sky

Except for this one lie. 

Perhaps not even a real lie, but a withholding of information. A secret you’ve always kept from boyfriends and even some friends.

Keeping it a secret makes it special. A memory that’s only yours. Yours and his—one that can’t be tarnished by anything. Not new boyfriends or judgmental friends. 

You keep those memories in a jar, not because you want to relive them, but because sometimes you like to look back, to take a peek inside, to remember what things were like before they ceased to exist. 

And of course, you never expected it to come up like this. You never expected to be standing in line for a meet and greet, post-concert, clasping your hands together in front of your chest, trying not to think about what it will feel like to look at him again, to make eye contact with him. 

He’ll remember you. There’s no doubt in your mind. What you had was real and special, and honestly, not all that long ago. There hadn’t been any huge fallout, any fights, or negativity. You’d just grown apart. And at some point, the distance got so large that it felt impossible to cross. And that was before his rapid ascent into popularity. 

“Maybe we should just go,” you say when there are only a few people ahead of you in line. It’s easier to bail, to pretend none of this happened at all. 

It’s Jiung who encourages you forward. “We’re almost there. It’s okay. I don’t mind the wait.”

You wish the stress developing like a tight ball at the base of your stomach had anything to do with the amount of time you’ve been waiting. No, it’s the idea of him. Of Yeonjun looking you in the eyes. 

So, you want to turn and run. But you don’t. Not when Jiung has a hand on your lower back, and you can see Yeonjun just ahead, chatting with other fans. 

You are a fan. You’ve been following their comebacks, listening to their music at home. Concerts were always a step too far out of your comfort zone, over the line you drew in the sand to protect your heart. 

But now you’re there. So far past the line you can hardly even see it anymore. Then, you’re standing in front of him, watching his big brown eyes roam over your body, taking note of the man standing next to you, touching you. 

And you have to wonder what he’s thinking—because you certainly can’t ask. 

There’s nothing immediately evident in the way that he looks at you. He recognizes you. You know he does. And when Jiung turns away for a brief moment, there’s a ghost of a smile on Yeonjun’s lips like he wants to be caught. 

Because he can’t stop looking at you. At the way the corners of your lips turn up in a smile, at the inch of skin he can see over the table, but below your skirt, at the way your shirt cuts downward. He looks at you, and he thinks things he should not be thinking in public, in front of all those fans—but neither can he stop thinking them. 

“Really nice to meet you,” Yeonjun says, pressed smile across his lips. Fake. “This your boyfriend?”

You clear your throat, trying to free all the emotion jammed to a stop in the center. Because he did not just ask you that. It could be played off. You’ve seen the videos of him with fans. You’ve seen his jealous nature in those conversations. But so, too, do you know what he looks like when he’s really jealous. That glint of subtle anger behind his eyes. 

And you want to say something, because who does he think he is, being jealous of you, in this moment? You hold your tongue. 

Jiung smiles. None the wiser. 

“Yes,” you say. 

Yeonjun makes a face, lips twisted up in a half scowl that he tries to play off as unserious. 

“You want a picture?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and neither do you. You can’t imagine filling the silence with questions about his career, about the group—you don’t care about any of that shit. Not really. 

And you didn’t account for any of this, really. And maybe if you had, you would have cancelled on Jiung, feigned sick or something, because holy shit, he looks so handsome. Blonde hair pushed back with gel, a tight red tank top, shoulders exposed. 

Had he been this attractive when you were together? 

Jiung elbows you gently in the side when you don’t immediately respond to the question. “Oh,” you say. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun reaches over and takes your phone out of his grasp. He rolls his eyes at your lock screen photo. Jiung with his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

He turns in his chair to take the photo with the two of you, then places your phone flat on the table, face down. 

He makes small talk. Asks you a little bit about yourself. Things he already knows. He’s teasing you, you know it. Making you say all this stuff. He presses a little too hard, hoping Jiung will ask you about it on the ride home. Comment on how strange it was in the moment. He wants it to stick with you, make you uncomfortable now, and make you talk about it later.

Of course, you don’t know the fine details—just that he’s getting under your skin. Just that you’ll be thinking about him later, too. That annoys you more than anything else. 

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning forward. His elbow obscures your phone from view. 

“Nice to meet you again,” Yeonjun says as you step away from the table. “Thanks for coming.” 

He waits until you’re gone to slip your phone into his lap, then into his pocket. 

“So,” Jiung says, as he starts the car and readies to pull out of the parking lot. “Was that everything you hoped it would be?” 

The rest of your conversations with the other members went smoothly. More fan service than strange, ex-boyfriend mind games. 

“Mhm,” you say, looking out the passenger side window. You reach into your purse, looking for your phone. You check the pockets of your jacket. “Hold on,” you say, checking under your butt and anywhere else that a phone could possibly be located. “You don’t have my phone, do you?” you ask. 

Jiung shakes his head. “Maybe you left it inside. Do you want me to go get it?” 

“No,” you say, maybe too quickly. “It’s fine.” You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”

The walk back into the concert hall is a little more stressful than the first, and it has no reason to be. You’ve already seen him. Besides, some staff member probably has your phone. You just need to find them. 

There are still lines curving throughout the place, fans waiting to be acknowledged, even momentarily, by their biases. 

You approach a staff member in all black, scanning tickets near the front. 

“Hey, I think I left my phone on the table,” you say. 

She looks at you with a raised brow, like it’s the worst excuse she’s ever heard. But she tells you to wait while she calls over another employee, who then approaches the table. You watch them lean down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. His eyes drift past the fan he’s talking to to find yours, and a chill runs through your system. 

God, how the fuck did either of you let things end so abruptly? You were there, and then you weren’t. And all of a sudden—being together again felt like an impossibility. So you never called. And neither did he. 

The staff member finds you again and gestures for you to step to the side. She doesn’t say much, but leads you further away from the crowd, then down a hallway. “Just wait here for one moment,” she says, extending an arm toward a couch in a small dressing room. 

You take a seat, then turn to say something, but she’s already gone. 

There’s no clock, just a rack of clothes and a large mirror lined with lights. It occurs to you in some far-off part of your brain that this must be Yeonjun’s dressing room. There’s an unzipped makeup bag on the table in front of the mirror, and a backpack—much more casual than the rest—slouched against the table. 

The door opens while you’re studying the place, and then he’s there. Standing with his arms crossed in front of the door, looking down at you. 

You stand up, crossing the minimal space until you’re in front of him. 

It’s so much different, this moment, than the one not fifteen minutes ago. There’s no long table separating you, no fans watching your every move. No Jiung. With all that stripped away, his eye contact makes your skin hotter, makes the blood boil beneath it. 

There’s nothing to be angry about. Not really. You still find the way to some brand of spite. 

Yeonjun pulls your phone out of his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers. “Looking for this?” he asks. 

“You know that I am,” you say. 

He tilts his head to the side, studying you. “Bummer,” he says. “I thought you came back to see me.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask, keeping your voice even. Free of any kind of feeling, even as your heart skips and stutters under his eye contact. 

You reach for your phone, and he pulls it back, just out of reach. “Maybe because you missed me,” he suggests. 

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asks. 

“Jiung—my boyfriend. He got me the tickets,” you say. “He knows I’m a fan, so.”

Yeonjun raises a brow. God, there’s so much fucking history between the two of you. You can feel it pressing in from every angle, oppressive and loud, vibrating your eardrums and making it difficult to focus. You can’t look at him and just see an idol. You look at him and see someone who was yours for so long, before they weren’t. 

Yeonjun nods. There’s no change to the way he looks at you, or the way he holds himself. He nods like it's the most uninteresting conversation in the world. 

“If you want to say something, just say it,” you tell him. 

He shrugs, lips turning downward at the corners as he does so. 

“Can I have my phone back?” you ask. 

“Not yet,” he says. Then, “Must not be a very good boyfriend, if he doesn’t know about me.” He takes half a step closer to you. 

You will yourself to take a step back, to even the distance back out, but your body doesn’t listen to your brain. 

“He’s a good boyfriend,” you say. 

“Then you must not be a very good girlfriend,” Yeonjun says, with a light shrug. It’s not serious to him. None of this is. 

Your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches at the bridge. “I’m—I’m a good girlfriend.” 

He holds your phone up, and you don’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already done. With your phone unlocked, he pulls up the phone app. “I could call him, tell him our little secret.”

You reach for the phone, wrapping your hand around his in an attempt to tug it away. You freeze there, hand on top of his, chests a few inches apart. 

“Why haven’t you told him about me?” Yeonjun asks, leaning down, meeting your eyes. His voice is low, and the hushed tone makes goosebumps rise on your forearms. And you don’t even know the answer to his question. You don’t know why you never told Jiung about Yeonjun. Why you never told any of the guys you dated before Jiung about him, either. Maybe you just like having the secret. 

He presses your phone into your hand, closing your fingers around it. 

“I don’t know,” you say, and the words come out nearly silent. 

A smile crosses his lips for the first time since that small dressing room. He reaches out and places a hand on your bare upper arm. 

“Does he make you happy?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Happier than I made you?” he asks. 

You don’t answer immediately, and his smile grows. 

“What are you doing right now?” you ask him, because you can’t seem to wrap your mind around whatever game it is he’s playing. 

“I didn’t expect to see you today, that’s all,” Yeonjun says. 

“Why would you?” you say. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t even know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes because you’re really not going to have this conversation with him right now. “Yeonjun,” you say, firmly. 

He bats his eyes, lets the smile creep over the rest of his features. “Yes?”

It’s hard to say the words, but you say them anyway. “I should go.” Maybe if you had all the time in the world, you would stay. You would stay, and you would talk. Maybe you would even try to figure out what went wrong last time. But you can’t. Jiung’s waiting in the car, and you’ve already taken longer than necessary. 

He doesn’t budge from his spot in front of the door. You stare at him for a beat longer, and he finally does move, sidestepping you. 

You open the door, and his hand shoots out, landing on your wrist. You freeze again. His hand is warm on your skin, and it brings with it memories you’ve tried to forget. 

Yeonjun doesn’t speak. You turn slowly to look at him, eyes cast downward at his grip. They drag slowly upward to meet his eyes. 

“Wait,” he says, and the word comes out more desperate than anything else he’s said. That bravado all stripped away, now. 

The tension breaks when he steps in one more time, when he drops your hand to push the door closed behind you. 

He’s too close. Too warm. Too suffocating. And somehow still too far away. 

You move in slow motion, between moments where you’re both frozen looking at one another and moments where time slams back into full speed, ticking by in your ears, but you still don’t move—contemplating the next step, and the next. And your heart is racing out of your chest, and he’s looking at you like it’s years in the past, and you can’t seem to remember anything except how his lips used to feel against yours. 

He can’t take it, either. The intoxication of you. If you just hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t been there today, if he hadn’t seen you. He would be able to keep pretending you didn’t mean something. But you’re here, standing in front of him, and he can’t just let you leave again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, right before he closes the distance. “I just—I have to—” and then his hands are cupping your cheeks and his lips are on yours. 

You hardly register the apology, let alone feel bad for what’s happening. The electricity in the air doesn’t fizzle at the contact. It surrounds you. Hot and blinding. You don’t stop him. Stopping him is the last thing on your mind. 

Your lips move slowly, tasting each other and remembering. It hardly even occurs to you that you should not be doing this. Not when it feels so good, so right. Not when he’s holding you like he never should have let go in the first place. 

You don’t break apart to speak, only to catch your breath, to change angles. He deepens the kiss as his hands fall from your face, tracing down the sides of your body before they land on your hips. He sucks on your lower lip, and you gasp into his mouth. 

It takes a long time—longer than you would be proud to admit—for you to realize exactly what you’re doing. 

You reach up to push against his chest. “Yeonjun,” you mumble against his lips. “Yeonjun,” you say again. “We can’t—I shouldn’t.”

His fingers dig into the fabric covering your hips. His eyes bore into yours, then drop back to your lips. He runs a tongue across his, and you lose track of what you’re saying, of why you’re saying it. “Why not?” he asks. 

“I—” you start, trying to remember why this is such a bad idea. “He’s—” 

You can’t bring yourself to care. That’s the problem. Yeonjun is here. He’s here, in front of you, breathing heavily, sweaty from the concert, looking at you like you’re everything in the entire world. And he’s here. How many times have you wished for this?

One hand hooks around the back of his neck, and you pull him back down for another searing kiss. He steps forward into you, pressing you against the door. 

“God,” Yeonjun mumbles into your lips. “Missed you.”

The words and his fervent kisses awaken something deep inside of you. Heat flares at your core, and you think, absent-mindedly, that you’re so fucked. 

“Yeah? Did you?” you ask, just barely breaking apart. Despite your anger, still ever present, neither can you stop kissing him. 

The back of his hand drags slowly across an exposed patch of skin just above your skirt. His eyes are focused there, but they snap upward at your question. “What?” he says, before kissing you again, before snaking that same hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his body. “Of course I did.”

Your hands ball into the fabric of his shirt. His tongue slips between your lips, and you angle your head backward to give him better access. When you break apart again, to breathe, you’re still thinking about the anger beneath it all—and whether or not you have a right to it. “You could have called,” you say. “I would have answered.”

“Is that your way of saying you missed me, too?” he asks. “I’m here now.” 

He curls a finger under your chin and lifts it, soft brown eyes finding yours. 

“I have a boyfriend now,” you say. But you don’t untangle your hands from his shirt, don’t take a step backward away from him, don’t even think about leaving. But it’s a thing you have to say. Even if you don’t know why, when it would be so much easier to ignore it. 

“Yeah, and you seem really eager to get back to him,” he says. 

“I am,” you say, pulling him down by the shirt. Then, “Take this off.”

He drops his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. Your hands shoot out to touch his bare skin immediately. Your fingers run over his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach. He pushes your jacket off your shoulders, and you let it fall to the ground.

Yeonjun laces one hand through your hair and kisses you again. Harsher this time. More desperate. His other hand sits on your hip, keeps pulling you closer and closer. 

He presses against you, shifting one leg between yours and pinning you to the door. He slips a hand under your shirt, eager to touch any skin there. You gasp into his mouth at the mere contact. 

“Fuck,” he says against your lips. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“He’s waiting for me, Jun,” you say. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. There’s so much he wants to say. So many comments he could make. He kisses you again, instead. He drops his hand between your legs, instead, reaching under your skirt. 

He wastes no time—that’s what you wanted, right? His fingers brush your core, and he hums into the kiss. You can feel the smirk on his lips. 

“Shut up,” you say.

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “Can’t figure out how to just ask for it?” he says. He pushes your panties to the side and nudges a finger inside of you, watching for a reaction. 

Your lips part, and you let your head fall back against the door behind you. 

“Trying to make me feel bad for wanting you when you have a boyfriend—but god, you want me just as fucking bad, don’t you?” he asks. You don’t respond fast enough, so he presses harder. “Don’t you?” 

He slides another finger inside of you and pumps them slowly. “Yes,” you say. 

“Yes, what?” Yeonjun asks, raising a brow at you, cocking his head to the side just so. He’s enjoying this. Playing with you even when you have such minimal time together. 

“Shut the fuck up, Yeonjun,” you say as you roll your hips forward. “I don’t have time—”

“I know,” he says. “Your boyfriend.” He moves his fingers faster, savoring the feeling of you clenching around them, of you grinding to meet each thrust. 

He pulls his fingers out and places them in his mouth while his other hand works to undo his belt, to push down his pants and boxers. He doesn’t bother kicking them all the way off. He licks his fingers clean, then takes your hand, tugging you toward the vanity. 

He leans forward and presses another kiss to your lips, then along your jawline, to the space beneath your ear. “Turn around,” he whispers. 

You listen. 

He pulls you backward against him, and you can feel the line of his hard cock on your ass through your skirt. You grind backward into him and swear you can hear him grin. You place your hands on the table in front of you as he pushes your skirt further up your thighs. 

You look forward, catching your own reflection in the mirror. Lipstick smudged, hair messy, and Yeonjun behind you, watching with appreciation as he runs a hand over your ass. 

He spreads your legs with the back of one hand and uses the other to guide his dick to your entrance. He swipes the tip through your slick, taking his time. 

“Yeonjun,” you whine, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. It’s not about time anymore. Not about being in a rush. You need him. 

“Swear to god if you mention him one more time,” he says as he slides his tip down your slit again, pausing at your entrance for a split second before moving past it. 

“No,” you say. “Just—need you.”

He places a hand between your shoulder blades and lets it slowly trail downward. “Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll make you forget his name.” 

“Yeonjun,” you say again, whimpering. 

“That’s it,” he says, reveling in the sound of his name on your lips. He presses forward into you, slowly, and your knuckles go white on the edge of the table. 

You know you shouldn’t be doing this. But as he sinks into you an inch at a time, you can’t think about anything else. Not even the person waiting for you hundreds of feet away. And it doesn’t even feel like cheating, not really. It’s like returning back to the time you shared together before and enjoying it one more time. 

“Fuck,” Yeonjun whispers as he bottoms out. His fingers press into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts slowly back. He snaps forward, burying himself deeper inside of you. Your legs shake, and moans fall off parted lips. 

He does it again. The slow withdraw before a quick thrust. “Feels so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice dripping with want like having you again is making him a little crazy. He reaches forward to wrap a hand around the front of your neck, pulling you backward, making you look up. 

Your eyes reach his through the mirror. 

“Look at you,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s still rolling his hips forward hard and fast, and you can hardly keep your eyes open to watch him. “Maybe if I knew you were still such a slut, I’d have called you.” 

Your fingers tighten on the desk in anger and pleasure, but you can’t seem to form words to talk back, not with the way he’s moving. 

