting your fruit and then you can leave."

So that's what they did. Fifteen minutes later, she found herself standing in her doorway, sending him off with a simple kiss, a soft promise to see him later and a tub of cut up fruit and a bottle of fresh orange juice.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Wasn't that the bullshit phase a Roman poet spewed once up a time and it stuck? Well, she supposed it must true since she had found herself resonating with the saying more and more in recent days.

Since embarking on the Victory Tour, she had barley seen Michael. It wasn't through a lack of longing on either of their part, their situation simply dictated that it wasn't something that could happen easily for the two of them. While he was out, commanding stages night after night, she still had a life of her own, a career she'd grown passionate about and responsibilities she couldn't wiggle out of at the drop of a hat.

Although all of the shows for this tour were hosted in the States or Canada, she couldn't tear herself away from her job in order to follow him around, even if his brothers wives expected her to exactly that, just as they had.

Independence clung to her body, stubborn but admirable. It was one of the many qualities Michael had constantly praised her for. She didn't need him to be her own person, she existed in a reality where she didn't rely on someone else to lead a fulfilling life, but stuck by his side because he elevated every aspect.

Days passed by in a relatively similiar manner. Wake up, get ready, work, come home, dinner and if she was really lucky, Michael could sneak away for an hour or two as she settled down for the night and they would talk until one of them into a peaceful fell asleep, though it was usually her on account on Michael's persistent insomnia keeping him up at all hours.

With a hectic day at work finally drawing to a close and having caught up with all the tedious household chores she had been putting off, all that was left to do was relax. A foreign concept with how busy life had proved to be within the past couple of weeks. It was beginning to feel like the universe had purposely been conspiring against her.

The warm, comforting weight of a checkered blanket sat across her lap as she lost her mind in some other world ― her latest read divulging into a welcome distraction from reality. The words lingered, painting delicate landscapes of a place far away from earth, one she could lose herself in for hours with no repercussions.

Page after page, consumed by captivating dialogue and complex character, then it all came crashing to a halt by a shrill ringing breaking through the quiet. With the beginnings of a smile etched against the corners of her lips, she made quick work to slide her bookmark into the correct page before she darted forward to retrieve the phone up off the hook.

Leaning back against the plump sofa cushions, she brought the landline to her ear while curling a single finger around the curved wire. "991 emergency, how can I assist you today?"

Sharp, melodic laughter broke through the silence and without so much as a word, it would have been impossible to mistake the sound for anyone else. "You're so silly."

"Me?" A dramatic gasp filled the space between them. "Never."

"Yes, girl, you." His delicate hum warmed her from the inside out and with the futtering close of her eyelids, she could imagined him sprawled out on his hotel bed, all sparkling eyes and beaming grin. "I miss you."

"Hmm... me too. You always were my favourite distraction." She found herself admitting, tucking her legs beneath her body.

"Distraction from what?"

"The terrors of the mundane."

He was the total opposite, but perhaps that was what drew her towards him. Opposites attract and his life was so vastly different from her own.

The first day the met, he's been running, running like he was born to do it his whole life. Legs moving with vigor, leaving little room for breath and yet, he hadn't seemed to have broken so much as a sweat. His frantic actions, a mission to hide away from a small crowd that had gathered had him running straight into the first building he could see with a tired head of security flanking him.

It had been there, in the middle of a forgotten library that they first set eyes on each other.

The laboured breathing of his companion had been the first thing to draw her eyes to the new comers. Being one of the few people actually using library at the time, Michael was quick to meet her gaze and offered a shy smile with a quite apology. Did she recognise him? Of course and she knew he knew she had, but she brushed it off and went back to searching the shelves.

It was then that a little voice echoed in his mind, urging him forward and giving him a small burst of confidence to ask what she was searching for. Things escalated quickly from there. She asked why he's entered the library in the first place and he sheepishly had no choice but to admit his car had broken down, leaving him no other option but to get out. Instantly, he was recognised and before he really knew what was happening, he was running from a surge in the crowd.

The library had offered him not only solitude as his head of security made a few important calls to send a new car their way, but companionship that went beyond a simple conversation. What bloomed that day had grown into something that surpassed both of their expectations and had lead to her sitting idly by on a random Tuesday evening, grinning like a fool into the phone as he recounted life on the road.