“Boyfriend waiting for you outside, but you’re letting me fuck you senseless instead.” He lifts one of your hands and pulls it behind your back. “Haven’t changed at all.” 

You flip him off with the hand he’s holding back, and he laughs, lifting his eyes to meet yours in the mirror. He releases your neck to grab your other hand, too, collecting them in one hand and pulling you backward. Your back arches as he thrusts deeper, harder. 

“Yeonjun—oh my god.” 

He smiles again. “Can’t even hate me properly, can you?” 

“Yes,” you mutter between broken gasps and moans that slip past your attempts to hold them back. “I can,” you say. “I do.” But you don’t mean it. What reason do you have, anyway, besides time? Besides the fact that he’s making you feel like this when you have someone waiting. 

He tugs your arms sharply back, uses his other hand to force you upward, so your back is nearly touching his chest. He drops your arms and lowers his lips to your ear, slowing his pace while he speaks. “Go, then,” he says. 

Yeonjun takes a step back, pulling out of you. He stops touching you. You turn around to look at him. Your eyes roll in annoyance, but you take the step forward anyway, reaching for him. He laces his fingers through yours and pulls you against him. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says, before pressing a kiss into your hair. He kicks his pants the rest of the way off and leads you a few steps over, toward the couch. The backs of your knees hit the cushion, and you’re forced to sit. He kneels down in front of you. He places a hand on your cheek and leans forward to capture your lips. A brief moment of softness before both his hands are on top of your thighs, and he’s pulling you down. Your elbows hit the couch cushions as he pulls your ass completely off it. 

He holds the backs of your thighs together with one hand as he uses the other to guide his length to your entrance. He pushes forward into you, and you gasp, biting down on your lower lip to keep from moaning. 

Yeonjun holds your legs up by the back of your thighs, just under your knees, as he rolls his hips forward into you. Your lip stays firmly between your teeth, even as your head falls back. 

“Come on,” Yeonjun says, his own voice devolving into a gravely, rough mess the longer this continues. “Let me hear you.”

His hips snap forward, deep and hard, trying to elicit something from you. Your eyes roll back and your back arches greedily, but you don’t let out anything more than a sharp gasp. He shifts forward, moving your legs to one side, barring them against him with one arm, while his other hand collects your hands and pins them to the back of the couch, while he leans over you. 

The angle change makes it all the more difficult to keep quiet. You toss your head to the side to avoid his gaze, the lopsided smile on his face, and his blown-out pupils. It’s easier to focus when you aren’t looking at him. He laughs under his breath and thrusts forward harder, driving even deeper. 

A few moans tumble off your lips without permission, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s pleased with himself. 

You test the strength of his hand holding yours back, pushing against his grip. 

“Don’t like being held down, pretty?” he asked, the soft lilt of his voice making you shiver. “That’s not what I remember.”

“I don’t remember you.” A moan breaks your sentence. “Being this annoying.” 

“God, you love it though, don’t you?” he asks, slowing to an agonizing pace, languid drags that make your hips stutter, your lips part, your hands work harder against his grip. “You fucking love it. Look at you.”

Your next words are cut off by your phone, vibrating in your jacket pocket on the floor, a foot away from Yeonjun. His eyes shoot to it, and he stills inside of you. 

“Yeonjun,” you say, a word of warning, because you know who’s on the other end of the phone call before he drops your hands and fishes the thing from your coat pocket, before he holds it up. A picture of your boyfriend on the screen, his name surrounded by hearts. Yeonjun’s finger hovers over the accept button. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you say, reaching forward to grab it. 

He grabs your hands again, holding them in front of his chest. 

“You should talk to him,” Yeonjun says. “He’s probably so worried.”

“Yeonjun,” you say again, sharply. 

He clicks accept, then presses the phone against your ear, holding it there. 

“Hello?” Jiung says, sounding a little more confused than normal. 

You clear your throat. Yeonjun moves an inch, and you nearly bite through your lip. “Hey,” you manage to choke out. “It’s me.” 

“Oh, good,” he says. “You found it.”

Yeonjun pulls out another inch, the slow drag against your walls short-circuiting your brain every time he does it. You’re glaring at him, but he’s just smiling, fucking proud of himself. 

“Yeah,” you say. Another inch. “I—yeah, I found it.”

“You get lost in there?” he asks. 

“No—no,” you say, breath catching as Yeonjun shifts forward, just as slow. “I should be right out. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” 

“No worries, baby,” Jiung says. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Yeonjun’s hips snap forward, and he buries himself fully. Your head rolls back, and your mouth falls open, but you don’t make a sound. 

He stills enough to let you speak, and you’re looking at him, when you say it. “Love you too,” you say, but the words come out a fraction too breathy. You don’t have enough time to worry about whether or not it sounds suspicious. 

Yeonjun pulls the phone away, ends the call, and tosses it back onto the floor. He releases your hands, and you lean forward, pushing his chest. “You’re an asshole,” you say, breathing heavily, trying to hit him and grab him at the same time. 

“God, that was so hot,” Yeonjun says. “I bet he didn’t even know—didn’t even realize.” He laughs, starting his slow thrusts back up again. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him down. You can just barely mutter a “Shut up” against his lips before you kiss him. He returns your desperation, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth as he increases the pace of his thrusts. You break away to breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours, eyes finding yours. 

Something softens in his expression, and your eyes fall closed under his kind gaze. 

He pulls back, holding your legs upright again, spreading them so one rests against each shoulder. He drops a hand between them and finds your clit. His initial touch feels electric. He rubs lazy circles on it with his thumb, looking down, watching his cock drive into you over and over, harder and harder as you squirm, clenching around him while he increases the stimulation. 

“Yeonjun, fuck, oh my god,” you moan, dropping your head backward. 

He moans, too, the sound music to your ears. He places his other hand low on your stomach, flat—feeling himself fuck into you. “Fuck, baby,” he says, soft and reckless, enough to make you forget about anything else, anyone else. “You feel so goddamn good, it’s insane.”

He rolls your clit between two fingers, and you clench hard around him, slowing his pace a fraction. Your bach archs even more, and your hands reach out for something to hold onto, settling on the edge of the couch. You press yourself forward, hips rising to meet each thrust even as your thighs shake. 

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Come on, baby, please.” 

You say his name again, like a prayer—even though it feels fucking damning. 

And when you cum, it’s with his lips crashing into yours, capturing your moans, and your hands grasping his bare skin, taking everything you can get. 

You collapse back against the couch. For a moment, Yeonjun doesn’t move. He trails a few fingers along your jawline. His eyes wander your face. They meet your eyes, then shift away. He pulls out and stands up, quickly putting on his boxers and pants. You study the muscles in his back and the way they tense, before snapping back into reality. 

You shift your underwear back into place and stand up, smoothing out your skirt. You pick your jacket up off the ground and slip your phone back into your pocket. 

The room is dead silent, and Yeonjun won’t turn to look at you. 

You clear your throat, and he does. “I should—um,” you say, dropping your eyes away from his gaze. You can’t even look at him, now. Not after that. Not when you have to go back to your boyfriend, waiting in the car, oblivious. 

Yeonjun takes a step forward and fixes your hair, combing his fingers through it. He runs a finger just under your lip, wiping away some of the smudged lipstick. 

You do look up at him, then, eyes widened, trying to figure him out. 

“Do you love him?” Yeonjun asks as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

The question makes you freeze. “Yes,” you say, after a moment. It’s the gut reaction. The answer you’re supposed to give. It’s not the truth. “No,” you say, but that doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking down at you, keeps adjusting your hair. It’s probably fine now, but he can’t stand the idea of ceasing physical contact. If he drops his hand, when will he get to touch you again? 

Yeonjun nods. 

“Okay,” he says, voice soft—almost broken. Something sad behind the word. An acceptance, maybe. He takes a step back, away from you and the heavy tension pressing on your shoulders. 

He leans down next to a backpack and fishes something out. 

He closes the distance again and presses a card into your hand. 

“What—” you start to ask. 

“That’s the key to my room,” he says. 

“I can’t—”

“Break up with him, then come to my room tonight,” Yeonjun says. “Or don’t break up with him, I don’t care. Just come.” 

You can’t bring yourself to look down at the card in your hand, can’t bring yourself to look away from his intense eye contact. 

“Hell, I’ll be there for the next few days,” he says. “If you don’t come, I’ll know this didn’t mean anything.” 

“Yeonjun—” you say, like you can figure this out now, talk this through now. 

“You should go,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss into your hair. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

Because this can’t be happening. It really cannot be happening, and if you say something out loud—if you voice the feelings that are keeping your voice from working, then it’ll just move everything along, it’ll just cement the thing. And it’ll be over. Any response is acceptance.

So you stall. You don’t speak for as long as you can manage, until you finally get the single word out in a breath. “What?” you ask.

You’re fairly certain this is a nightmare. If you squeeze your eyes shut tight enough, they’ll fly open, and you’ll be back in bed, curled up against Kai, his strong arms holding you to his chest. But you don’t wake up. You can’t will the conversation away, can’t pretend those six words aren’t hanging between the two of you.

He’s sitting with his hands folded on the table in front of him, looking affected by the words he’s spoken, but not shaken up by them. He looks calm. He looks like he made the decision weeks ago and has finally gotten up the nerve to say the damn thing aloud.

It’s not like he looks happy, or even completely neutral, about doing this to you. There are creases at the corners of his eyes, a furrow in the center of his brow, and worry draining the color out of his face. He looks sad, too, but not enough to stop it.

You’re being blindsided. Date night ruined out of nowhere. Your perfect relationship breaking into pieces. You didn’t see the cracks.

His eyes soften as the confusion settles in across your features.

“The band is really starting to take off—” he starts, which only elicits a groan from your lips.

You can’t help it. Everything’s about the band. All the time. And you’re supportive. That isn’t the issue. You don’t mind his weird hours or the time he spends away recording singles or planning local tours. You don’t mind his following of women who spend their time talking about how hot he is. You don’t mind because he’s yours. He comes home to you. He treats you right, takes you out on dates, buys you gifts, loves you.

But sometimes it’s exhausting, too. Even if you don’t want to admit it. Part of you, the selfish part, misses when you didn’t have to share Kai with his adoring fans, with the rest of his band.

“And I just think it’s probably better—safer for you, if we aren’t together anymore.” He does sound concerned. And it’s something you’ve talked about before, this safety aspect. Some of his fans want him all to themselves and will go to estranged heights to belittle or even harm anyone he’s seen with. It isn’t a shock that he’s concerned—but that he’s willing to end everything because of it, without any additional conversation.

Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to engage in rational thought at the moment, with him looking at you like this and saying these things. Seeming like he cares, but cutting himself out of your life in the same breath. Ending it.

You’re certain you’ll rethink all of this later. Spend time wondering if there was something you could have said differently, something you could have done to make him stay.

Now, however, you say the words that you can’t hold back. “Safer,” you say. “I don’t care about safety.”

“I do,” he says. “I’ve seen what happens to the people who date celebrities in this industry. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“No one knows about our relationship now,” you say, trying to reason with him. “They’re not going to find out later. We’re good at being secretive.”

“Until we aren’t,” he says. “And it won’t be as easy later.”

A sigh escapes your lips, and you can’t keep yourself from saying the next thing—the thing festering between the hurt and the love in your chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to be single so you can do whatever you want without consequence?” you ask, leaning back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to put distance between you and him. You let that rotten anger free, because it doesn’t really matter anyway, right? Not when he’s so clearly made the decision to leave, already. When it was always a part of the plan.

And you want to ask that, too. If he ever planned to stick around. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. Not when those words hurt too much, when recognizing that this relationship was always a sinking ship makes it feel like you’ve lost everything.

“Don’t say that,” he says, and there’s pain in his voice. Another indication that he feels something. Unfortunately, those feelings don’t make it any further than his tone. They aren’t enough to change his mind.

“We don’t have to do this,” you say. A final plea. Stay. Please.

The words fall on deaf ears. “We do,” he says. The corners of his lips quirk downward, and you can feel the expression reflecting on your own face, the way tears sting in the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

When he gets up sometime later, after more circular conversation and further attempts at convincing that continuously fall flat, he reaches for you. One hand settles on your shoulder, his eyes trying to reach yours. Whatever he tries to convey is lost on you.

You look away, and he leaves you there, sitting at your dining room table with your head in your hands—trying to make sense of it all.

ONE YEAR (AND A FEW MONTHS) LATER

“Come on,” Jihyo says. She holds one of your hands between two of hers. She’s making that face, big brown eyes looking at you—like you saying yes to this request is the most important thing in the world. “Please come with me. Please.”

You don’t look at her, because it’s easier to tell your best friend no when you can avoid her gaze. “Why did you even buy tickets to their stupid show anyway?” you ask.

She lets out a long series of sighs, throwing her head back in a show of dramatics. You’ve had this conversation before. It’s one of Jihyo’s biggest flaws—how much she loves your ex-boyfriend’s music. “Because the bassist is hot, first of all.”

“And the lead singer is my ex,” you say.

“I know the lead singer is your ex. We’ve met, remember?” Jihyo says.

“Okay, then you know that he sucks and I don’t want to see him.”

“He does suck,” Jihyo comments. “However… what it ends up being good for you?” There’s a lilt to her voice, like even she knows the words she’s saying are insane.

You groan. “How could seeing thousands of girls swoon over my ex be good for me?” You raise a brow. It’s hard enough seeing him plastered all over social media, reading the comments, witnessing millions of people worldwide fall in love with him.

“You’re right,” Jihyo says, but you watch her face fall. “Bad idea.”

A sigh looses from your lips. It is a bad idea. You know it is. Seeing him again, in person, will break your heart all over again. But Jihyo’s your best friend, and you’d do anything for her. “If you really want to go,” you start, even as a sour feeling develops low in your stomach at the mere thought of being in the same room as Kai. “I’ll go with you. He probably won’t even see me, anyway.”

And besides, maybe she’s right. Maybe it could be good for you. Even though you’re fairly certain, all it will be is bad. You’re fairly certain you’ll see him up on that stage and feel nothing but regret, nothing but sadness—and a hatred of yourself for being unable to stop him from leaving.

A year isn’t a lot of time. Not really.

“Wear a hat or something. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Jihyo says. Famous last words.

There isn’t really a guide for how to get over a breakup when the man that you’re in love with becomes a global sensation, basically overnight. No one prepares you for how often you’ll have to see his face, for when he shows up on your favorite variety show. No one prepares you for when his face is plastered all over social media, or for when his songs come on in the grocery store. No one prepares you for the dating rumors, the photo-ops, the everything.

And as a result, well, you never really have the chance to get over him, exactly. You grow bitter, sure. Angrier every time you see his face looking back at you from a magazine cover or the latest album.

And yeah, sometimes you listen to his music at night when you can’t sleep. Which, of course, only makes things worse. On bad nights, you put on his old shit, and the words he wrote about you stream through your headphones, activating a new type of sadness. It stirs with the regret and makes you nauseous, but you can never seem to stop yourself from doing it.

Even though a large part of you recognizes that yes, it’s a truly horrible idea to go to this show—there’s another part of you that wants to. A part of you that’s curious. That wonders what will happen if he sees you there, in the crowd.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you get ready, reminding you over and over again that this is something to be anxious about, sparking feelings you thought were long forgotten. You think about him looking at you and almost call the whole thing off. You think about his brown eyes roaming over your face and inevitably think about the last time he looked at you—when you couldn’t stop him from walking away.

Maybe this time it could be different. You let yourself think that for only a moment before you force the thoughts away—force yourself to think about how he discarded you for the fame and the fortune, instead. You will yourself into hating him so you don’t miss loving him.

Clearly, a year is not enough time to mourn the loss of a relationship. Probably because you haven’t worked that hard to get over it in the first place. You’ve spent the year moping, wishing things were different, and rejecting Jihyo every time she suggests meeting someone new.

It doesn’t matter anyway. The relationship is dead. There’s no mending it. This is just a concert. You remind yourself. It’s just a concert for a group that your friend loves and nothing more. Maybe you can pretend you never dated in the first place, pretend he’s someone else entirely.

You try to strike a balance between a cute outfit and something that doesn’t scream, I’m trying too hard. The result is a pair of flared jeans and a crop top. Simple makeup and loose curls. You aren’t trying to impress him. You repeat the words like a mantra. You aren’t trying to do anything. You don’t even want him to look at you.

If you think it enough times, maybe it’ll be true.

In truth, however, the idea of him spotting you in the crowd makes your stomach turn. What if he sees everything he lost? What if he comes to his senses?

If he wants you back—would you take him?

It’s not something you can even afford to think about. It’s been an entire year without any contact. He doesn’t want you. You just have to remind yourself of that. He doesn’t want you. He didn’t want you then, and he won’t want you now.

Your phone lights up, pulling you out of the shameful spiral of thoughts and back into the real world. Right. The real world. The world in which you’ll be alongside thousands of other girls. Girls who want him to look in their direction.

You glance down at your phone. One unread text.

jihyo: Downstairs with the Uber!

You unlock your phone, momentarily ignoring her message. At the very bottom of your messenger app, there are five years of messages spanning your relationship with Kai. You removed the hearts from his name a long time ago and replaced the cute pet name you previously kept his info saved under. You could never delete the texts. For a moment, you think about texting him.

There have been a lot of moments like these.

Of staring at his contact information and deciding whether or not to say something. Of seeing his face pop up on TikTok and had to hold back from leaving a comment. Of keeping your finger from clicking FaceTime. None of it’s good or healthy.

If you text him now, what would you even say, anyway?

Hey! Hope you’ve been well. I’ll be at your show tonight? Of course not.

He probably wouldn’t even respond. Maybe he’s changed his number.