Jermaine was still driving him crazy, no shock there, but he wasn't much trouble when his wife was around. Tito and Randy bickered a lot and when they weren't too loud, Michael found their little spats pretty amusing. He noted cautiously that he's gotten closer with Jackie since they started back up, how Randy constantly stole everyone's fresh socks and mostly, how he wished Joseph would leave them alone.

The tumultuous relationship he had with his father had become somewhat more contentious as Michael had grown into his adulthood. No longer shackled by his father's control, but somehow still entirely under his thumb. He hated it. Michael was a lover by nature and his family meant the world to him, but had also been his breaking point. The abuse, the taunts, the never ending cycle that brought on the feeling of not being enough.

He wanted more for himself.

Craved it like the air he breathed.

As he spoke, she offered him loving reassurances of how she cared, how she knew he was destined to do more. The Thriller album was really just the beginning for him and how he already had changed the aspects of the world, not just with his talent, but his heart too.

"How is it you always know what to say to make me feel better." He mused and she could practically picture the way in which he was dragging his hand through his curls.

"Comes from a year of loving you." Her voice soft, leaving no room for arguments as she curled up against herself, holding a pillow close as if it could mimic the press of his body against her own. It didn't work, but it didn't hurt either.

"I love you too. I really wish you were here right now." He admitted. "Everything has been so crazy. At least if you were here, I would have something solid to hold onto."

"I wish I was there too." She confessed. "I hate knowing you're so unhappy."

"It's not that I don't love our fans, you know I do. I just thought that by now, with everything I've done, with the success of the last album, I might have been given the opportunity for a solo tour."

He wanted it, more than he wanted anything. A chance to prove himself as not only an artist, but a performer away from his brothers, where he called the shots and had all the creative liberties. He wanted to be hands on, to shine as MJ rather than the child from the Jacksons.

This wasn't something he discussed openly with most people, but with her and the trust they had build, confessing his deepest thoughts had been a relief he'd been craving for years now. She never judged, never cut in, only ever encoruaged his passions and offered comfort he'd been denied for years.

She had her own personal grievances with the Victory tour. While, yes, it has stripped him of the solo projects he had been actively seeking out, it went beyond that. She thought it was too soon to get back on stage after the Pepsi incident, he had yet to full recover and was still expected to perform every night.

If that wasn't bad enough, everything that went wrong suddenly became Michael's fault. The ticketing system, the lack of Jackson music in the shows, the ticket pricing. It seemed he had a target on his back and she was the only one there to comfort him.

"It's going to be your day soon, baby, I know it." She said, innocently, like it was a fact and not an opinion. "How about I fly out and see you soon?"

"Really? Don't play games with me."

The excitement inched in his tone provoked and onslaught of butterflies to form in pit of her stomach. This silly, brilliant man had no idea what he meant to her.

"Yeah, of course. I can clear it with work." She laughed. "I feel bad. Your brothers all have their wives, kids and friends flying out constantly to see them. I hate that you don't have that."

"Well, that's not entirely true." He mused.

"Huh?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Michael breathed a delicate sigh, raising an arm above his head to fluff at the pillow beneath him. "Diana said she'd come out and see a show next month."

"Diana Ross?"

The women Michael had idolised since he was a mere child, far too young to be raised in a world to cruel. He latched onto those around him that brought a form of solace he lacked in his day to day life. Diana had been a source of comfort, someone he not only looked up, but longed for.

She knew of the childhood crush he had on the brilliant pop legend, had witnessed first hand as he got gooey eyed whenever she entered the room. She tried not to make a habit out of jealousy, but it couldn't be helped when your boyfriend looks at another women like she crafted the sun just to make his days burn a little warmer.

Still, she never made a scene. She trusted Michael and so naturally, he never sensed any of the discomfort his relationship with his mentor may had caused.

"Yeah, the very one." He sounded almost giddy, retelling the conversation he'd indulged in only a day ago. "She currently has a break between her Vegas shows and said she would fly out next month to come and watch us. Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, that's wonderful, Michael." She nodded and if he noticed her tone fell flat, he didn't draw attention to it. "I'm really happy for you."

"Me too." He practically beamed. "Maybe you could come the same night? Or the show after? You know I'll be putting on my best perfomance for you."

"You'd better."

Eventually their conversation turned to her, how her job was, if her boss was still a hard-ass and if she hid from her responsibilities by indulging in a new read.

Cuddled up against in her blanket, wrapped tightly in a familiar white shirt, she recounted the vast details of the latest book to capture her attention. Michael hummed with appreciation as she told tales of a world different from the one they lived in, packed with adventure, magic and longing.