You decide against it when another text from Jihyo pops up, encouraging you to get your ass in gear.

When you slide in next to her, it’s immediately obvious how underdressed you are. “Should I change?” are the first words out of your mouth. She has on sharp eyeliner and a dusting of blush under her eyes. Her cheeks are dotted with sparkles that could catch anyone’s eye from a mile away.

“No,” Jihyo says, without needing a moment to think. “You look hot.”

“Damn,” you say. “I was going for invisible. You know, look right by me in the crowd, invisible.”

“We don’t have to go,” Jihyo says, her voice softening—and you’re certain, in that moment, that she would really turn around and leave if you decided against it. “If it’s going to be weird, we can stay home, really.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, because just like she’s willing to stay home, you’re willing to suffer for her happiness. And besides, she hasn’t stopped talking about Soobin this and Soobin that for the past several days, and you don’t want to stand in the way of her delusions.

You and Soobin were friends at one point. Close, even. Even though you try not to follow the band, you know he’s one of the only original members left. Everyone else has been replaced.

“Okay,” Jihyo says, putting her hand in yours and giving it a squeeze. Reassurance. At least you’re in this together. Besides, what's the worst thing that could happen? If he looks at you, he looks at you. It’s not like he’s going to stop the concert to speak to you. There’s a safe distance, a disconnect.

Besides, he’s looked at you countless times before. From the stage. From across the table. While hovering over you in bed. It’s different now—you know it is. Time has made the wounds fester, has made you cautious, scared. You push those thoughts away and put on a brave face, instead. You can enjoy this.

The Uber drops the pair of you off a few blocks away from the venue. Even from a distance, concert attendees clutter the streets. Tomorrow x Together merch as far as the eye can see. Shirts with Kai’s face on the front and tour dates on the back. It’s safe to say you won’t be getting one of those.

Your nerves kick into high gear the moment you set foot inside the venue. Every step forward is echoed by an equally loud beat of your heart that only grows louder until you get to your section.

Your seats are so close you can almost put your hand flat on the stage.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you say, voicing the same thoughts you’ve been having for the past hour. The past few days.

Jihyo shakes her head. “If he looks at you funny, I’ll kick his ass, don’t even worry about it.”

“You won’t even notice, you’ll be too busy looking at Soobin,” you say.

“Good point,” she comments, laughing under her breath. She takes your hand again, squeezing it. “I know this is hard, but I’m really glad you decided to come.”

“I hope he looks ugly,” you say, without really thinking. “I hope he looks really ugly, and he doesn’t look at me, and I can go home at the end of the night without feeling any kind of way about it.” Even as you say the words, though, you know it’s a lost hope. You know he’s going to look handsome because you’ve seen him lately, and you know he probably will look at you, because god damn it, you’re right at the edge of the stage. If he didn’t look, it would be out of pure avoidance.

“That’s the spirit!” Jihyo says.

There’s a lot of time between when you get to your seats and when the music starts. At least an hour of waiting. It goes by too fast. And soon enough, the band takes the stage.

Kai walks out to an outpouring of screams from the crowd around you, his smile big and wide. He lifts one hand to encourage them further. You can’t help but roll your eyes—hoping at the last minute that none of his diehard fans see you. They’d probably fight you for such an indiscretion against their bias.

But to you, it’s just annoying. This version of him, so different and odd. Not at all like the person you knew, the one who was shy and nervous about performing.

The shock takes a long time to wear off. The last time you saw him on stage, the room could only fit two hundred people, and he played a guitar you bought him for Christmas. Now he’s surrounded by equipment that costs more than your car, clothes that you could never dream of affording.

But at the same time, he looks in his element, like he was born to do exactly this. And you’re happy for him—of course you’re happy for him. Or, at least, you’re happy for the man you used to know. The one you loved. The one who loved you. You’re happy that he got everything he ever wanted. You try not to think about how that never included you.

Jihyo sings along next to you, but your state of shock doesn’t wear off that easily. He’s blonde now, hair so bleached it's nearly white, and if you didn’t know him, if you weren’t so used to seeing his face everywhere—you might not recognize him. He holds himself differently. Moves differently. His voice is stronger, his guitar playing better.

It’s so abrupt, you have to take a step back into the crowd, trying to distance yourself from this person you hardly recognize. You no longer worry about him seeing you. You just want to stop seeing him.

But there’s nowhere to go. The crowd’s packed tight on all sides, and all you can do is hold onto the barricade in front of you and look away.

Unfortunately, not looking at him sets you apart from the crowd, makes you stand out, so you look at his bandmates instead. There’s Soobin on the bass—who Jihyo hasn’t taken her eyes off of, Yeonjun on rhythm guitar, Taehyun on the keys, and Beomgyu in the back on the drums.

Jihyo gave you the rundown on all their names in the hours beforehand. You didn’t have the heart to admit you already knew them. That you’ve been letting Tomorrow x Together rot you from the inside out since the night of your breakup.

You met Soobin back in the day, but the rest are new. Replacements for the bandmates you used to know. The ones you goofed off with on late nights. Pizza and beer during the grind for fame and fortune. Well, that wasn’t what it had felt like at the time. Back then, they were just a group of guys having fun. It got serious at some point. You must have missed exactly when.

Kai’s the star of the show, though. At least that much is glaringly obvious. His outfits are sparklier, his makeup and hair done more professionally. The lights track his movements. The fans scream his name.

Everyone else is just backup. You have to wonder if that’s why his original bandmates left. It’s just speculation, though. Thoughts gleaned from watching just a few songs played in a stadium packed with fans, from thirty minutes of trying not to look at your insanely famous ex-boyfriend.

You start to think you’ll make it out okay. That you’ll be able to leave without the ever-feared eye contact.

The girl next to you pulls out a sign and holds it high above her head. It reads take a shot with me. With her other hand, she holds out a small plastic bottle. Kai crosses to your side of the stage, reading the sign and nodding.

He drops to one knee and extends his hand to grab the bottle.

When he looks at you, the arena goes quiet. All music ceases, and your heart stops. Is this happening for him, too? He doesn’t look away, and time seems to stretch on endlessly. Just the two of you looking at one another. Your own breathing loud in your ears.

The girl holding the sign looks at you, but you can’t look away from him.

You don’t say anything.

The bottle slips out of his grasp and bounces lost on the concrete between the stage and the crowd. He mouths something to the girl, an apology, maybe, before pulling the mic away from his mouth to clear his throat.

He walks away, and the sounds of the stadium kick back on at full volume.

For the rest of the night, he avoids your eyes. But it’s okay, because you can barely look at him, either.

By the time the show ends, you’re certain Jiyho was right. This is the closure you needed.

You pace back and forth outside the venue for far too long, waiting for an Uber to show up. “You saw that, right?” you ask Jihyo, because you can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop seeing him in front of you, staring back at you.

“I saw.”

“He’s not even the same guy,” you say, because it feels better to get the words out instead of letting them rot in your head.

Don’t you know all this? Haven’t you seen the videos on stage, in interviews, on social media, flirting with fans, basking in the glow of his newfound fame? Why does it feel like such a shock now, when you’ve been watching the transformation for months?

“They say fame makes people weird,” Jihyo comments. “I’m sure it’s crazy, getting famous overnight like that.”

“Yeah,” you say, because there are no other words left rattling around in your brain, and you aren’t going to defend him. You won’t come up with reasons for why he might be different, or blame it on the fame alone. Even though you definitely could. You could excuse everything in the world if your Kai showed up again. You know he never will.

There are so many more things you want to say, things you want to complain about. You want to spit out words about how handsome he looked, about how you felt when he looked at you, but they don’t come. You’re glad they don’t. You don’t want to make a fool out of yourself for wanting him even a little bit.

It’s mostly confusing. Your feelings.

He’s different. And you don’t want him. And you’re over him. But he looked at you. And he’s handsome. And you’re not over him. And maybe if he wanted you again, you would want him, too. But he won’t. He won’t. You have to remind yourself of that very important fact. He won’t. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

“This is taking forever,” Jihyo says. “I’m just going to walk home. You’re welcome to crash at my place if you want, or wait it out until the ride doesn’t cost a billion dollars.”

You look down at your phone. No messages. You hate yourself for checking, for hoping. You need to get the possibility of ever speaking to him again out of your mind. And there’s one surefire way to do exactly that. “I think I’m going to grab a drink,” you say. “Need to clear my head.”

“Okay,” Jihyo says, bringing you in for a hug. “Let me know when you get home safe?”

You raise a hand in a playful salute before the two of you part ways. She walks downtown, back to her apartment, and you head in the opposite direction, toward a seedy dive bar you used to frequent with Kai.

So, maybe going there to clear your head isn’t exactly the best idea in the world. But it’s the only place downtown you actually like. Who cares if there are memories of you and Kai in there? There’s also alcohol. Besides, this new Kai, the one dressed in expensive clothes and smirking at the girls who scream his name? He would probably hate your old haunt.

The place is fairly empty. Just a few other patrons sipping drinks quietly or while playing pool in the back.

“Whiskey sour, please,” you say as you sit down, exchanging your card for a thin napkin and a kind smile from the bartender. The entire place feels achingly familiar.

“People actually drink those?” a voice to your left asks.

You consider ignoring him. You came here to clear your head, after all. Not to engage in conversation with any of the locals.

“What?” you ask, as the bartender sets the rocks glass down in front of you. Your eyes shift to the man seated to your left. He’s got long brown hair that frames his face and falls just past his shoulders. It’s got a slight wave to it. He’s handsome, but you don’t really notice that about him. Just that he’s a man, and that he’s talking to you when you would prefer to be left alone.

“Whiskey sours,” he says. “I didn’t know people actually drank those, and they weren’t just like a made-up drink.” He smiles at you, and it seems genuine. Like this is just something he does for fun, talking to strangers in bars.

“Aren’t all drinks made up?” you ask.

He laughs. A warm, happy sound—out of place in the dark, dingy bar. “Okay, good point,” he says, raking a hand through his hair, letting the wavy brown locks fall back into place on his face.

There’s something about him you can’t place. A hint of familiarity.

“Do I know you?” you ask, letting your eyes roam over his face, trying to identify what’s on the tip of your tongue.

“Why?” he asks, leaning forward. “Do I look familiar?” he says, raising a brow to accentuate his flirty tone.

You turn your full attention on him, swiveling in the bar stool to get a good look, whiskey sour in one hand, studying him over the rim. You aren’t the kind of person who usually speaks to anyone in bars—that’s more Jihyo’s bag—but something about him intrigues you. Maybe it’s his candidness, his ability to strike up a conversation with you and make it feel like you’ve spoken before.

Besides, it’s not like the bar is full of talkative types. Most people show up, grab a drink, and keep to themselves. The more social people—the ones looking to flirt, looking to mess around—go to the much more popular clubs in the area. Those places give you a headache. And even worse, they play your ex’s music.

But here is this man, offering you a kind, closed-mouth smile. Looking at you with warm brown eyes, eagerly awaiting your next move. And it’s not like you want to ignore him. You wanted something to clear your head. Maybe alcohol isn’t the only solution.

“Do you want a hint?” he asks when you don’t say anything, instead opting to sip your whiskey sour.

“So, I do know you?” you ask.

“Know is a strong word,” he says.

You take another sip. “Okay, mystery man.”

“How is it?” he asks, brows drawn together like he’s witnessing you drinking something truly unfathomable. Like, he can’t comprehend how anyone would want something so disgusting.

“Delicious, thank you very much.” You toss your hair over your shoulder and refocus on him, narrowing your eyes, determined to figure out who he is.

He must sense your determination, because he laughs under his breath. “I saw you in the crowd earlier—”

It clicks fast. The drummer. Oh fuck. You think about standing up and leaving. But you haven’t paid your tab, and there’s nothing wrong exactly with talking to one of Kai’s bandmates. It’s just, well, fucking strange. Instead, you cut him off before he can continue. “Oh,” you say, hasty. “I’m not a fan.” The word just fall out. It’s not like you mean to say them, really.

This only makes him chuckle again, deep and warm. It registers in the back of your mind that you like the sound.

“No?” he asks. “Me either.”

You almost choke on your drink.

“What?” he asks, like the words he said were completely innocent.

“I just don’t think you’re supposed to say that about your own band.”

“I just started, it’s fine,” he says.

Your brain whirs. Something in the back whispers ask about Kai, but you squash it down. Kill it like a bug. You’re meant to be ignoring that problem. And look at how well that went—the universe just happened to place a friend of his right in your path. Well, you can’t ignore him now. Especially not when he intrigues you so much. You want to keep talking to him, even if you can’t exactly identify why.

“It’s Beomgyu, right?” you ask, wincing while you do it. You aren’t supposed to know their names.

It makes him smile, though, and it’s almost enough to forget that it’s embarrassing. “But you’re not a fan?”

“Not a fan,” you repeat. Desperate to change the subject away from the band, you say, “Why are you here alone?” Even though you really mean: where is everyone else? Where is Kai?

Beomgyu chuckles again. He’s always laughing under his breath at your words. Like everything you say delights and interests him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you sat down. You’re not sure you want him to. “Please,” he says. “No one else in that group would ever come here.”

It’s a relief just as much as it hurts. Your Kai loved this place. At least it’s confirmation that you’re right about him being different.

“Oh,” you say. “So you’re not like other girls?” This time, you raise a brow to accentuate your flirty tone.

And of course, he smiles. “Exactly.” He looks at you, studying you in the same way you looked at him only moments prior. Like there’s a question on the tip of his tongue he’s not certain he wants to ask. He does. “So why were you at the concert if you’re not a fan?”

“Good question,” you say. “Best friend made me go. She’s kind of obsessed with Soobin.”

He nods, like that’s understandable. “And you’re not obsessed with anyone,” he says. “Because you’re not a fan.”

“That’s correct.”

“I don’t know, you might want to reevaluate. Have you seen the drummer?” he asks.

He’s so casual with it, the words falling off his lips without a care in the world. It hardly feels like you’re talking to a global sensation. Maybe your eyes should have drifted over to him during the concert more often. It would have at least proven to be a good distraction from the one you were trying not to look at.

“I have,” you say, trying to keep the small smile from growing on your face. “He’s okay.”

He places a hand on his chest with mock hurt. “Oof, you wound me.” You turn back toward the bar, but his eyes continue wandering over your face, watching you. Trying to figure you out, maybe. “So you don’t like Tomorrow x Together, but you do like whiskey sours.”

“I’m a woman of taste, what can I say?” you reply, glancing sideways at him.

“I’m not sure about that,” he says, scrunching his face in disapproval while looking down at your glass.

You know he’s baiting you, trying to get you to turn back in his direction and argue with him about it—and it’s working. You can’t help yourself. With a sigh, you raise a hand for the bartender. “Another whiskey sour, please?”

“Damn, you like them so much you need a second one?” he asks, glancing at the nearly full glass still situated in front of you.

You turn then, narrowing your eyes at him. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” he says, dragging out the sound. “You shouldn’t have.” He looks genuinely concerned about the idea of drinking it.

“I think you’re going to like it,” you say confidently. “And then you’ll have to admit that my taste is excellent.”

“Oh, that’s what this is? That’s what we’re doing?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, suddenly interested in whatever little game you’ve concocted.

It probably would be smarter not to engage with him at all. He’s a friend of Kai’s, right? You should find a reason to excuse yourself already, save the drama, save the potential mess. Unfortunately, Kai doesn’t even cross your mind.

“That’s what we’re doing,” you say.

Even as you look away to take the glass from the bartender, you can feel his eyes on your face. It makes heat rise to your cheeks. You’ve only had a few sips of alcohol, so why is your body reacting like this? It feels like a betrayal to turn red under someone’s gaze.

You curse Jihyo for being right, for knowing exactly what you needed even though she never could have guessed that this is how it would end up.

You push the glass over to him with a smile on your face.

“You’re too excited about this,” he says, his nose still scrunched at the bridge.

He raises it to his lips and takes a small sip. There’s a flicker of something across his face, and you know immediately that he doesn’t like it. He tries to pretend anyway. “Oh,” he says. Then, “Mmm, yeah. It’s good.”

It’s not convincing in the slightest. “You hate it,” you say.

He folds under no pressure. “I hate it.” He pushes the drink back in your direction. “It’s like something my grandmother would drink.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you say. “What are you drinking, then, that’s so delicious?”

You peer over into his cup, then meet his eyes again. At some point, you moved your stool closer to his. At some point, you turned completely to look at him again, and now your knees are positioned between his.

“Oh, this?” he asks, picking up his glass. “It is delicious, thank you so much for asking.”

You roll your eyes at him and his prized possession, a rocks glass with salt dusted around the rim. “I didn’t take you for a margarita guy,” you say.

“It’s a strawberry margarita.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you say, placing your hand on your chest with feigned sincerity.

He raises a hand, and you reach out to grab his forearm without thinking, trying to stop him from doing what you know he’s about to do. You’re in his personal space. “No, that’s okay—” you start.

It doesn’t stop him. He makes eye contact with the bartender. “One strawberry margarita for the lady.”

You remove your hand from his forearm and back away from him, eyes narrowed. You motion to the two beverages already sitting on the bar in front of you.

“Wow,” he teases, as if seeing them for the first time. “You must be thirsty. Guess you’re going to have to stay awhile.”

“Are you this annoying to everyone, or am I some special case?” you ask.

He winks at you. “Oh, you’re special.”

The bartender places the third drink in front of you, but it takes a second for your brain to start working again. “You know I’ve had a strawberry margarita before. I know what they taste like.”

“I just thought you might need a refresher,” he says. “Maybe it’ll realign your tastes.”