Cutting in, he eventually asked if she would read a chapter to him. Instantly, she obliged, picking her book up from the coffee table and skipping straight back to the first page. One chapter became two and eventually, she stopped reading as the sounds of his deep breaths evening out signalled he'd entered the dream state.

Loving Michael had always come with consequences, mostly through no fault of his own. He couldn't control the screaming fans or the intrusive paparazzi. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to keep her name out of headlines and reporters mouths. She wasn't a secret, but she wasn't all that public either. His management thought it would be better that way. Maintain the single image to keep the fans invested. While it certainly made going outside their houses challenging at times, she could handle it.

What she couldn't handle, however, was the tense silence that seemed to build while he was away. The calls hadn't completely came to a devastating end, but they had become few and far between. When he did get the chance to call, it was brief, rushed, like it was more of an obligation than a privilege.

She tried not to take it to heart and told herself he was busy and she knew that was true. The tour was in full swing and Michael was being pulled in all directions, but suddenly, it felt like he was slipping from her grasp and the tighter she tried to hold on, the quicker he fell.

He wasn't cruel, she knew that to be a fact and so maybe somewhat foolishly, she continued to give him the benefit out the doubt. Not wanting to badger him while he was working, she allowed him to take things at his own pace, on his own terms, but even she admit, the lack of communication was growing somewhat tiresome now.

She missed him, probably more than she was supposed to and in a days time, she was set to be flying out to New York to see him. The tickets were booked, a bag was half packed and for a brief period of time, she was excited.

Soon, that exciment turned to dread.

Would he want to see her at all? What if he'd decided he wanted to call it off and was too kind to do it over the phone?

Doubts swarmed her already overcrowded mind and with a dismissive sigh, she forced herself to shake them away.

She loved Michael. Michael loved her and she trusted him enough to be honest with her.

Early morning passed and before she knew it, mid afternoon hit. Taking a break from packing for her trip, she told herself to go out and get some fresh air. Maybe being cooped up all day had been a contributing factor to misery and so she left the warmth of her apartment, telling herself a brief walk around the park would calm her nerves, but she didn't make it that far.

Sat on the floor, just opposite, the apartment right across from her, she saw it. The newspaper her neighbour must have subscribed to and hadn't be home to take it inside their own place yet. And like it was mocking her, she found her eyes drawn to the black and white print, an unmistakable image burnt on the front page.

Now, usually, tabloid gossip was of no interest to her. She really had very little interest in what celebrities were getting upto in their free time. Then she realised she must have been a hypocrite because when the picture showed the undisputable snapshot of her lover, pressed tight against a beautiful goddess, sharing a sly smile she thought he had reserved just for her, she suddenly changed her mind.

People had warned her, men like Michael don't do monogamy. He's too young, too famous, the world was at his feet and settling down would be a disservice. How idiotic had she been to call them cynical, to push aside any doubt and run straight towards him with nothing blind trust?

She remembered asking him about it once and how he replied innocent enough, assuring her that he wasn't like that, that women throwing themselves at him made him uncomfortable. He was too shy, too nervous.

But then again, this was no ordinary women. No, those dark eyes and beautiful curls were brunt into her memory.

'MICHAEL AND DIANA: FROM MENTOR TO LOVER?'

She wanted to throw up.

Every trace of rationality left her body as she watched her hands pluck the paper from her neighbour's welcome mat, stealing the item with very little thought and instsntly turning on her heel to let herself back into her apartment.

Back in the safety of her own home, she gave herself a second or two to calm her nerves, not yet noticing the shaking foundation of her hands or the rapid beating of her heart against her ribcage.

It couldn't be true. He wouldn't do it.

Would he?

For a few minutes, the entirety of her weight leaned carelessly against the door, eyes cletched shut as she willed herself to relax. She couldn't break before she knew the truth, so with a deep breath and a strong thirst for gospel, she forced herself to move, to sit down and read the entire article from beginning to end.

The words hit like lightening against water. Painful and damaging as the writer detailed the events of the night before. How Diana Ross had been spotted at the Jackson's Victory tour, polished and proud for the boys she'd watched grown into stars, how she sang and dance along, then slipped backstage mid-performance and ultimately found herself leading Michael up to her hotel room straight after curtain call.

Flaky witnesses reported seeing them close, all hands and flirty exchanges. Of course, this could be nothing more than a fabrication. After all, the photo didn't show anything outwardly damning, but she knew Michael, she knew that look and it was far from friendly.