“Doubt it,” you say, lifting the drink to your lips. You take a small sip, then place it back down on the table. “Yeah, it’s delicious,” you said. “Are you happy? It’s delicious.”

“Fucking ecstatic,” he says. “Now try yours again.”

It seems like you’ve had your eyes narrowed on him all night, but you don’t stop now. You raise the whiskey sour to your lips and take a sip.

“Which one’s better?” Beomgyu asks, leaning forward to catch your eyes.

You press your lips into a tight line and grumble. “The margarita,” under your breath.

“Sorry, what?” he asks. “I didn’t hear you.”

“They’re both good,” you say, slightly louder.

“Your tastes haven’t changed?” he asks.

“Nope,” you say. “And now I have three drinks to finish.”

“Okay, and where do we stand on the drummer?” he asks, that lazy smile appearing on his lips. You start to think about how handsome he is without meaning to.

You purse your lips, really giving it some thought. “He’s kind of obnoxious.”

“Obnoxiously handsome?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Hm,” he says. “It doesn’t seem like you really mean that.”

You stand up, grab the margarita with one hand and the whiskey sour with your other. “I guess you’ll never know.” You take a long sip of the whiskey sour, finally finishing the glass, only to pick up the second one. “You know, I have two drinks, and you only have one, and I don’t think that feels fair.”

“I’ll take that margarita off your hands,” he says.

“You wish,” you say, pulling it closer to your body.

He smiles proudly, and you know it’s because you like the damn thing. It’s fruity and delicious—of course, you like it. “It’s not my fault you don’t like the acquired taste of a whiskey sour.”

“I’m so sorry, I hope you’ll be able to move past this.”

“I’m not sure I can,” you say, grimacing. “Maybe you should try acquiring some taste.”

You’re standing between his legs, with him looking up at you, and it only occurs to you then that you still haven’t moved. You’re just standing there, looking down at him, holding a drink in each hand. And he’s looking up at you, too, the corners of his lips turned up in a smile.

“Are you any good at pool?” you ask.

He shakes his head, entranced by anything you have to say. “Awful.”

“Great, me too,” you say. “Let’s play.”

It’s not easy to leave the spot between his legs. There’s something captivating about him, about being in his direct vicinity. Like a gravity that pulls you closer. You do step away, though, and head for a pool table. Most of the place has cleared out, leaving the three tables all empty.

You grab a cue. When you turn around, he’s an inch away, reaching for one of the cues behind you. You clear your throat and quickly sidestep away from him, unable to take the intensity in the way he looks at you, the closeness.

“You do know how to play, don’t you?” you ask, teasing gently.

“Yes,” he grumbles.

You set up the game, rolling the balls back and forth inside the rack. “I’ll break,” you say.

You’re lining up your shot when you say, “Loser pays the tab?”

He takes another step closer to you—like you’re both experiencing the same draw, the same inability to keep your distance. The cue slides forward in the crook between your thumb and pointer finger when he says, “Hmm, boring. If I win, I want your number.”

The bluntness catches you off guard, and your hand slips out of position at the last moment. Your cue misses the ball entirely, and he just leans in closer. “I know I’m not very good, but I think you were supposed to hit those.”

You stand up, turning to face him, so little space in between you. “You distracted me,” you accuse.

“My bad.” Then, “Do you agree to my terms?”

He extends a hand for you to shake, and you take it. He pulls you forward a little bit, just enough to whisper in your ear. “Great. You’re going down.”

“So confident,” you say, but your voice wavers a bit. It’s easier to speak when he steps away. “Take your shot, then.” You watch him over the rim of your almost-empty margarita.

He takes off his jacket, slinging it over a nearby chair. His t-shirt clings to his biceps, and you have a difficult time not staring. He catches you as he gets into position, looking up at the last second. If you had any doubts about whether or not Beomgyu’s attractive, they’re long out the window, now.

He sinks one ball. “Stripes,” he says. Then another.

“Am I being hustled right now?” you ask, one raised brow. He misses on the third. “You wouldn’t hustle me, would you?”

He passes through your personal space again, and you start to think it might be just to drive you crazy. Does he see the way you tense when he gets closer? He makes a show of moving past just to grab his margarita.

“Never,” he says. “You’re too pretty. I play an honest game.”

“Please,” you say. “You’ve been trying to get me to change my mind about the drummer since I sat down.”

He steps closer to you again. “And?”

“And, I don’t think that’s very honest.”

“Why not?” his eyes aren’t looking at yours, but somewhere just a few inches lower.

“Well, you’re the drummer, Beomgyu.”

He likes the way you say his name.

“Ah, that’s right. Must have forgotten. It’s your turn, you know.”

You turn away from him, but he doesn’t give you an inch. You stand back up. “Will you get us another round?”

“Yes,” he says. “Don’t cheat while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, already turning to line up your shot. You catch up quick. After sinking the first ball, you reposition, catching his eye from the bar—watching you while he waits for the drinks. He gives you a small wave of his fingers, and you look away, refocusing.

Even looking at the pool table, your heart flutters. You have to grind your teeth to focus. This will require a lengthy conversation with Jihyo tomorrow—because what the actual fuck is going on? The worst part is that you can hardly even bring yourself to care about the complicated nature of the situation, because when he looks at you, you get so god damn distracted. You can’t think about anything else—anyone else.

And it’s refreshing. If you had a moment to think about it, it would be refreshing. Unfortunately, the only thing you can think about is how attractive he is and how your skin feels like it’s going to burst into flames every time he gets close to you.

None of those things makes focusing on playing pool any easier, because even as you turn away, you can feel him looking. And you’re fairly certain, in the moment, that you’re going to lose because you can’t get your brain to work properly.

If you hadn’t just mainlined two drinks into your system back to back, there may have been some kind of warning going off. Unfortunately, that functionality’s firmly offline, and there’s no little voice in the back of your head to remind you that being into a rockstar has failed you in the past.

Instead, you close your eyes for a second, try to muster up any semblance of concentration, and take your shot.

When the ball rolls into the pocket, you say, “Yes!” rolling forward onto your toes in a show of excitement.

He appears behind you with two strawberry margaritas. You reach for one. “Don’t you want to finish your whiskey sour first?” He nods toward the one left behind on the table, the one you’d ordered for him.

You make a face. Scrunching your nose up like he did.

“Margarita, please,” you say.

He hands it to you, then moves to take a shot. Your hand reaches out to stop him, landing flat against his chest. “Hey,” you say. “It’s not your turn.” He looks down at your hand, then at you, eyes traveling up your arm on their way.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice dropping lower. You look at your hand on his chest, drag your eyes slowly upward to meet his.

Time does that thing again—where it freezes. And the world stops, and you’re just looking at each other.

It doesn’t seem fair to have world-stopping eye contact twice in one night, but it happens, and you can’t look away. He drops the eye contact, eyes falling to your lips. You jerk your hand away fast, turning away to hide the hot blush on your cheeks.

He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, doesn’t comment on the way you look away or the way your cheeks turn a completely different shade. It’s almost gentlemanly. Instead, he just extends a hand toward the table for you to continue.

You do.

The game continues, neck and neck for a little while, until you slowly pull ahead. You exchange glances and quips in between sips of your drinks. When you look away, Beomgyu’s eyes still find you. And when he looks away, you’re always tracing his features like they’re something you’ll want to remember later.

Some time later, at the bottom of your fourth drink, Beomgyu leans over to take his shot. You watch him because you just can’t help yourself. A smile graces your lips, and you can’t remember the last time you had this much fun with anyone other than Jihyo. A stranger, no less. Someone you met within the last hour and a half.

It’s curious, really.

The state of your mind.

The way you haven’t thought about Kai. The way it hasn’t even crossed your busy mind to be worried about the fact that you haven’t thought about him, about the fact that this could be his friend. That what you’re doing could be considered a betrayal of some kind.

And even if it did cross your mind—to be concerned about what you’re getting yourself into—you probably wouldn’t walk away, either.

You wonder what’s running through Beomgyu’s head while he lines up his shot, his eyes lifting to look at you across the table. A slow smile crosses his features, and his eyes have a glassy tint to them. The same tipsy state you’re enjoying reflects back at you. The high points of his cheeks are red, and it occurs to you then that he might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. What is he thinking about—when he looks at you like that?

“Risky shot,” you say, when he looks down the cue at a ball a little too close to the eight.

He brushes it off with that same smile he’s been flashing all night. “I like a challenge.”

The confidence is sexy. However, when he misses and instead sends the eight ball into the pocket, you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips.

“So, that does mean you lose,” you say.

“I know what it means,” he says, hanging his head in shame. There’s still a smile on his lips, though, so you know it isn’t that serious.

You grimace, “And you don’t get my number.”

He looks up at you, then, eyebrows narrowing, but you just continue. “And you have to pay the tab. Huge bummer.” You finish off the rest of your drink and outstretch a hand.

He takes a step closer, looking at your empty hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Damn, you’re taking my phone, too?” he asks.

You shake your head, laughing. “No, you idiot. It’s for my number.”

He unlocks his phone and puts it in your hand. You put your number in it and hand it back. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you answer the call.

Beomgyu chuckles. “It works.”

You hang up the phone and go to put it back in your pocket, catching the time as you do. It’s so much later than you thought. “Shit,” you say. “It’s 2am.”

“Guess I should probably stop bothering you then,” he says.

“I guess so,” you tease.

You make your way back to the bar where he pays the tab. You leave together, too. Once outside, everything goes quiet. You’re just standing there. Both of you have your hands in your pockets, and you’re looking at each other and then not looking at each other, avoiding eye contact while seeking it out.

“You’re going to use that,” you say. “My number?”

“I am,” Beomgyu says.

“Cool,” you say, rocking on your heels.

Beomgyu clears his throat. “Can I get you a ride home?” he asks.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, phone already out, looking at Uber places.

You lean against the side of the building, and the bricks are cold through your shirt. He stands in front of you, hands in his pockets. He takes one out to grab his phone.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and take the phone out of his hands to put in your address. It’s not far. Maybe twenty minutes.

“What about you?” you ask.

“I’m close by. It’s a short walk.”

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks.”

He moves, sidestepping you to lean against the wall next to you. Your arms touch, and it sends shivers up your spine. Everything is tense and quiet, the awkward comedown after hours of flirting in a shady bar. You look down at his hands, then back up at him.

“No problem,” he says. His eyes fall to your lips, and you watch like it’s in slow motion. You move a half a centimeter closer, trying to make it subtle, casual. He notices. He sucks in a breath, moves the same fraction closer, too, until your shoulders are almost touching.

His fingers twitch at his side, like he’s trying to decide what he wants.

Then, he lifts his hand, reaching for you. He touches a strand of your hair, and you’re holding your breath—waiting for whatever’s going to happen.

You don’t realize you’re doing it, but your body turns toward his as his turns toward you, and then you’re fully facing one another.

“How long until the Uber gets here?” you ask, the words just above a whisper, despite the fact that there’s no one around to hear them.

“I have no idea,” he says, still looking at you, watching you, trying to determine whether or not you want the same thing he does. You can hardly stand it, the way his eyes roam all over your face, up and down. You think about grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

There’s no time. He moves first.

He makes to close the distance, and you meet him in the middle. It’s not tentative or shy. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. His lips collide with yours, and you can taste the night’s drinks on each other’s breath.

His hand comes up to settle on the side of your face, and your hands fly up to hold onto his biceps. It’s a night of tension and touches unwinding all in one moment, and you don’t realize how badly you wanted this until it’s actually happening.

His lips move slowly against yours, savoring the moment. Beomgyu pulls away first. Your eyes meet, and your cheeks turn a hot shade of red, because, well, you aren’t exactly the kiss a stranger in a bar kind of girl.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for the past hour and a half,” Beomgyu says, words breathy.

“Me too,” you say. Maybe because the alcohol has loosened your spirits, because it’s easier to say what you really mean, or just because you want to keep kissing him.

“Yeah?” he says.

You nod. “Uber’s still not here,” you comment.

He laughs lightly under his breath. “It’s not.”

“Beomgyu,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. “Yes?”

“Kiss me again?” you ask.

He obliges, and it’s not nearly as nice as the previous kiss, like you’ve set something ablaze in him just by asking nicely. He steps into you, parting your lips with his. Your back hits bricks, and you forget where you are entirely. One arm drops to your waist, wrapping around you, pulling you closer to him. You drape your arms over his shoulders, let one hold onto the back of his neck.

He deepens the kiss, and you only break away from each other for a second or two once in a while, when you remember to breathe. You smile against his lips, and he pulls you closer. You can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, can feel the strong muscles in his arms, the way he tenses slightly under your touch.

One of his legs nestles between your thighs, and you drop your hands to his chest, looking for something to touch as his tongue slides between your lips.

You can’t help it. Again, blame the alcohol for making it easier not to care about your actions or how you come off. You want him. You roll your hips against his thigh, chasing some friction. He grins against your lips, then moves his hands, first letting them lie flat against your back before one dips under your shirt and touches your bare skin.

Someone clears their throat loudly. It’s meant to be heard.

Neither of you stops.

When the stranger says your name, you finally break away. You turn to look at him, your hands tangled up in Beomgyu’s shirt. Your grip loosens when your eyes meet Kai’s.

“What’s going on?” Kai says. He’s looking at you with eyes you’ve never seen before. Full of something you don’t recognize. Almost hatred. Even from the stage, he didn’t look at you like that. You weren’t kissing his drummer, then, though.

“You and Kai know each other?” Beomgyu says, and there’s a hint of pain in his voice.

You open your mouth to speak, but words don’t come out. Your gut tells you to say no, because it would feel better—even though it’s a lie.

And seeing him only reminds you of losing him. Not that all at once feeling—sudden and at the dining room table. But slowly, in the months before. All the times you needed him, and he wasn’t there.

It only serves to make you angry, now, in this moment.

“Yes,” you manage to say, through your clenched jaw.

The drunkenness hits you like a wave, or maybe it’s the feeling of loss after you and Beomgyu break apart, and you have to place a hand on the bricks behind you to keep from falling over. Your head swims, and the world spins.

“Tell Beomgyu how we know each other,” Kai says. There’s a bite to his tone. That same anger you don’t know what to do with. Anger he never would have turned on you a year ago.

Beomgyu looks at you, expectantly. There’s no anger in his eyes, only a bit of confusion. Still, he looks like he wants to close the distance between you, looks like he wants to hold you up or help you home, or whatever you may need. But there’s something else too, in the slight quirk of his brow—that confusion. Or maybe a fear, of what there might be between you and Kai.

“We used to date,” you say.

A car pulls up to the curb. “That’s for you,” Beomgyu says, voice soft, a counterbalance to your ex-boyfriend.

Kai walks toward the car before you can and says something to the Uber driver. He taps his hand on the roof, and the car pulls away before you can even object. Kai turns back to look at you. “So what the fuck was this then?” Kai asks, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders up to his ears, looking entirely uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Were you trying to get back at me, trying to get my attention?” he asks. “You have it, now.”

“What?” you say, because you’re shocked at the words being spoken. Because, of course, you never thought for a moment about anything other than kissing Beomgyu and how badly you wanted it to happen in the seconds just before it did. “No.”

“Then why?” Kai asks, stepping closer to you and Beomgyu.

Beomgyu moves, stepping in front of you. “Come on, man, let’s not do this,” he says. “She’s drunk,” he says. “I’m drunk. Can’t we just have this conversation in the morning?” He’s trying so hard to be polite, even though you can see the way his hands tense at his sides, how he works not to ball them into fists.

“My car’s around the corner,” Kai says. “I’ll drive you home.”

You roll your eyes out of pure exasperation. “Fine,” you say, because you just want to crawl into your bed and pretend this entire day didn’t happen. Well, maybe not all of it.

Beomgyu looks at you. “I can get you another ride,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

Kai nods in the direction of a waiting car. Beomgyu finally steps away from you, giving you space. You follow Kai. When you look over your shoulder, Beomgyu is watching you leave. You mouth, I’m sorry, and he shrugs, like it isn’t a big deal.

You can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his head.

Kai’s car, as it turns out, is not really his at all, but one with a driver. He opens the back door for you, then climbs in next to you. You don’t look at each other. You shrink in your seat, arms crossed over your chest. You close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep so you don’t have to endure further questioning.

You wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing somewhere nearby. A few things register at the same time, as your eyes blink open. First and foremost, it’s abundantly clear that you are not in your bedroom. The headache drilling a hole into your brain registers next, then the sound of your phone again.

The bedroom is clean, minimalist. There’s a guitar in the corner. An old one. You sit up the moment you recognize it. Kai’s. God damn it. Everything from the night before comes flooding back all at once. You try to find your phone, throwing the covers off. It falls out of the tangled comforter.

The call ends, and Jihyo gives you enough time to see the seven missed calls on your home screen before it lights up again with her face.

When you pick up, she immediately starts talking. “Oh my god,” she says, and you turn down the volume on your phone a hair. “Where are you?”

“So, funny story—” you start.

“You kissed Beomgyu last night, and Kai saw, and now you’re not at home?” Jihyo says.

“What?” you say. “How do you know that?” You’re whispering, worried about being overheard.

“Let’s see. How do I know that?” She doesn’t wait for your response before continuing. “Because everyone on the planet knows it. Well, I guess they don’t know that you’re not home. I know that because I’ve been banging on your door for like—fuck—thirty minutes at this point.”

“Wait, slow down,” you say. “How do you know about Beomgyu?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jihyo says. “Check your texts.”

You pull the phone away from your ear to open the messenger app. There are a few from Jihyo, but the most recent is a screenshot from some news outlet. The image is of the dive bar from the previous night, of Beomgyu’s lips on yours. The headline reads Choi Beomgyu Spotted Kissing Mystery Woman After Concert.