Ice filled her veins, a sudden coldness deverstating her from the inside out. Had this been the reason he's been so agonisingly distant with her lately?

He wanted Diana. She's known that and like an idiot, she had allowed fate to make a victim of her. Just like Stephanie Mills had.

Like her, Michael had dated the young Broadway star not too long before he'd been cast in 'The Wiz' alongside Diana. Stephanie (who played the leading role on stage) had been the expected to take the role of Dorothy in the movie production and then suddenly, she was out of the picture, the rug pulled from under her feet. Diana got the part and brought Michael into the picture with the promise of making him the Cowardly Lion.

Shortly after the contracts were drawn, his realtionship with Stephanie fizzled out and the two went their separate ways.

Once, she had asked him if the end of that particular realtionship had anything to do with Diana. At the time, he smiled shyly and denied it, but the recent article had her rethinking every word he had ever spoke to her.

Had he love her at all? Was she just a place holder until the real thing came along?

It hit like a punch to the gut and before she even had time to process when she had just read, she felt a familiar streak of wetness trickle down her cheek. She was crying and she hated herself for not being able to stop.

Despite not yet having lost him, she knew this couldn't last and it hurt. The first man she had ever truly loved and he played her just as easily as he played his favourite song. Was that all she was to him? A temporary distraction?

Time stretched. Crying herself into a heavy migraine, she didn't move an inch. The newspaper still sat on her lap forty five minutes later and with one last lingering glance, she knew what she had to do.

Until now, she hadn't bothered calling Michael. It was a difficult process while he was on the road, but not entirely impossible. Before he had left, he's passed along numbers, given her code words and fake names to bypass any security in case she really did need to talk to him and at this point, she absolutely needed to hear his voice.

Standing on shaky legs, her body stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, she forced her feet forward, the walk across the room feeling more like a marathon than a simple five second journey. Reaching for the landline, her body slid down the wall, knees coming to her chest as she dialled.

The process to speak to Michael on the phone was a lengthy one, and truthfully, she hadn't processed or remembered most of it. Time seemed to drag as slow as possible while simultaneously passing by in a distinctive blur. Whoever had been playing security in the measures of Jackson phone calls eventually let up and told her they would be passing the call forward.

Nerves began to bubble before she fully registered what was about to happen. Her mind a swirl of printed words and painful glimpses of a smile that should have been hers.

The ringing that once whould've provided hope, only brought along dread and for one brief, tempting moment, she seriously contemplated hanging up and dealing with the issue another day. She didn't have to do this now. Before she could even attempt to bring the reciever down, the ringing stopped and for a second, she was greeted with clumsy rustling.

He'd picked up.

"Hello?"

The familiarity of his voice only aided in furthering the devastation she felt, the welling of tears she stubbornly refused to let fall. When he heard no reply, Michael spoke in greeting again. As the silence lingered, he seriously considering hanging up but then he heard the subtle heavy breath and realised, he knew exactly who that was.

A soft call of her name was all it took and suddenly she felt like a scared child during a nightmare, lost, confused and needing to tackle the beast head on.

"Baby, are you there?" To his credit, Michael actually did sound concerned.

And she hated it.

Did he not know? He seemed entirely oblivious to headlines currently making their way into the average American household. Maybe he really hadn't seen it, but she couldn't be sure she trusted anything he said or did anymore.

"Yeah." She spoke for the first time, clearing her throat and resting her chin against her knees. "I'm here."

"Hey." She could hear the smile in his tone. "Are you all packed? I can't wait to see you tomorrow. Bill will meet you at the airport and you ca-"

Unable to listen to his ramblings of a visit she wasn't sure would happen, she found herself cutting him off. "Is it true?"

For a second, there was nothing. He didn't speak or hum in confusion, he stayed so quite. So quite, she could barley hear the small breaths of air pass through his mouth

"Huh?" He eventually spoke, though the word lacked conviction.

"Is it true?" She repeated, eyes screwed shut, voice completely void of emotion.

"Is what true?"

He played the fool well, she would give him that.

"Last night." Her voice wavered. "You and Diana. Is it true?"

He paused and it was heavy. No playful taunts or amused laughter. Just a hefty silence where his voice should have been.

"I mean, she came to the show." Michael eventually confessed and she could hear the distinct sound of his black loafers hit the floor as he paced back and fourth. "I told you she would."

"Yeah." A bitter laugh passed through her lips. "What you didn't tell me was how you would find yourself in her hotel room by the end of the night."

A painful gasp tore through his throat and only further perpetuated the ache in her chest. He knew now and he hadn't denied it, he couldn't. She could picture the way he looked when he was stressed, brows furrowed inwards, begging to be soothed with a gentle touch, but she wasn't there and even if she had been, she no longer felt obligated ease his tension when she could feel the pain of her own heart breaking.

"H-how?" His voice cracked. Quickly clearing his throat, Michael closed his eyes and then found the courage to speak again. "How did- how did you know?"

With an unflattering chuckle, her head hit the wall behind her, eyes snapping open to view the plain, white ceiling above her. "And here I thought you were always so vigilant of the paparazzi."

For a moment, Michael forgot how to breath. They'd seen, she'd seen and he's always promised himself, he would never hurt her. Shuffling on his feet, usually he knew what to do to make tense moment fall into laughter ― it was the way he survived, but right here, right now, he was met with the realisation that there really was nothing funny to laugh about.

"Just tell me ―" The words in her throat broke before she was able to form a full sentence. With an unsteady breath and tears welling against her waterline, she tried again. "Just tell me, did something happen between you two last night?"

What greeted her wasn't a confession. He didn't grovel or admit he was at fault, but the heavy silence that lingered between the phoneline told her everything he refused say with words. He'd done it, been intimate with a women that wasn't her and now he didn't have guts to confess his sins.

Before she could stop it, a tear slipped and anger swelled, ugly and unwelcome. Michael hadn't uttered a word and somehow, that felt worse, like he was running from responsibility or hoping she was too stupid to call him out on it.

"Tell me, you coward!" Her voice seethed, but while the angry was present, there was no mistaking the deverstation that lingered beneath. "Tell me why! Why would you do this to me?"

No matter how hard she tried, she could never imagine a situation where things would have transpired this way. They'd been happy, she knows they had been.

Every time they were together, a beacon of hope suddenly lit the world around them. That gorgous smile of his rarely fell and he trusted her enough to keep his secrets. That must mean something. Michael didn't really trust anyone.

At some point, he must have loved her, for all that was worth.

Eventually, the shock wore off and he found himself able to talk. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" She mocked with an cruel scoff. Picking at the loose thread on her jeans, her gaze fell still. "Why? Tell me."

Like the air had been vacuumed out of the room, she suddenly found it hard to breath. Every inhale burnt, every exhaled required too much effort. Wiping the wetness from her cheek, she felt the weight of the conversation breaking her down.

"I don't have a good answer." Michael breathed out, frozen like stone as he looked out the window of his hotel to a beautiful view of New York. It did nothing for him. How could he admire anything after huring someone he held so dear? "Not one that will make sense."

"I don- I don't care. I d-deserve to know." Suttering and fumbling over her words, she vowed to get an answer out of him one way or another. "Why did you do this? A-all I ever did was love you."

"I don't want to make excuses." His voice had never sounded so fragile before. "For as long as I've known Diana, she..." Like he didn't know how to continue his sentence, the words lost momentum and came to a sudden halt.

"She?"

Releasing a small whimper, Michael closed his eyes. "Please don't make me say this."

"If you don't tell me," she started, her voice hoarse but serious in tone. "I'm hanging up."

"No!" Panic and desperation mixed into a deverstating plea. "No. D-don't hang up."

"Then stop stalling."

"Okay." He found himself nodding, though she couldn't see. Pacing back and fourth once again, Michael finally convinced himself to bare the truth. "Since I've know her... I don't know, it's like she has me under a spell. People thought it was some childhood crush, I tried to tell myself the same, that it would fade with time, but it didn't."

And it had been true.

The harmless crush he had on Diana in his youth had never been a secret. They'd joked about it plenty of times, in the press or on TV. At the time, it seemed sweet, a little boy infatuated with his mentor.

Then seasons passed and he grew older. So had she, but suddenly the age gap didn't seem quite so large. The crush hadn't faded, but certainly felt forbidden, so Michael kept his thoughts and strong emotions to himself, assuming she would never want him.

That was until last night.

"Keep going."

"I don't know what to say." He admitted. "She means something to me."

"You love her." She spoke flat. Not in a questioning tone, but as though it was a straight fact no one could deny.

"I d-don't know." And as Michael said it, he hated himself for it.

Here he had this beautiful, incredible, funny women and she liked him, truly liked him as Michael and not the big star the world had built him into. She comforted when he was upset, held him when he was lonely, she told him stories of other worlds to read him to sleep and loved him more purely than anyone else ever had.