“There’s a video, too,” Jihyo says.

You scroll down. The video autoplays. The audio is muffled. You watch you and Beomgyu kiss. You watch Kai interrupt. You watch him walk you to his car, then the video ends.

“Oh,” you say.

Because what else is there to say, really? You know enough to know it’s bad, to register in the moment that this is a bad thing that’s happened—but your head hurts, and you’re still thinking about the way Beomgyu kissed you, especially after seeing it play out all over again.

“That’s not it,” Jihyo says.

She sends another link. This one is from one of Beomgyu’s fansites. It says, in all caps: CHOI BEOMGYU’S MYSTERY WOMAN IDENTIFIED. Then, it lists your full name and age. One of the first comments reads: oh my god, isn’t this Hyuka’s ex-girlfriend?

Your heart stops in your chest, and the world tilts on its axis, and suddenly you’re back at that fucking dining room table, sitting across from your still-boyfriend, watching him explain to you why it’s dangerous for you to be involved with or any other celebrity. It doesn’t make sense at the time, but it hits you now that he might have been right. And honestly, that annoys you more than the scandal itself.

“This isn’t great,” is all you can bring yourself to say.

Jihyo laughs, and you can tell she’s more worried about the whole thing than you are. “It’s really fucking bad, actually.”

“I know that.”

She goes quiet for a second. “How was it?”

Your face gets hot. “Really good.”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Kai’s.”

The silence is enough to showcase her shock.

“I know,” you say. “I know, I know, I know.” It hits harder then, how much of a mess this all is. “It’s just—oh my god, Jihyo. Beomgyu is so—”

“Hot?” she asks. “Yeah.”

“Hot and nice, but also… I don’t know. Charming.” It feels wrong to say these things in Kai’s bedroom, but you can’t help it. You can’t stop thinking about Beomgyu.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jihyo says.

“Weird, it kind of feels like you’re judging.”

“Couldn’t you have just kissed, I don’t know—inside?” Jihyo asks. She pauses. “What did Kai say?”

“He wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

“Right, obviously,” Jihyo says.

“What are the chances I can sneak out of here without having to talk to him about it?” you ask.

Jihyo takes a moment to answer, which obviously means your chances are really, really bad. “Not great.”

“Should probably just get it over with,” you say. “You know? Rip the bandaid off.”

“So you are stalling,” Jihyo says. Then, “Text me when you’re on your way home.”

“You know where the spare is, just let yourself in,” you say.

“I’m currently sitting on your couch.”

You laugh under your breath. “Perfect. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

The call disconnects, and you’re left sitting in Kai’s room in silence, wearing your clothes from the night before, the headache still pounding against your skull. Your lips still tingling from the kiss, thinking about Beomgyu, stressed about everything that’s suddenly been thrust in your lap.

You get up, compose yourself as best you can, prepare yourself for whatever is to come, and crack open the door. You don’t see anyone until you step out. Then, Kai clears his throat, and your eyes flick to him sitting on the couch, arms crossed over his chest. He’d broader than you remember.

“So, you fucked up,” he says. It feels like the first thing he’s said to you in a year. Even though you spoke last night. This feels like the first time, all over again. And it strikes you through the heart, how distant he is with you. Almost like you were never his to begin with. Like you’re just some annoying stranger he has to deal with.

You stare at him for a long time, trying to think of something to say.

It’s just such a shock, how much of a different person he is. The blonde is enough to separate him from the person you used to know, but the apartment helps too. It’s so clean and empty. Almost sterile, with items that cost more than your biweekly paycheck.

“I guess,” you say. It’s so obvious how much he’s bothered by all of this, and that alone is enough to make you care less. Maybe it’s petty, but seeing how upset he is makes you feel better.

He drops his head into his hands, runs them both through his hair as you watch from the door frame.

“I thought you said you were going to take me home last night,” you say.

“You fell asleep before you could give me your address,” he says.

It makes your mouth fall open. “Kai,” you say. “You know my address.”

He has no comment on that. He just looks up at you, elbows on his knees, and hands still in his hair. Maybe you would think he looked handsome if he weren’t being so annoying.

“This is a big deal, you know,” he says.

“I know that,” you say.

“Do you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you really?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you stress.

“Then why did you do it?” he asks.

Your mind blanks. You can’t exactly say because Beomgyu’s hot. You don’t. “Why is this my fault?”

“Trust me, I’ll deal with Beomgyu, too.”

“Is this about the scandal?” you ask. “Or is it about the kiss?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kai asks, leaning against the back of the couch, looking at you intently.

You can’t bring yourself to walk any closer to him. Maintaining space makes it feel easier. “I mean, are you upset about the scandal or are you upset about the kiss?”

“Why would I be upset about the kiss?”

There’s that distance again. The mental to your physical. “I don’t know,” you say. “Why would you be?” Finally, you move, walking through the living room toward the front door. “Nice to see you, by the way. Glad you’re doing well.” The words fall off your tongue more venomous than you mean for them to.

“Come on, don’t be like this,” Kai says, which—of course—only makes you angrier. He stands up from the couch and follows you.

You whip around to face him. “Me?” you say, in disbelief. You laugh in his face, and it feels good. It feels good to be the one hurting him for a change. Maybe when you get home, you’ll feel bad about that—but not now. “You’re unbelievable.”

When you reach for the door, his hand shoots out to stop you. Not touching you, but lying flat against the door to keep it closed.

“We have to talk about the scandal,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I won’t be seen with any of you ever again. That should solve the problem, right?” you ask. He doesn't speak, doesn’t budge. “Move your hand, Kai.”

He does.

“So,” Jihyo says, the moment you’re comfortable next to her on the couch. “What really happened? Not like the quick version, but the story. I want all the dirty details.”

“There aren’t a lot of dirty details,” you say. There would probably be more if Kai hadn’t shown up. Would you have gone back to Beomgyu’s place with him if he asked? Or invited him back to yours? Probably. Kissing him, it felt like nothing could stop either of you. Well, except for Kai.

You tell her the full story. Not leaving anything out.

“I mean, what does that fucking mean anyway—why would I be upset about the kiss? Like he’s just some stranger and not someone I dated for five entire years of my life,” you say, because that’s the part that frustrates you the most. “Was he always this much of a manchild when we were dating?”

Jihyo makes a face.

“What?” you ask.

“I mean, yeah,” she says. “He kind of was. You just never saw it because you were so in love with him. Nothing he did then was enough to make you stop wanting him.”

“Rose colored glasses, I guess,” you say. “But even then, he wasn’t that bad. I mean, he didn’t treat me badly. He didn’t lie to my face.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess.”

It makes you see everything differently. It makes you want to analyze every aspect of your relationship with a fine-toothed comb, looking for signs you might have missed. A single sentence, enough to seed all your doubts in him.

“I just don’t get it. He treated me like a stranger.” You run your hands through your hair. “But he was obviously upset. I mean, he basically kidnapped me. He yelled at Beomgyu, tried to tell me I kissed him for attention. He was upset. Why try to backpedal later?”

“Were you?” Jihyo asks.

“Was I what?”

“Trying to get his attention?” she clarifies.

“What?” you ask, because honestly, the thought of there being any validity to that line of questioning hasn’t occurred to you. “No. Honestly, Kai was the last thing on my mind.”

Jihyo nods.

“Beomgyu was just so,” you say, motioning with your hands to make sense of the feelings he brought to life inside your chest. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I wasn’t thinking about anything else all night. Just him. Just how much fun we were having. How easy it was to talk to him.”

“How good a kisser he was,” Jihyo adds.

“Yeah, that too.”

“So, are you going to call him?” Jihyo asks.

“I don’t have his number,” you say. “Besides, I told Kai I wouldn’t speak to any of them ever again.” It’s a lie, anyway. He called you. You just haven’t saved the details, but you could find them if you really want to.

“Right,” Jihyo says. “But that’s just something you said. It doesn’t have to be something you meant.” She puts a hand atop yours. “It really bothers you, huh?” she asks. “What Kai said?”

That’s one way of putting it. It’s like his words slid up under your ribcage and made a home there next to your heart, living in a place where they could easily pop up over and over like a reminder. Why would I be upset about the kiss?

It makes your skin crawl. But if roles were reversed—would you be able to admit it to him? If you saw him kissing someone new, even a year later, would you be able to admit to him that it made you angry or jealous or sad or anything? Or would you brush it off too, and pretend that it didn’t matter? That he didn’t matter?

There’s no immediate answer to the question that satisfies your brain, so you continue to spiral thinking about it.

And it doesn’t matter, not really. Because what would you have said, anyway—if he’d admitted to caring?

It’s not like you’ve seen each other, like you know this new version of him. And so you try to convince yourself that you don’t care. That you don’t care about the fact that he doesn’t.

Life goes back to normal for a few days. You start to forget what Beomgyu’s lips felt against yours, what his hands felt like against your bare skin. You start to think that it’s okay, that maybe everything was just heat of the moment. Thinking about them both comes and goes in bursts of annoyance and confusion. But the moments grow further apart.

You’re thinking about texting Beomgyu. You save his number and stare at the contact details, thinking that you owe him some kind of explanation. An apology, at least. He doesn’t give you the chance.

Your phone buzzes while you’re looking at his contact, with his name appearing at the top of your screen. It’s such a coincidence you think you might have manifested it, and you almost throw your phone across the room. You open the message.

beomgyu: damn, i heard you never want to speak to me again

Of course, Kai relayed that message to him. Of course he did. You stare at the words on your screen for a long time before replying.

you: okay so i may have said that in anger you: would you believe me if i said it wasn’t actually true

beomgyu: so you do want to speak to me again?

Even over text, you can feel the charm in his words. Your heart flutters in that same way it did at the bar several days ago, whenever his eyes were on you. In reality, you weren’t sure he’d want to talk to you. But, of course, you’re glad he does.

you: yes

Your fingers hover over the letters for a moment as your brain works, trying to figure out if you want to say the next thing or not. You decide it’s better if you just get it out of the way.

you: i should explain you: about kai

beomgyu: in person?

you: is that a good idea, bc of the whole scandal thing

beomgyu: oh yeah, did you hear we’re dating

you: i saw something about that yeah

beomgyu: so when can i see you

You don’t take the time to worry about how bad of an idea it is. Instead, you figure out exactly when to meet up. You immediately start getting ready. You don’t think about the consequences. There’s something about this man, about Beomgyu, that makes all rational thought fly out the window.

For you, someone who’s often calculated, often overthinking, it’s a new feeling.

Jihyo would probably say you’re being impulsive. Maybe spontaneous is a better word. The thought process itself doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re downstairs waiting in the back alley of your building approximately thirty minutes later.

You have a baseball cap and a scarf on, a big coat. It’s probably not enough to actually obscure anything if there are people looking to snap images of you. Those people are ruthless. There’s probably someone with a camera nearby, just waiting for something juicy.

And Beomgyu will be there soon, too. Probably in a similar outfit. It won’t stop rumors from spreading, but you have a feeling Beomgyu doesn’t care about any of that.

It’s a bad habit, but you fish the pack of cigarettes out of your purse and place one between your lips, lighting it while you wait.

The seeds of doubt creep in then, when it’s already too late to change the plans, when he’s already walking toward you with a warm smile on his face.

Oh god. What are you doing? Is this even a good idea? You hardly know this man. It shouldn’t matter what you feel or felt in fleeting moments days prior, right? It would be better for everyone, and yes—you do mean everyone—if you kept your promise to never speak to them again.

But as you watch him approach, neither can you get your feet to move. You don’t want to run away. You don’t want to never speak to him again. In fact, your heart beats faster the closer he gets. You take a long drag from the cigarette, but it doesn’t make you feel better.

And then he’s standing in front of you, bending slightly to make eye contact with you under the rim of your hat. “Nice disguise,” he says.

You can’t feel this way about someone you met days ago, who you spent only a few hours with. But you can’t control it either, the way he makes blush rise to your cheeks immediately. It’s nearly impossible to play it cool, because there he is. Inches away, and you’re already thinking about grabbing him by the collar to pull him in for another kiss. You manage to keep your composure. Another drag. A long breath out.

Beomgyu’s wearing a pair of plain jeans and a baggy sweatshirt with an oversized leather jacket on top. His hair is long and wavy with pieces framing his face. He isn’t wearing a hat or attempting to hide his appearance in any way. He’s just here. Smiling at you.

“Thanks,” you say, and you’ve lost all your bravado from the night at the bar, your flirtatious nature falling apart under his gaze because now you have these feelings that you aren’t quite sure what to do with.

Now you’re nervous. Maybe because it has become something you can fuck up.

“You okay?” Beomgyu asks, still looking up under your hat to meet your eyes. You might as well take it off, but you don’t.

“Yes, yep, yes,” you say, which is maybe one too many times to be convincing.

“You seem nervous,” he says. “Do I make you nervous?”

“What?” you say, laughing under your breath, trying to push away the fact that he’s right, that he’s absolutely spotted your nerves from a mile away. “Me? Never.” You place the cigarette back between your lips, taking a slow drag.

He just laughs, totally calm, totally collected. Then, he reaches up and takes the cigarette out of your mouth, flipping it around in one quick motion to put it in his own. You stare at him all the while, mouth partially agape. He looks even more beautiful, somehow, as he takes a drag and then lets the smoke escape in a long stream. When he places the cigarette back between your lips, his thumb touches your bottom lip, shocking your system. This only serves to make him smile.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke,” you say. It seemed like the kind of restriction their company would put on them.

Beomgyu smiles. “I don’t think anyone is supposed to smoke.”

“So,” you start. “You don’t hate me?”

His eyebrows immediately draw together in confusion. “Why would I hate you?”

“The whole Kai thing, I mean… It’s complicated.”

“I don’t care about him,” he says. Catching you off guard again. Like it’s his job to surprise you. “He’s kind of an ass, anyway.”

“You don’t want like, an explanation?” you say.

He tilts his head to the side, still studying you, watching the drag you take as you wait for his response. “You dated Kai, you’re not dating now. I remember the kiss. I’m not worried about him.”

It drives you a little insane, how confident he is.

“You remember the kiss?” you ask, a smile spreading across your lips, those nerves fading away the longer you exchange quips.

His closed-lip smile breaks into a full, toothy one, and he laughs. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s fucking obvious. This time, he takes the cigarette out of your hand, takes a small puff, then extends it back toward you. “Didn’t seem like you were thinking about anyone else.”

“And how would you know that?” you ask, even though obviously, you weren’t thinking about anyone else but him.

“I just know these things,” he says. “I’m very smart.”

“Right,” you say. “Of course.”

He doesn’t even follow up with a confirmation, doesn’t ask if you were, in fact, thinking about Kai during the kiss. He’s that confident.

Beomgyu’s eyes drift to the side, looking at something to the left of you. He rolls his eyes, scoffing under his breath. “I’m sorry about this,” he says.

“About what?” you ask. Even though you follow his gaze, you don’t really see anything.

He nods to the left. “By the trash cans.”

You see him then, the man with a camera pointed in your direction, taking shots of whatever conversation you’ve been having. Probably to further whatever rumors and scandals the two of you have stirred up.

“You don’t seem very concerned about it,” you say. “The rumors and stuff.”

He shrugs. “Oh no, I’m caught up in a scandal with a gorgeous woman. Whatever will I do?” he mock complains.

The man in the distance still has his camera pointed at you, and Beomgyu’s eyes continue wandering in his direction. Checking every few seconds to see if he’s still watching.

Beomgyu reaches behind you and pulls the hood of your jacket up, blocking out more of your face.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you say, watching him. You put the cigarette out on the bottom of your shoe.

“I don’t care what they say about me,” he says, eyes still glancing sidelong at the photographer. He takes a paper mask out of his pocket and hands it to you. “Put this on.” Then, he grabs your other hand and pulls you toward the man with the camera.

“They’re still going to know it’s me,” you say. “They already have my name and everything. It’s all over everything, last time I checked.” But he’s still pulling you toward the man with the camera, his fingers interlaced with yours. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“It probably isn’t,” he says.

You get close enough to the cameraman that you can almost hear the sound of the shutter.

“Hey,” Becomgyu says, his voice more stern than you’ve heard it, more pointed. “What are you doing?”

The man has the audacity to snap another picture, the lens of his camera pointed directly at you—the sliver of skin showing on your face. But he doesn’t answer Beomgyu, hardly even looks at him. You can’t tell if it’s a state of shock or if he’s used to having encounters like this.

“You should delete those, don’t you think?” Beomgyu says. “And learn to respect people’s privacy?”

The man doesn’t move.

Beomgyu puts his hand on the end of the lens, covering it. The man tries to move his camera out of Beomgyu’s grip, but Beomgyu just holds on tighter. He flashes you a warm, apologetic smile.

“How long were you planning on following her?” he asks. “Take pictures of me, sure. But she’s just a regular person, and I’m pretty sure this is stalking.”

The man still doesn’t answer, is just trying to get his camera back so he can get out of there. Beomgyu sighs, wrenching the camera out of the man’s grasp.

“Hey—” the man says, trying to reach for it.

Beomgyu puts one hand on the man’s chest, holding him back. With his other hand, he flips open the bottom casing and pops out the SD card. Then, he hands the camera back to the photographer.

“There are other photos on there—” the man says.

Beomgyu laughs. He drops the SD card to the ground and crushes it under his heel. “That sucks. Next time it’ll be your camera.”

He drops an arm around your shoulders and navigates you away. “Sorry,” he says, under his breath. “Those people piss me off.”

It all happens so fast, you hardly have time to react or think. But as you’re walking away, there’s one thing that’s blatantly obvious. Kai would never have done something like that for you. No, he cared too much about his reputation.

And Beomgyu, well. He certainly doesn’t.

You’re a good distance away before he lowers your hood again, looks at you with those searching brown eyes.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I probably should have been more careful the other night. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Right,” you say. And your mind flashes back to that fucking dining room table. To conversations about safety.

He smiles, like he’s reading your mind. “Next time we’ll have to find some place more private.”

Your brain is going a hundred miles a minute. He’s so unpredictable. Saying and doing things you never expect. It takes your mind a moment to catch up. It’s been fifteen minutes, but you’re still thinking about the way he took the cigarette out of your mouth, when he’s moved on to where he wants to kiss you next.

And of course, you want to agree. Your cheeks flush, and you want to nod your head vehemently, but there’s one thing that’s stopping you. You can’t bring yourself to voice it, though, your worries about Kai.

His fingers are still intertwined with yours.

“Oh, so you want to see me again?” you ask, tugging his hand to pull his body closer to you. Neither of you learn from your mistakes.

“Maybe,” he says, teasingly.

“Maybe!” you object.

It only makes him laugh. He squeezes your hand. “We’re off on another leg tomorrow, but when I get back?”

“Yes,” you say, not caring about sounding too eager.

The corners of his lips quirk upward. “Cool,” he says. “I think the company’s going to release a statement about the rumor tomorrow, but if you have any issues or anything, just let me know. I’ll kill them,” he jokes.

“They’re your fans,” you point out.

“Yeah, and some of them are creeps.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to say that,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, sorry. My devoted fans, you’re so right. Is that better?”

You shrug. “I don’t know—I’m not one of your fans, so I wouldn’t know.”

He deadpans. “You take that back.”

“I don’t think I will,” you say, smiling proudly at him.

He shakes his head at you, but there’s no real disappointment that shows through the smile. “We’re gonna get you on Team Beomgyu eventually,” he says.

“We’ll see,” you say.

“We’ll see!” he repeats. He glances down at your interlocked hands. It’s probably already too late, he thinks. The world already thinks you’re dating. The social media outlets have reported on it. It’s a rumor that won’t easily go away. He thinks about releasing your hand, about taking a step back to make things easier for you, but he can’t bring himself to do it, either.

He releases your hand when his phone starts vibrating. He pulls it out of his coat pocket and shows you the screen, Kai’s face looking back at you. “I have to go,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. And you don’t ask for anything, don’t ask him to text or call or anything. Because this is a man you just met—a celebrity. And above everything else, you shouldn’t want him as badly as you do after only knowing him for such a short amount of time. You shouldn’t care so much about when he’ll be back or whether or not he’ll call.

You tell yourself it’s just the carnal aspect. Your body reacting to his being nearby after such a good kiss the previous week. It’s not really feelings.

“I’ll text you,” he says, and you nod.

He smiles, taking a few steps back as he makes to leave. “Don’t forget to tell me if anyone wrongs you—they’ll hear from me.”

“Totally,” you say, laughing under your breath as he goes.

Days pass. You go back to work. You take note of anyone lurking around the corner. Everyone with a camera might be someone taking a picture of you. You stay off social media, no longer wishing to see the vitriolic hate some people find it necessary to spew about you. Words about not deserving Beomgyu or messing with Kai’s head. In the few hours you spent scrolling before Jihyo took your phone away, you saw pretty much every mean thing in the book.

So, you’re not on Instagram when Kai DMs you. You’re not even near your phone. You come back to the message hours later.

A simple message from his professional account.

kaikamal_: hey

It’s so strange. So distant. But it matches everything else about this new version of him. Every interaction has involved distance of some kind. In words or real space. In lies or feigned emotions, trying to pretend certain things didn’t bother him.

Okay, fine.

You’re still kind of hung up on that.

The lie.

Because you know it’s a lie. You saw the way his body went rigid, the way he wanted to drag you away from the scene, the way he wanted to yell at Beomgyu about it. The kiss pissed him off.

And you hate how much it bothers you that he wouldn’t admit it, hate how much you’re still thinking about it, even now.

But what would it change, really, if he admitted it? Nothing. Maybe you would at least respect him more.

So you stare at the words on the screen for a long time, thinking about things past and impossible to change.

you: hey

It’s simple enough. Not committing to a conversation, really, but acknowledging it. You could be meaner, harsher, but you wait—wanting to see what he has to say first.

kaikamal_: im sorry

You blink a few times to make sure you aren’t seeing things. He’s not typing. He doesn’t say anything else for several minutes, leaving you questioning.

you: ??? you: for what

Maybe it’s petty, but you aren’t going to assume anything, especially when there are various things that he could be apologizing for, various things that you deserve an apology for.

You almost put your phone down, giving up on waiting for any kind of reply.

kaikamal_: being an ass kaikamal_: about everything

It’s beautifully vague. Enough so that you could assume it’s in reference to the past or present. You refuse to assume.

you: what do you mean everything

And you can see it, the way he probably drops his head into his hands and groans a thousand miles away. It always drove him insane, the way you pushed his buttons, asking for more.

kaikamal_: i was upset about the kiss

you: why

kaikamal_: come on kaikamal_: you know why

you: not sure i do

It might be the message that sends him over the edge, that pushes him to stop responding. He starts typing, then stops. Starts. Stops.

kaikamal_: can’t you just accept my apology

you: no you: it’s a bad apology you: if you rlly wanted to talk to me you could have just texted me, instead u chose to be vague on instagram dms you: i don’t get you

kaikamal_: it sucked to see you kiss beomgyu bc you’re my ex

you: so? you: you broke up with me

kaikamal_: that doesn’t mean i want to see you kiss other guys

you: see you: was that so hard to say

Another stretch of time passes between messages.

kaikamal_: are you going to keep seeing each other

The audacity.

you: maybe you: not really your business

kaikamal_: kind of is kaikamal_: it affects the whole band

There it is. It’s not about you. Not really. It’s about the band. The fame. The fans. It’s about how it will affect him. You turn your phone off to stop yourself from saying something you’ll regret.

“Do you think he’s still into you?” Jihyo asks, hours later, sitting on your couch with a bottle of beer in one hand and your phone in the other, reading over the messages.

You shrug. It’s crossed your mind, sure. “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t think it matters if he is or not.”

“Because you wouldn’t take him back?” she asks.

You nod. “If he is into me, that’s not even his biggest problem with the whole thing. It’s all about the band and fans. How it’ll change things with them. He can’t have a girlfriend because then his engagement will go down. Beomgyu can’t have a scandal because it makes him look bad. It’s barely even about me.”

“Why message you at all, then?”

“No idea,” you say.

“And why didn’t he just text you?” Jihyo asks, scrolling through the messages again. She goes too far up and finds old reels you sent each other back when you were dating. She quickly scrolls away.

You shrug. “Probably deleted my number.”

“You should delete his,” she says.

But you know you won’t.

You have two very separate problems, you and Kai. Kai feels weird about the kiss because he doesn’t understand his own feelings or how to differentiate them from the stress the kiss puts on his position in the group, but you? You still can’t break completely away from the idea of your Kai.

That he’s in there somewhere. That this new version of him is a facade. That he’ll reappear someday. It’s not something you’re actively thinking about. But it’s the blocker, the thing that makes it difficult to delete his number.

Jihyo hands your phone back when it buzzes. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks, the same question you asked Beomgyu a few days prior.

You echo his answer. “It probably isn’t,” you say.

But you can’t help yourself. It’s like touching the stovetop when you already know it’s hot. You know this is going to get messy, eventually. You know it. There’s no way to avoid it. But you put your hand down anyway, thinking maybe you’ll get lucky and it won’t be.

You wait for the burn.

Jihyo gets up for another beer, and you check the text.

beomgyu: no new pics of you online in the past few days beomgyu: i’m considering that a win

You laugh under your breath, trying to hide the immediate joy that appears at the sight his name, his words.

you: maybe that one guy told all his photographer friends how scary you are

beomgyu: you think i’m scary?

you: of course not you: you give big softy hate to break it to you

beomgyu: but like tough big softy right

you: …….sure

beomgyu: don’t do this

Jihyo puts another beer in front of you on the table. “How’s the crush?” she asks.

You look up from your phone. “It’s not a crush,” you say, defensively.

“Oh, really?” she asks, raising a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

You lift the beer for a long sip while you think of a way to answer the question without immediately admitting you’re wrong.

A picture of Beomgyu appears, and it’s enough to distract you from the conversation.

beomgyu: no new pics of you on the internet but here’s one of me beomgyu: just in case you didn’t see it

you: i didn’t you: i’m not a fan, remember?

beomgyu: fuck that’s right i forgot

“You’re smiling at your phone an awful lot for it to not be a crush,” Jihyo says.

Another long sip while you contemplate the feeling you’ve been avoiding thinking about. You haven’t had a crush on anyone since before Kai, which feels like a lifetime ago. You haven’t been on dates or even thought, for a second, about being with anyone.

And now here’s this man, bothering his way into your life. Charming you, making you think these thoughts that you haven’t had to deal with in so long.

But neither does it feel like a crush should feel. It’s obvious reciprocated, so you don’t have to worry about the worst part of a typical crush, and you’ve already kissed—so those nerves are gone too. It’s more than a crush. It’s something you don’t really understand, which only makes it more complicated.

“Hey, you should be happy about this. Maybe I’ll have him slide Soobin your number,” you say.

Jihyo drops her arm around your shoulders. “Have I ever told you how smart and hot you are?”

“Once or twice,” you grumble jokingly.

Another buzz of your phone.

beomgyu: so did you like the photo

You shake your head, rolling your eyes.

you: you’re so irritating, you know that?

beomgyu: that’s crazy, would you believe i’ve heard that before

you: yes

beomgyu: so…

you: don’t you have like drums to play or something

beomgyu: maybe

“What do I even say to that?” you ask, showing Jihyo the series of messages. She looks at the photo. It’s a candid of him on stage, sweat dripping down his face, a drumstick in each hand. He’s wearing a shirt with no sleeves, and the muscles in his arms look insane. It’s a good photo. A great one.

“He looks hot,” Jihyo says. “Tell him he looks hot.”

You roll your eyes. “But that’s what he wants me to say.”

Jihyo blinks a few times, trying to figure it out. “Okay,” she says, tentatively. She leans back against the couch and takes a sip of her drink. “You want him to think you’re interested, but not too interested. You want to compliment him, but not say exactly what he wants to hear.”

“Exactly,” you say.

“And why can’t you just tell him he looks hot?” she asks.

You shrug. “Too easy.” Plus, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You like the little game of pretend you’ve been playing together.

you: yeah, i like it you: your fans are good photographers

“Is this your way of flirting?” Jihyo asks. She’s more the direct type. A tell the man exactly what you want and see what happens kind of girl.

“Yes,” you say. Then, “Well, at least… I think so.” It’s not like you’ve flirted with anyone in years. But this does make your heartrate sky rocket. “Besides, he doesn’t need me to tell him that I think he’s hot,” you say. “He already knows what I think.”

beomgyu: 😫

The company releases a statement the following day stating that Beomgyu is not in a relationship with anyone, and that speculation of any kind will not be tolerated by the company. It’s polite, yet firm, urging fans to ignore the situation for the safety of the people involved.

A week after the statement, you and Jihyo meet to grab drinks after work. A routine that’s fallen out of favor recently, with everything going on.

“So how are we going to get Soobin's phone number?” Jihyo asks as another round of shots is placed on the bar in front of you.

You learn back to ponder this. “It’s gotta be delicate,” you say. Even though nothing you’ve been involved in with Tomorrow x Together has been delicate so far. In fact, most of it has been exactly the opposite. In truth, you don’t know if it’s even possible.

You want to believe, of course, that you’ll spend more time with Beomgyu. But there’s that fear nagging in the back of your mind, too, the one that reminds you that all of this could crash and burn at pretty much any moment.

“I think it’ll be better if I just invite you out with us some night,” you say. But even that feels like planning too far ahead. You have to remind yourself that you barely know Beomgyu. That he’s just someone you met at a bar, just someone you kissed, just someone you’ve been texting. You have to remind yourself that it’s very possible there’s nothing between you. That after another date or two, it’ll fizzle.

There’s no reason to plan anything. To set yourself up for disappointment. But none of that is what Jihyo wants to hear. Jihyo wants to hear that you’ll slide Soobin her contact information and that she’ll be on her way to Soobin-town in no time at all.

“That could work,” Jihyo says, and you laugh.

Across the bar, you catch sight of someone with a phone, their camera pointed in your direction. A man around your age, maybe a little bit older.

“Hey,” you say. “I think we should get out of here.” You don’t motion to the man with the phone, don’t make a big deal of the situation.

You pay the tab, scurry out of the bar, and hold Jihyo’s arm, keeping her close to you. You get a few blocks before the words fall off your lips in a panic. “Hey, don’t freak out,” you say, clutching her. “But I think someone is following us.”

Jihyo turns to look behind you.

“The guy from the bar,” you say. “I think he was filming us. Does he still have his phone out?”

Jihyo looks forward again. “Yes.”

“What do we do?” you ask, even though you’re fairly certain Jihyo doesn’t know the answer—neither of you has ever been in a situation like this one before.

“Hey!” the man’s voice calls, as he jogs to catch up with you.

You and Jihyo both freeze, looking at each other, trying to determine the best course of action. Apparently, that’s not moving. The man catches up. He’s wearing a black hoodie unzipped over an equally dark shirt and jeans.

He says your full name. He says, “Do you have any comment on your relationship with Choi Beomgyu?”

It takes a lot to shock you, but this does. Your eyes go wide. It’s one thing to notice someone taking your photo, but another entirely for them to follow you across town, to address you by your full legal name, to demand information out of you.

It’s even more to, when you don’t respond and instead take a few steps back, reach out and grab your wrist.

“Hey, don’t touch her,” Jihyo says when your brain doesn’t react.

“Any comment on the relationship?” he asks again.

“What?” you say, because it’s all your brain can manage, because you’re confused and shocked and being held tightly by this strange man who only seems to care about whatever scandal you’ve stirred up with Beomgyu.

Jihyo reaches out and pries the man’s hand off you. “She’s not dating anyone,” Jihyo says. “Post that, you asshole.” Then, she grabs your hand and pulls you away.

The two of you pick up the pace, nearly sprinting through downtown blocks, desperate to get away as fast as you can. You don’t take the time to look behind you, to see if he’s still following you, you’re just running blind toward Jihyo’s apartment without thinking.

When you finally reach the apartment complex, finally close Jihyo’s door behind you, it’s with heaving breaths and fast heart rates.

“Was that normal?” Jihyo asks as the two of you settle down from the strange encounter.

You roll your wrist, stretching out the tenderness from the man’s tight grip. “I fucking hope not,” you say. It’s almost an instinct, how fast you take out your phone to tell Beomgyu. You’ve been texting pretty much non-stop since he left with the band, and this is an update he’s going to want to know about.

you: hey

Your fingers hover over the letters, trying to figure out how to explain exactly what just happened to you. There’s a little voice in the back of your head that raises concerns—that puts you back at that dining room table, but you can hardly hear it over the hammering of your heart.

you: so someone just followed a friend and i home

It doesn’t take long for him to get back to you. Sometimes you think he must have his phone nearby on stage.

beomgyu: fuck beomgyu: im so sorry beomgyu: are you okay?

Again, you stare at the letters on your phone and try to form them into words. It takes too long. Beomgyu’s face appears on your phone as it buzzes, and you answer immediately.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. The care in that single word hits you square in the chest.

Those fears take hold of you again. Your mind plays tricks on you. If you tell him everything, he’ll realize the only way to fix the problem is to leave you behind. If you don’t tell him, maybe that won’t happen.

“What happened?” he asks. The concern coats both words, and you couldn’t lie to him even if you really, actually wanted to.

You clear your throat. “I was getting drinks with my friend Jihyo, and I noticed someone with their phone pointed at us, so we left.”

He stays silent, letting you get the story out.

“He followed us out, and when he caught up to us, he asked me about you,” you explain.

Beomgyu lets out a long sigh. “Fuck,” he says. “But you’re okay?” he asks. “Not hurt?”

Jihyo looks at you pointedly. She raises both eyebrows. Tell him, she mouths.

You grumble under your breath. “My wrist’s a little sore, he grabbed me.” Silence falls over the line, and it speaks volumes to his anger. “But it’s okay, really. I’m fine.”

“Do you remember what he looked like? You should file a report,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

“It’s not your fault,” you say. Fear creeps in like an old friend. Rearing its ugly head again and again. Uninvited.

He lets out a deep breath that seems to relieve some of the tension from his voice. “Okay,” he says, maybe because he can tell how stressed you are, can tell that his anger isn’t what you need right now. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says again. “We’ll be back in a few days. We’ll figure this out,” he says. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay, Beomgyu, I swear,” you say.

“Okay,” he says. Each okay feels a little bit lighter, like he’s returning to form.

“You’re excited to see me?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

It works. You can almost hear his smile. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

When the band gets back to the company headquarters after the last leg of the tour, it’s not a warm welcome. It’s to criticism about the way certain situations have been handled, about blatantly ignoring certain rules. Most of the criticism is lobbied in Beomgyu’s direction, but when it’s time to point fingers, they’re all aimed at Kai.

They talk about fixing the problem, about cleaning up the mess made by the group. They explain how disappointed fans are, both in Beomgyu and in Kai. They explain all of it over and over, but none of it really seems to sink in.

At least, not for Beomgyu. He’s only half-listening anyway, and Kai can tell.

There’s always been tension between the new members of the band and the old. Specifically, when it comes to Kai and his arrogance. The fans love him the most, which means he can do no wrong, which means he gets to control everything going on around him.