She wanted nothing from him and here he was, breaking her heart.

"You wouldn't have done this if you didn't." He heard the exhaustion in her voice, but nothing could have prepared him for what she asked next. "What happened last night?"

The world tilted on it's axis. Did she want him to relive it?

His heart pouted, hot tears threatening to fall loose as he recounted the night in his mind until the physical need to vomit presented itself.

"You're not serious." He muttered.

"Not the gory details." She assured, wanting to spare herself more than him from that particular aspect. "Just the build up. I want to know why. What lead you to follow her when you knew I was waiting for you?"

Michael uttered her name, delicate and precise. Maybe if he said it soft enough, she would take mercy on him, but he knew he didn't deserve it and that thought alone provoked the first tear to fall.

"I really don't want to talk about this."

He was shy in nature and she knew it. Talking about the intimate details of his late night escapades would've been hell, but she didn't let up. If she did, she provided him an out and that was something she couldn't afford.

"You owe me this much, Michael."

With a quivering sigh, he found himself submitting entirely to her request. To deny her would only cause more heartache and he couldn't stand it. Her pain brought more tears from the both of them as he explained the lead up to the night before.

How Diana appeared before the show and met with him backstage. It was fun and playful. A little flirtation back and fourth was nothing new with the two of them, but this felt different. Her touched lingered, her gaze had darkened. She had been zoning in like a wild animal hunting its prey. When he noticed, Michael excused himself to get ready for the show, shy and awkward with the thought of his lover back home.

While he was getting dressed, she'd taken it upon herself to speak with his brothers, light banter, nothing like it had been with him and then when Michael came back out, she hugged him for good luck and pressed a kiss against the corners of his mouth. Not necessarily any indication she wanted anything more and from a distance, it would have looked innocent enough, but he had noticed the longing gleam in her eyes and knew there was nothing holy about the thoughts she'd been having.

He turned towards her, confused but excited as she promised she would be waiting for him backstage after the show.

The particular perfomance was full of energy. Michael had always been on top form, but there was a very distinct spring in his step that night and once he left the stage, dripping in sweat and desperate for a shower, there she was: waiting for him just as she promise.

One thing lead to another. Excited hands, a first kiss and then the invitation to her hotel. It was like the world had closed off and they were the only two people in the world.

So blinded by a childhood fantasy coming true, Michael forgot all about the paparazzi swarming and the women waiting for him in LA.

Once the deed was done, guilt swarmed and he politely excused himself and later vomited in the bathroom, but he couldn't take it back, no matter how hard he tried.

As he concluded the tale in deveratating detail, a tidal wave of misery washed over both of them. A sob of agony ripped from her lungs and Michael, sitting on his bed with her head hung low, wanted nothing more than to die in that moment.

What had he done?

"Funny thing is, she doesn't even want me." He admitted with a bittersweet laugh as if that would make up for his indiscretions.

"What?" She spoke for the first time in what felt like hours, voice rough from the tears she'd spilt.

"She told me after..." he began, squeezing his eyes tight at the memory. "that i-it meant nothing to her, no one could know, that it was embarrassing she even went there with me."

For reasons even she couldn't comprehend, her heart broke for him despite what he had put her through because on some level, she understood Michael.

He wanted to be loved, craved a life where he was treated as more than a prize horse and was accepted by those around him, not only as an equal but as a human being.

He's been used by the industry from the age of five and treated like nothing more than a shiny trophy for the world to gawp at. Having Diana dangle her love just to snatch it away would have broken him in ways he never thought possible, but if she comforted him, she would have nothing left for herself. For the first time in over a year, she had to be selfish.

The ache in her chest felt worse than it ever had before and with an ugly sniffle, she resisted the urge to tell him things would be okay.

Whiping a neverending stream of tears, she responded with a simple: "Well, I hope it was worth it."

And it was in that moment, he heard it. The lack of emotion now tainting her words. Every ounce of warmth she had ever held for him blown out by the cold truth of his betrayal and Michael felt the air leave his lungs when he realised what that meant.

He didn't want to lose her. He couldn't.

"Please." He spoke in a desperate attemmpt to win her back. "I love you."

"No you don't." Her laugh barley had any bite to it, but still stung from miles away. "You love how I love you. That's not the same."

There had been no real harshness in the words she spoke, but his blood ran cold, like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over his head and he was expected not to shiver.

It wasn't true, he did love her. She had to know.

She had to.

"No, I love you." He furiously protested.

"You wouldn't do this to someone you love."

"It was a careless mistake! I don't want to lose you." Michael rarely raised his voice, but there are exceptions to every rule. "Fly out tonight like we planned. We-we can talk it over. I can- I can make this right." He spoke fast, like if he could get enough words in, she would see reason and he wouldn't face a version of reality where she didn't exist.

"Are you crazy? Listen to yourself." She scoffed. "Why the hell would I fly out? We're done. Don't contact me again."

With a harsh slam, the phonecall ended and with it, so did any hope of the two of them as a couple.

Finally, she let it all go. If she had been sobbing before, it was nothing compared to the barrage of tears now streaming at an alarming rate. Her heart pounded, her throat ached with heavy cries, but nothing could've prepared her for the loneliness that descended over her like a dark cloud.

This wasn't as simple as losing a boyfriend, Michael had been another part of her and now they didn't even have the trust of a friendship to fall back on.

Alone in her apartment, she allowed the sadness to overwhelm her, refusing to move as she cried against the wall with her knees tucked to her chest and her face buried in the stiff denim. Her arms wrapped around herself as if that could protect her from a devastating fate that had already happened, but it was too late. You can't change the past.

An inky black hue stained the sky over Los Angeles, not a single star gleaming in sight, but there was no denial that night time had finally fallen.

In the early hours, the last thing the quite halls of a tired apartment bulding had expected to hear was the deafening sound of frantic, pounding knocks ricocheting from apartment twelve.

No one had the courage to step out into the hallway, but if they had, they would've been greeted with a rather peculiar sight of a desperate Michael Jackson, exhausted from an impulsive six hour flight, calling the name of his girlfriend through the door like a prayer.

He hadn't thought things through properly. The moment she hung up, he had rushed to his feet and ran to find Bill. His bodyguard confused, but unable to refuse the restless pop stars request to go back home.

He had a show that night. His brothers would've been livid and he dreaded to think the repercussions he would face with Joseph's wrath once he returned, but none of it seemed to matter in the large scale when he realised he was about to lose the best thing thst happened to him.

Ten minutes of unanswered knocking and aching calling of her name, Michael didn't know what to do. He couldn't force his way inside, that would only worsen the situation and so instead, he did the one thing that scared him more than anything. He became vulnerable.

"Please." He called out, the palm of his hand settling on the wood grain of her door. "I know you're in there. I saw your car in the lot."

Nothing.

His heart clentched painfully in his chest, fear rooted deep with the knowledge that if he couldn't get her to open the door, he might never see her again.

"Come on, you know me." A string of tears fell beneath the black aviators he wrote depiste the darkness of the night. "I'm not malicious and I would never want to hurt you. You've been so good to me, so good for me. I don't like who I am when you're not around."

His pleas went unanswered, but little did he know, only an inch or two away, she sat against the door in a pair of oversized pyjamas, a hand covering her mouth and nose to muffle the cries that broke lose. She was there, she was listening and he had absolutely no idea.

"Remember when you kissed me for the first time?" He cried, head hanging low while recounting that moment twelve months prior. "I'd been too scared to do it. My brothers had been teasing me for weeks, calling me a chicken and they were right because I was scared... not of you, but what it meant if I were to kiss you and have you reject it. It would've meant I'd lose you... really lose you, not as a partner, but as a friend too and I couldn't risk that."

"But I didn't need to." He continued, lips quivering with each breath he took. "Because you were brave enough for both of us, you took the leap and I remember thinking, 'wow, she's going to change my life.' And you did... from the very first time I saw you in the library, wearing that awful grey sweatshirt. For the first time in a long time, I felt human again."

Still, nothing, just the aching sound of his own stubborn tears refusing to let up and who was he to deny them? He's never felt a sadness so strong and entirely consuming. She was slipping from him, he could feel it and every second felt like a year without her voice.

"Please, just- just open the door." He tried one last time. "We can fix this. I can. I'm so sorry I hurt you. You mean everything to me."

When he was young, Michael had promised himself he would never turn out like his father, he would never purposefully hurt the people he loved. He had been so sure of himself too. In hindsight, looking on at the devestaion inflicted by his actions, maybe he was Joseph's son after all.

With no indication that she was even inside, Michael stepped back, arms around his stomach like he could hold himself together through willpower alone even as the pieces of him crumbled from within.

Until now, Bill had remained quiet, but slowly he inched closer and placed a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulders.