But this news—this video spreading of him yelling at Beomgyu and his ex—the fans don’t like it, don’t like this side of him. And while they’re equally upset with Beomgyu for betraying their trust, Kai has a larger fanbase, and therefore more people carrying pitchforks with his name on them.

And of course, he can’t turn that anger toward the company.

So, he turns it to Beomgyu instead.

After the long, laborious meeting, everyone disperses, going to their respective rooms. It isn’t long before there’s a knock at Beomgyu’s door, and a conversation that’s been brewing for over a week starts at full force.

No niceties, no heys, just Kai standing with his arms crossed and his brows drawn in the doorway. He says, “I told you it was a bad idea to pursue her.”

He thinks about shutting the door in Kai’s face, but the line between what he can get away with and what he can’t has grown thinner ever since he started using it as a jump rope.

“You did,” Beomgyu says with a shrug.

Kai pushes past him and into the living room.

“Yeah, come on in,” Beomgyu says. There’s not a lot of familiarity between the two. Fans have noticed that, too. They notice everything.

Kai leans against the kitchen island, looking at Beomgyu. It doesn’t take him long to get out the words he wants to say, the real reason that he’s there right now. “I want you to stop seeing her.”

“Because it’s best for the group or because you’re jealous?” Beomgyu asks.

It’s so strikingly similar to your line of questioning that it unsettles Kai. “Because it’s better for the band, Beomgyu,” he says, seriously. Taking that I’m the leader tone with him.

“That’s why you broke up with her, right?” Beomgyu asks. “Because it was better for the group? Being single is a part of your charm, and dating her just got in the way of that.”

“No, of course not,” Kai says. “Is that what she told you?”

Beomgyu shrugs. He’s tired. The tour’s been long, and he wants to lie down. Wants to call you, think about you, see you.

Kai sighs, like he’s the one stressed in this situation. Stressed at simply the idea of you not understanding the reasons he chose to leave.

“You know, you can’t stand me—but you’re not any better,” Kai says.

Beomgyu doesn’t get defensive. He just listens.

“We broke up to prevent something like this from happening. I broke up with her to protect her. You don’t care about any of that. You’re selfish,” Kai says. “You guys want to think I’m the bad guy? That’s fine. But I made the decision to leave so that something like this wouldn’t happen.”

It renders Beomgyu speechless.

“You want her even if she gets hurt?” Kai asks. “Because that’s all you’re doing. You’re not risking your safety, just hers.”

When he realizes that Beomgyu isn’t going to say anything, Kai sighs. He claps Beomgyu on the back in a show of solidarity, and there’s a moment of understanding. This sucks, it says. This sucks, but we have to make the right choice. He leaves Beomgyu standing in his apartment alone, wondering what the right choice is—and if it’s selfish to want you anyway.

When Beomgyu invites you over the following day, there’s no hesitation in your answer, and soon enough, you’re standing in his living room, taking in his apartment. It’s the same layout as Kai’s, only a few floors down. It’s livelier, too. Brighter. Like someone actually lives there. There are pictures of his family on the fridge and knick-knacks scattered around the place. Art on the walls that doesn’t read as pretentious.

He’s leaning against the arm of the couch, watching you explore the place, eyes following you.

“How’s your wrist?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” you say. It was sore for the day, but the pain went away quick. You stretch it, roll the joint. “See? Good as new.”

It isn’t immediately obvious that something is off. You don’t notice his quieter demeanor or how he isn’t cracking as many jokes until much later. You chalk it up to nerves.

You take a seat on the couch, and he slips off the arm of it and onto a cushion next to you.

“How was the rest of the tour?” you ask.

He nods. “It was good. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of glad it’s over.”

You feign a shocked expression. “Choi Beomgyu, are you saying you don’t love being a rockstar?”

That lazy smile appears on his lips. “You think I’m a rockstar?”

You shove him playfully, and he laughs.

“I like it,” he says. “Some things get annoying, though.”

“Like what?” you ask. “The thousands of fans in love with you?”

“Careful,” he says, eyes finding yours. “You sound jealous.”

Your thighs are nearly touching. You want to close the distance. Reach for him, maybe, but your nerves get the best of you. Instead, you just maintain the eye contact, keeping the smile pressed to your lips, batting your eyelashes at him. “Why would I be jealous?” you ask. “I’m here. Not them.”

His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, but you watch the fall. He blinks a few times, as if trying to clear his mind. He stands up, puts distance between you. He clears his throat. “Want anything to drink?” he asks.

“Sure,” you say. “Whatever you’re having.”

He sets two cans of beer on the coffee table in front of you.

“What is it?” you ask when he’s silent for a little while too long. When the silence starts to feel less like nerves and more like something’s wrong.

He drops his head into his hands, raking both hands through his hair as he lifts it, looking anywhere but at you.

“It’s not the fans that I don’t like, or the fame, really,” he says.

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s talking about, that he’s continuing your previous conversation.

His eyes find yours. “It’s that I can’t want anything without it being a huge deal.” He sighs.

“Oh,” you say.

No other words come to mind. There’s nothing you can think to say that will make things better, anyway.

“What do you want?” you ask, because your mouth is dry and your head is empty and you want to be sure you know exactly what he’s talking about before you say anything else.

And then he looks at you. He looks at you, and it’s abundantly clear what he wants.

“Beomgyu,” you say, tentatively. His eyes don’t waver, don’t drop from yours. His knee knocks into yours, and it’s your eyes, this time, that fall to his lips. And you’re thinking, why isn’t he kissing me already? just before he closes the distance.

Kissing Beomgyu is like dropping a lit match into a puddle of kerosene. The moments your lips touch, everything’s on fire.

It escalates quickly, like you’re picking up right where you left off outside the bar. Your hands settle on his shoulders, and his find your waist, pulling you closer to him. It’s awkward, clumsy. Sitting side by side on the couch isn’t exactly a conduit for maximum contact. But you’re both twisted toward the other, both taking everything you can get.

There’s something hungry about it, the way Beomgyu grabs you and doesn’t let go, the way his hand settles on the side of your head to hold you to him. It isn’t long before the position has changed and you’re sitting on top of him, knees on either side of his hips.

It isn’t long before his tongue slips between your lips, his hands thread through your hair, and you’re humming happily into his mouth.

It’s different than your last kiss. Just as clumsy, just as much fulfilled tension and satisfied payoff. But the way he kisses you, it’s like he’s afraid he’ll never do it again. You part to catch your breath, letting your forehead rest against his as you take in sharp breaths.

You want to say something, but all your confidence has gone out the window, and you can’t think of any comment to make other than, wow. So you just breathe in and out.

His hands slide atop yours, resting on his chest, thumbs moving against the backs. His eyes flick to yours, and his lips part like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just watches you.

You open your mouth, but decide against words and instead press your lips against his again. The difference in the kiss is immediately apparent. Slower. You’re both savoring it. His hands don’t move from atop yours.

This time, it’s Beomgyu who breaks the kiss, breathing ragged, eyes fluttering closed.

Something is off.

You just aren’t sure exactly what.

It’s obvious that he wants to be kissing you. You can feel him under you, through his jeans. But it’s like he’s holding back, limiting himself from enjoying it fully. So, you keep looking at each other, not moving back in, letting the tension hang in the air.

It’s strange to be with someone you don’t know very well. Someone you’ve been talking to for a little while. Someone you’ve kissed before. But still, someone you don’t know everything about. Their intricacies, insecurities, fears, all a mystery to you. And you suppose the opposite is true, too. How much does Beomgyu really know about you?

And that’s when you start to get into your head about it. About everything. Because what is it, really, that you’re doing right now?

All of your escapades have been attached to long-term relationships. And these feelings you have for Beomgyu, well, they certainly feel real. But how real could they be after a cumulative maybe three hours spent together, alongside multiple text conversations and a few phone calls? If Jihyo were here, she’d probably tell you to get it together. To kiss the man and figure out your feelings later. You want to do that.

Something crackles in the air between you, though. A force field, and neither of you can quite push through it. Your feelings aren’t so scary—not when they’re up against the mystery of his.

“Hey,” Beomgyu says, like he can see the cogs turning in your head, the overthinking you’ve been engaging in for the past several minutes.

“Hey,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You try to tell yourself that someone you just met can’t break your heart. That your heart is too strong to be torn in half so easily. But you feel the cracks regardless, and your eyes fall closed as if to avoid whatever words are going to come next—because you can feel them, bouncing around inside Beomgyu’s head, waiting to be spoken aloud.

He picks up one of your hands, laces his fingers through yours.

“I want this,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong. I really fucking want this.” He laughs under his breath, but it’s more uncomfortable, unfortunate than anything else.

“But,” you say, because you know it’s coming.

As someone who’s been on the receiving end of many a conversation such as this one, you have a preternatural sense of determining when there’s a but.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says. There’s a sadness in his voice, and it’s obvious that this isn’t a decision he wants to be making.

You pull away from him, then, removing yourself from his lap quickly to save yourself the horror and embarrassment. It comes, anyway. Your cheeks are flaming red, the heat spreading to your ears, too. You don’t sit back down, instead putting as much distance between yourself and Beomgyu as possible.

He stands up immediately, closing said distance.

“Wait,” he says, and he reaches out to touch your arm, but you step back in confusion and a desperation to be anywhere else.

“I should go,” you say, trying to get the words out of your mouth. “Yeah, I really think I should go.”

You’re so close to the door, so close to being able to escape this awkward situation, this repeat of the same thing you’ve already fucking been through, this second rejection. You should have known. That’s the only thought going through your head. You should have fucking known.

“Wait, wait,” Beomgyu says again, stepping in front of the door. He reaches for you so tentatively. Not grabbing you, just reaching up and placing his hands on your forearms.

You can barely look at him, and he can’t bring himself to make you.

“Can I explain?” he says softly. “Please?”

“Okay,” you say, nearly choking on the single word. You refuse to cry about this in front of him, to make a bigger deal about it than it really is. Because it shouldn’t mean anything to be rejected by someone you hardly know, and yet it does.

“I like you,” he says. He means it. Somehow, that doesn’t make anything better. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt, and these people, they’ll do anything to get the information they want.”

It’s for your safety.

“I said I was okay,” you say. “I meant it, really.”

Beomgyu sighs, and you know he’s thought about this a lot. “I’m putting you in danger, just because I want you. Because I’m incapable of being patient. It’s not fair to you. I shouldn’t have kissed you that night, not like that.”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“I just mean,” he says, loosing a sigh. “I should have been more careful about it from the beginning. And it’s my fault people are stalking you and hurting you, and I want to do everything I can to make that stop.”

You press your lips into a tight line to keep any emotion from showing on your face. You don’t really know how to feel. There’s a bit of anger flaring in your chest, but you’re not sure what to do with that.

“So to recap,” you start. “You want me, but you’re rejecting me because you don’t want me to get hurt?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You know this hurts me, right?” you say.

It must take a second for his mind to catch up, because he says, “I’m not rejecting you.”

Your brows draw together in confusion.

“Sorry,” he says again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not good at this. I’m not rejecting you. I like you. I really like you. I just think we should wait for this to all blow over. I don’t want to risk you getting chased down again or injured or anything. But people will get over it eventually, I think.”

“What if they don’t?” you ask.

“They will,” he says, and he sounds confident enough that you believe him.

It’s still strange. It still makes that numb feeling stretch out from the center of your chest. Because it kind of still is a rejection, even if he doesn’t want to think about it that way. Not right now is still kind of no.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he says. “Maybe that’s selfish too, I don’t know.”

“Did Kai put you up to this?” you ask, because the idea’s been lingering in the back of your head since he uttered the first words. It has Kai written all over it, this idea that you need to be looked out for by anyone other than yourself. You can’t see past the rejection, can’t see the truth in what he’s saying, the idea that putting a hold on whatever it is the two of you have will keep people from literally stalking you.

But you’ve always been like that. Unable to see past the hurt to the truth. The pain blinds you, and when it comes time to see the reason, your eyes are closed.

Beomgyu’s expression softens. He doesn’t answer the question. “I don’t want to do this either,” he says.

“Then don’t,” you say.

“It’s not—it’s not that simple,” he says, and the hurt flares in his eyes, too.

But this being hard for him doesn’t do much to make you feel better, when neither of you needs to be doing it at all.

You don’t know what else to say. There isn’t anything that can change his mind, that much is clear. You want to fight. You think about fighting harder, but realize it’s not worth it. And when you leave, hood pulled tight over your head, disguised to prevent more pictures from being taken, you’re fairly certain you’re never going to hear from him again.

An immediate yes would be suspicious. And, well, you didn’t want to reject him.

He chuckled under his breath, that deep laugh you loved. The one that had kept you company for nearly ten years.  

Maybe it was your fault for complaining about another night at the bar with nothing to show for it. No one had even looked in your direction. But you never would have guessed that this would be the result of said complaining. A proposition from someone who had only ever been explicitly your friend. 

Something you’d wanted for longer than you could admit. Something you could never voice. 

“Yeah,” he said, like it was nothing. “You could kiss me. If you wanted to.” 

You took the cigarette from him, placing it between your lips in procrastination. You wouldn’t have to play into whatever weird hypothetical this was if you couldn’t speak. 

“Beomgyu,” you said, after releasing the smoke from your mouth. You tried to keep the serious tone from your mouth, tried to pose the question like it didn’t matter, tried to maintain the same casual air that he did. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

He shrugged, like it truly didn’t matter either way. Like it was some selfless offer to make you feel better. “Ten years of friendship, and we’ve never tried it.” 

Your heart raced, picking up speed every time he looked at you. You were fine with being friends. Loved it, even. He was special to you. Important. It wasn’t a friendship you were in any rush to ruin with your feelings. Despite how often you’d thought about it. 

But you were tipsy. Face warm from the bar, and a little sad too. Lonely, even. 

And he looked at you the way he looked at other girls—at people he wanted to take home. One eyebrow slightly raised in proposition, and a lazy grin on his face like the whole thing could be a joke if you said no. 

You didn’t want to say no. 

“We could,” you said, trying your very best to sound halfway uninterested. Trying not to make it seem like it was something you’d thought about for years. 

It was a quiet crush that flared in the little moments. When he brought you coffee in the morning or carried you to bed when you inevitably fell asleep during movie nights. It was the way he was always there for you—through every breakup, every major life change. He never wavered. 

And sure, maybe it was easy to fall for that. 

“Yeah?” Beomgyu said. There was a hint of something to his voice. An excitement, almost. Maybe it was just shock at your agreement. It didn’t matter. 

“Yeah,” you said, as he slipped the cigarette back between his lips. He took one final puff before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under his heel. He kicked off the wall, moving to stand in front of you. You looked up at him, watching. 

Your heart hammered against your chest. 

“Ready?” Beomgyu asked—arguably not the most romantic way to preface a kiss. But you had to remind yourself that this wasn’t for romance. It was one friend offering to give another something they hadn’t had in a while. If anything, it was purely platonic. 

Nothing about Beomgyu was hesitant. He was always sure of himself, confident. He lifted a hand, tucking your hair behind your ear before settling his palm against your cheek. 

You’d touched a thousand times. Half snuggled against one another on the couch, playfully shoving and fighting, holding hands to stay together in a crowd. 

This felt immediately, jarringly different. His hand was warm on your face, and it stirred a heat in your chest you’d thought incapable of starting. 

Your lips parted before he could move any closer. Another step in, and your bodies were nearly touching. You felt dead to the world, in your own bubble in the alley behind the bar. Even if someone were to walk by, you were certain you wouldn’t notice. It was all him. Totally encompassing. 

He lifted another hand, brushing more hair out of your face, threading his fingers through it. 

“Beomgyu,” you said, half-choked. 

He was looking down at your lips, but his eyes flicked upward at your words, catching your glance. “Hm?” he asked. 

You must have looked like a deer in headlights. Eyes wide, mouth open, a little bit confused. You wanted the car to hit you. 

“You okay?” he asked when you didn’t respond. 

You cleared your throat. “Yes,” you said. “Yes.” Saying it twice didn’t exactly make it seem true. “I just didn’t expect—“ you started, stumbling halfway. 

His hand fell out of your hair, and the pads of his fingers dragged down the column of your neck, making you shiver. 

“Is this not what you wanted?” he asked. “From those sleazy guys in the bar? Is this not what you were imagining in your head?” 

His fingers skimmed your pulse point, and you wanted to jump out of your skin, but there was nowhere to go. Your back was lined with cold brick, and his chest almost touched yours. 

“Tell me,” he said. “If it isn’t, I’ll do whatever you want. I just want it to feel real.” 

Your heart—faster, faster, until it felt like it might burst out of your chest completely. Your face leaned against his palm, melting without permission. He traced your collarbone. 

“No,” you said. “This is good.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, stolen by the cold wind, whipped away by whatever was going on between the two of you, new and electric and maybe pretend. 

“What else did you imagine?” he asked, hand still warm on your face, holding it so you couldn’t look away. You wouldn’t have, anyway. His brown eyes were too captivating, too focused on you. There was nothing else worth looking at. 

You took too long to answer. 

“When you thought about some guy,” he started. And the way the words fall from his lips catches you off guard. Some guy. Was that—jealousy? “What was it like? How does he kiss you?” 

All the words you wanted to say got caught in your throat. 

“Come on,” Beomgyu said. “You complain about not being kissed every time we come out, I know you’ve thought about it.” 

It was the way he said it. 

I know you. 

“I guess,” you started, reaching out to take his hand. “I guess it’s about the build-up.” You put his hand on the side of your rib cage, next to your breast. “All the little touches just before the kiss. The spark. The sidelong glances. It sounds cheesy,” you said, blushing. “To say it out loud.” 