"Come on, kid, let's get you home." He spoke in a kindness only Bill held. "You can try again tomorrow."

And while he knew that to be true, he also realised how low the probability was that she would actually hear him out of she had already refused.

Allowing the safety of a man he regarded as a father to lead him outside, Michael could barley remember stepping into the car nor the exhausting journey back to Hayvenhurst. One second he was standing at her door and the next he was walking into his own home.

What he hadn't expected was to find his oldest sister, Rebbie to be awake at this hour. She turned to face the door, unable to see his eyes behind the glasses but she could sense the cruel pain plaguing her brothers half breathless frame.

"Get some sleep, Mike." She muttered after giving him a brief hug, telling him they could talk about this in the morning once he had caught his bearings.

Michael nodded and began to walk down the hall to find his own room when his sibling called his name once again.

Turning on his heel, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to lock himself away for the rest of eternity, he gave Rebbie a small nod of acknowledgment. "Yeah?"

"You're friends stopped by earlier... gave me a box of your stuff. I put it in your room."

Eyes widening with in inpending terror, Michael took off as fast as his feet would carry him and tore through his bedroom.

Everything looked the same. He hoarded books and albums, his room was never the most organised, but everything had a place that made sense to him. He knew where things were, which is why the cardboard box sitting on his bed felt so out of place.

Heavy legs carried him forward and with a shaking hand, he reached out to inspect the contents.

A stray comic book or two, a sketchbook he would doodle in from time to time, a key chain from his last trip to Disneyland and then he saw something painful enough to knock the breath from his lungs and bring his world crashing down.

He never thought that in the absence of her presence, the thing that would truly cause his heart to break would be what remained.

There it sat, folded neatly at the bottom of the box, stretched neckline and still smelling just like her ― his old white, t-shirt, the same one she stole the first night they shared together. She'd claimed it along with his heart... and now she'd given it back.

It felt wrong, like it no longer belonged to him.

Then he heard it again, those words echoed through hus mind, sure to haunt him for the rest of his life.

"You love how I love you. It's not the same... We're done. don't contact me again."

Who comes home? You can barley think, the way youre being stuffed full of Tojis curved dick, drool dripping down the side of your mouth as Toji pumps himself in and out, such a perfect rhythm that gets better and better by the second. “Fuuck youre so deep ji, so full!” You moan.

“You love it don’t you pretty?”

“Mmm-ack- I love it so muuuch!” You keen that almost makes the vein Tojis thick cock pulse.

He hums, calloused hand pressing down on your back, “Then arch it for me, show your Daddy just how much you want it.”

You let out a gurgled moan, arching your back into the dovishly delicious way, ass perched high and plump, making Toji swing his hips into you yours, rough, in one full motion reaching the deepest sweet spots.

Your eyes lock on the older man, curls tossed to the side, can’t help but mewl a the the feeling of him inside you, stars in your big brown eyes, “A-am I doing it right Toji?”

He can’t help but grip your hips tights, your sloppy pussy taking every pound that he slamming into you, slick dripping down his balls, “Shit baby- youre a fuckin natural.”

Toji hisses, pulling your curls and up the bed, “Think you can fuck me back? Hm doll, show me what a good learner you are.”

The sound of the headboard hitting against the wall is loud, clawing at Tojis thigh while you throw your ass back against his toned muscles. Your combined grunts and groans fills the room, his tip bruising your g-spot with every thrust. Your squeezing down his length every time your roll your hips, hypnotic, watching as Toji throws his head back Adams apple bobbing.

“God, you fuckin nasty girl.” He groans, another smack coming down on your ass.

You bite your lip, “Anngh- You love it.”

Yeah, yeah, Toji does love it, being surrounded in this sweet cunt that just can’t get enough of him, loving the sultry looks his damn step-daughter is giving him while she fucks him silly. Likes the way your tits swing with every thrust, the bulge that forms when he’s knocking against your cervix the way you could moan his name over and over and over, he grits his teeth, abs tightening, “Fuck, hck- baby, fuck!”

Tojis thrusts faster inside you, cock massaging your walls so perfectly, you can feel electricity running through you, gushing and wetting Toji with your slick completely. His white sticky cum fills the condom, so warm inside you as Toji slips out.

Toji hears the front door slam shut, the call of your mother. The end of his scarred lip curving upward, ruffling your hair, “ ‘ll teach you how to ride next lesson, alright kid?”

That old bastard…

You’d fuck him beat his ass next time.