“It’s not,” he said. He dropped his palm from your face, flipping it to skate his knuckles along your jawline, down your neck. It landed mirrored to the other, on your rib cage, holding you in place. Both hands moved slowly in and down, just grazing the sides of your chest before sliding along the curve of your waist. He watched his hands move on your body—as you watched him. 

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something new gleaming within them. 

Did he want this, too? Or was he just a better actor than you remembered? A better friend than you deserved? 

His hands slipped around to the back, holding your lower back as he moved closer to you, closing the remaining distance so only a hair’s breadth stood between your bodies. Your chest heaved with each breath, and there was no way he couldn’t tell. 

“And when he kisses you?” Beomgyu asked, eyes glued to your lips. “What’s that like?” His voice was low, quiet. A tone you’d never heard from him before, enough to send the heat in your chest lower, enough to make you ache. 

You didn’t want to follow his line of questioning, didn’t want to lay it out for him—just wanted him to kiss you. You didn’t want him to follow some playbook, no. You wanted to know how Choi Beomgyu kissed. What he would do with you, given the chance. What he wanted. 

The question went unanswered, but he lowered his head anyway, the tip of his nose grazing against the bridge of yours. It stopped feeling like an experiment, like something he was doing for you. 

When your eyes locked, it felt real. 

The same thought must have occurred to him. You watched the subtle change in the way he looked at you, the fraction of want appearing behind his eyes. His hands moved up your back as he closed the last bit of distance, flattening against your shoulder blades in time with his lips just barely touching yours. 

It was hesitant. Different from the buildup, from the general confidence and impatience of Beomgyu. You froze solid at first contact, and he took his time. 

His hands tensed on your back. And your hands, hanging by your side for the last several minutes, shot up to touch him. When your hands landed on his biceps, he captured your lips fully, breaking that nervous dam. The kiss was soft, slow, still tentative as you worked to figure each other out. 

It didn’t take long for the tension to break, for the gentle kisses to turn fervid, for your hands to wander along his arms, looking for a place to grab, for your mouths to move faster and harder. Every time you came apart—for only a second—you collided again without wasting any time. You pressed your body into him, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck. He returned the favor by pushing you into the wall, one hand coming up to hold your face while the other stayed low around your waist, holding you against him. 

You weren’t sure how long you continued like that, kissing and touching, and not wanting to let go. When you came apart gasping, Beomgyu rested his forehead against yours. 

“How was that?” he asked. 

You nodded through ragged breaths. “More,” you said, because it was the only word that could come out of your mouth—not an answer to his question, but a plea. 

He didn’t hesitate this time. His lips found yours again, like they were home. He broke apart seconds later, nudging your head to the side with his nose to kiss along the column of your neck. You arched your neck for him, giving him the access he needed—letting him do whatever he wanted to you. 

He dragged his teeth along your neck, eliciting a gasp that only made him smile. His fingers held your hips, digging into the fabric of your jeans. You leaned your head against the bricks. 

One hand dipped underneath your shirt, and the feeling of his fingertips against your bare skin sent a shiver down your spine. 

He kissed along your collarbone, stopping at the edge of your shirt and returning to your lips as he gripped your bare waist with both hands. He had you fully pressed against the wall now, every inch of your back against brick and every inch of your front against him. You parted your lips, letting him slide his tongue into your mouth as he slid a leg between yours. 

There were no conscious thoughts left in your head, only Beomgyu and all the ways he was touching you. Your hips rolled against his thigh, looking for any kind of friction to sedate the aching feeling between your legs. You could feel his smile against your lips.

He broke apart then, leaving you both panting. “Come home with me,” he said, breath hot on your lips. 

Those four words were enough to crack open whatever this feeling was and drown you in it. “Okay,” you said, nodding, not willing to let yourself question whether or not this was something. Whether or not this was a part of whatever game he was playing or not. 

He took your hand, interlacing your fingers. He kissed you one more time, pressing his lips to yours gently, before pulling away and tugging you toward the parking lot. Holding hands was normal. He opened the door to his car for you. That was also normal. 

The way he looked at you from the driver’s seat—like he could have crossed the center console to kiss you over and over again—however, was not. 

The drive was silent. All exchanged glances. You pressed your thighs together in an attempt to distract from the heat in your core, but there was nothing you could do about the fire burning in your chest, threatening to consume you entirely. 

You didn’t want to think about it, whatever this was. You just wanted to enjoy it, lest it cease to exist. You tried to tell your brain this very reasonable information, but it didn’t listen. It could only repeat the same worries over and over again, attempting to convince you that whatever this was between you and Beomgyu, it wasn’t anything real. That tomorrow you would go back to wanting, to friendship. Like this never happened. 

Worst-case scenario? He felt bad for you. He knew you weren’t getting any and wanted to throw you a bone. That had been what the kiss was for, right? A consolation prize? 

Best-case scenario? Well, what was that exactly?

You were still thinking and rethinking and overthinking until the very second he turned the car off. 

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle, soft. The Beomgyu you knew sliding back into place. The best friend. The one who cared about you. “You look like you’re thinking too much.” 

“I’m not,” you said. 

“Come on,” he laughed. “You know I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He slipped out of the car then, jogging around to the passenger side to open your door before you could. He extended a hand to you like a real-life prince—like, seriously, how were you supposed to avoid falling for him when he looked like that, acted like that?

You took his hand. He squeezed it. 

Inside, he released your hand. You took off your shoes, hung up your jacket, and stood awkwardly by the front door as he did the same. 

Then, you looked at each other, and everything reiginited. 

He crossed the distance, closing the space in seconds flat. His lips were on yours again before you could react. You threw your arms over his shoulders, holding him close, cherishing every moment you got to touch him, be with him, wondering when it would end. His lips dropped to your neck again, peppering gentle kisses downward. 

“Wait,” you said, pressing your hand against his chest. He lifted his lips from your neck. “I can’t—” you muttered. “I want this to be real.” 

Beomgyu’s eyes bored into yours, his features softening at the realization. “It’s always been real for me,” he said. He made the admission so easily. Without worry. Like he’d been thinking about it for just as long as you had. Like he had no fear. He kissed you, pulling away to whisper against your lips. “It’s real.” 

“It’s real?” you said. 

“Come on,” he said, in disbelief that you believed him nonchalant about the matter. “I wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

It was news to you. “I—” you said. “Me too.” 

You kissed him again, lips parting against his almost instantly, deepening the kiss, taking everything you both wanted and turning it up to eleven. His hands skimmed your sides, grabbed your hips, then moved again, unable to settle in any one location, wanting to touch all of you. Likewise, you ran your hands down his chest, along his arms, touching everything you could reach. 

He made the first move toward something more, dropping one hand to the hem of your shirt and playing with it. You nodded an answer to a question he didn’t ask. He pulled away to look at you as he slowly removed your shirt, pulling it off over your head and tossing it onto the floor. He looked at you like you were carved from stone. 

“God,” he said, mesmerized. 

“Your turn,” you said, and he complied quickly, whipping his shirt off over his head. You’d seen him shirtless before. At the beach, the pool, the gym. It had been difficult not to stare then, and it was impossible now. 

You trailed your fingers down his chest, his abs. 

You moved back together like magnets, lips finding each other. 

His fingers dragged up your back to the clasp of your bra. He made easy work of it, then slipped his fingers under the straps and pulled them down your arms, adding it to the pile of clothing on the floor, all without removing his lips from yours, without ceasing the passionate, hungry kisses, your tongues intertwining, heads tilted to deepen the kiss as much as possible, your hands in his hair to keep him from going anywhere. 

One hand came up to cup your breast, thumb running over your nipple. You gasped into his mouth, and he pulled away to look at you, to watch the look of pleasure cross your face. 

You arched your back, tossing your hair over your shoulders. His other hand clung to your lower back, holding you upright. 

He continued pressing kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, down the center of your chest, before his lips closed on your nipple. Your eyes fluttered closed, your lips parted, soft gasps falling off them as he teased you. 

He moved on, kissing down your stomach before dropping to his knees in front of you, looking up at you from the ground. You reached for his face, and he took your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm before leaning forward once more to press hot, wet kisses to your stomach. His fingers worked quickly to unbutton your jeans, sliding the zipper down as he looked up at you for confirmation that what he was doing was okay. 

You nodded, lower lip between your teeth as you watched. 

He pulled your jeans down, helped you out of them, then ran his palms along your hips, down the fronts of your thighs, and continued kissing your skin. First, the top of your hip, then the front of your thigh. 

Heat pooled between your legs, aching and burning as he kissed, but you let him continue without begging for more. 

He looked at you, almost entirely naked before him. Cogs turned behind his eyes, and you didn’t have the time to ask why before his hand was on his feet again, hands lifting you up by the ass. Your legs went around him instinctively. Like the two of you had done this hundreds of times. 

He didn’t walk you into the bedroom, but rather the wall directly behind you, finding your lips again as he pressed you between him and the cool wall. His knuckles trailed from your collarbone down to the waistband of your underwear, then stalled. 

“Beomgyu,” you said against his lips, when he didn’t immediately act on whatever it was he wanted to do. 

He pulled away just enough to look at you. The want was written all over his face, his lids more hooded, his lips pink and swollen, his hair messy and falling over his face. You pushed it out of the way. 

“Hm?” he said, running his finger along the band. He made no move to act any further. “Something you want, beautiful?” 

Your mouth fell open at his words. Ten years of friendship, many years of wanting him, and here he was—teasing you. He must have known that you’d do anything he wanted.

He ran his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, baby,” he said. “I’ve waited so long. Say it for me.” 

Your head lolled back against the wall because it was so easy to melt at anything he had to say. Besides, this was your best friend, and saying anything like that out loud made your cheeks turn red. His other hand snaked around the back of your neck, pulling you back to meet his eyes. 

“Please?” he asked, dipping his fingers just beneath the band. 

You were hot, wet, aching. There were no other thoughts that existed in your mind, only those of him, of wanting him. 

“Beomgyu,” you whined. 

“You’re so pretty when you’re whining, you know that?” he said, running his thumb over your lip again, making you shudder. 

He moved his hand from the waistband of your underwear, instead dropping it to your inner thigh. His eyes never moved from your face, watching you carefully as he lowered a few fingers to the apex of your thighs, touching you through your panties. He hummed in immediate delight. 

“Fuck,” he said, as you squirmed underneath his touch, trying to get more. “You’re so wet.” 

You groaned at his words, at the tenor of his voice, at the dripping need reflected in him. And still, he didn’t give you more, just rubbed your clit through the fabric. “More,” you said. “Please, more.” 

“More what?” he asked, one brow raised. 

“Beomgyu,” you said again, sharper this time. “You’re being—” 

He pushed your underwear to the side and slipped one finger inside of you. Your sharp inhale broke your sentence in half. He leaned forward, his lips just above your ear. “How am I being, beautiful?” he asked. 

He moved his finger slowly, relishing the way your lips parted, the way you looked at him through hooded eyes, the way you could hardly speak despite his minimal ministrations. 

You shut your eyes, pressing them closed tight so you could focus on the words you wanted to say. “Difficult,” you murmured. “You’re being difficult.” 

“Me?” he asked, in shock. “I think I’m being incredibly nice.” He added another finger, moving them faster, curling them, eliciting more gasps from you. He leaned forward, captured your lips, silencing the string of moans falling off them. He pulled away just a hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to hear my pretty baby tell me how badly she wants me.” 

His thumb grazed your clit, causing everything to seize up. 

“I’ll go first,” he whispered, moving his thumb in slow circles on your clit as he spoke, his fingers still moving at the same pace. “Fuck, I want you so badly,” he said, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’ve wanted you—god, for so long.” 

“Really?” you whisper, in disbelief. 

He chuckles under his breath, the sound only making you feel even crazier, making you want him even more. Even as everything tightens in your core, it’s not enough. 

“That bathing suit you wore last summer—Jesus Christ—it was like you were trying to kill me,” he said. 

You remembered the one. And yeah, maybe you had been trying to catch his attention. And you’d thought it a complete failure. 

“Were you trying to kill me?” he asked, words breathy as he touches you. 

“Maybe,” you said. 

“And that dress at the Christmas party,” he said as he dropped his lips to your neck again. “I wanted you so bad that night.”

“You have me,” you said. 

He hummed against your neck. “I like the sound of that.”

He added another finger, moving them faster, twisting and curling. Your head lolled backwards. “Beomgyu—oh my god,” you moaned. He kept the pace as you ground your hips against him. 

“Tell me, baby,” he said, lifting his head to find your eyes, to kiss you again in between his words. “Tell me you want me, please. I want to hear you say it.” 

“I–I want you,” you said, stumbling over the words as he curls his fingers again and again. Your body shudders, tensing everywhere. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, back arching against the wall as you grind against his hand. Everything unraveled at once in release, and Beomgyu kept going through it, making your body shake as he watched. 

He removed his fingers slowly, earning another satisfied groan from you. And you watched with wide eyes as he lifted them to his lips and put them in his mouth. He dragged them out with a satisfied, “Mm,” before hooking them under your chin. 

“You want me?” he asked, eyes roaming across your face, unable to find something to settle on. 

“I’ve always wanted you,” you said through ragged breaths. 

His hands moved to your back as he pulled you away from the wall. With your legs wrapped around his waist, he carried you to the bedroom. 

When he laid you down, it was careful, gentle. He stayed standing, looking at you. His hands went to the waistband of his pants, and he worked quickly to get them off. He pushed them down his legs, then kicked them to the side. 

You stood up before he could move further. You put one hand against his chest and pushed him backwards. He took one step back, and you got to your knees, lifting your hands to the waistband of his briefs. 

He watched in silence, his lips parted. 

You pulled his briefs down, freeing his length. He stepped out of his underwear as you wrapped one hand around him, moving slowly from base to tip as you licked your lips. 

Beomgyu sucked in a breath. “You’re so sexy,” he said. 

The corner of your lips turned up in a smile just before you leaned forward and ran your tongue along the length of him, flattening it across the tip. 

“God,” Beomgyu hissed as you took him into your mouth. 

One hand cupped your cheek as you moved, the other came down to collect your hair, holding it away from your face in one hand. You looked up at him as you moved, and you could only think about how good he looked, about how good this all felt, about how if you blinked, it might just all disappear in a haze, like a dream. 

But you did blink, and still he remained, looking gorgeous, watching you. It wasn’t long before he pulled away from you, before he was pulling you up by the chin, before his lips were crashing into yours again, before he was backing you up into the bed, laying you down before him. Before he stepped away to reach for the drawer next to his bed. 

“No—” you said, rushed, without thinking. “I mean, we don’t have to—” 

A slow smile crawled across his lips. He hooked his hands under your knees and pulled you to the edge of the bed. “Why’s that?” he asked, hand dropping to his dick, wrapping around it while he looked at you. 

You sat up, reaching for him, pulling him closer. He situated himself between your legs. “I want to feel you,” you whispered meekly, almost inaudible. But he still caught it. 

“Is that right?” he asked. 

You caught your lower lip between your teeth and nodded. He ran a hand through his hair, letting strands fall back down around his face as he looked down at you, eyes trailing down your body and back. He hooked his thumbs through the band of your panties and pulled them off. 

He positioned himself at your entrance, his tip dragging along your folds. He breathed in sharp, his lids fluttering closed for a moment. You lay back, propping yourself up on your elbows, hands balled into fists, fingernails cutting into your palms. 

Beomgyu pushed into you, moving slowly. You gasped an, “Oh,” as he inched forward. 

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” Beomgyu said, the moment he was fully inside you. He pulled out just a fraction, then in again. 

It was such a little movement, so why did your eyes feel like they were going to roll to the back of your head? 

“Yes,” you whimpered, hands balling into the comforter atop his bed. 

He didn’t speed up. He pulled out more each time, then slid back in at the same agonizingly slow pace, watching you as he did it. He held your thighs in the air, then collected your knees with one arm and pulled them to the side, holding your legs straight against his chest as he continued that same torturous pace. 

“Beomgyu,” you whined. 

He pulled out fully and slid back in slowly. You threw your head back, let your eyes flutter closed. 

Beomgyu reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it. “Can you keep your eyes open for me, baby?” he asked. “I want to see you.”

Your eyes flicked back open as he slid into you once more. “Not if you’re going to keep doing that,” you said. 

He did it again and dared to punctuate it with, “Doing what?” and a lazy smirk to match. 

“You’re being mean,” you said, voice breathy, barely able to get the words out. 

“Am I?” he said as he lowered your legs again, placing one on either side of him. He pulled out fully, smirking. “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he got to his knees, as he hooked your legs over his shoulder, as he pulled you even closer to the edge of the bed. 

He lowered his mouth to your clit, running his tongue in circles around it before closing his mouth and sucking as you moaned. Your toes curled. 

“You’re torturing me,” you managed to get out as he slipped a finger inside of you at the same annoyingly slow pace. 

He lifted his mouth away from your swollen clit, the heat of your center, the aching fire that he kept stoking over and over again without giving you what you really wanted. 

“What do you want then, baby?” he asked, standing up to lean over you. “I want to fuck you exactly how you like it.” 

You grabbed his shoulder with one hand, the back of his neck with the other, pulling him down against you and capturing his lips in a searing, messy kiss. 

He pulled away from you. “Scoot up,” he said, nodding toward the other side of the bed. You scooted backward, allowing him enough space to get on top of you, nestling between your thighs. He paused at your entrance, and you glared at him. 

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered, you know that?” he asked. 

Heat rose to your cheeks. “I’m not—” you started. 

“Then tell me what you want,” he said. 

“I want—” you said. “I want—” 

But no matter how many times you said it, there still wasn’t an end to the sentence. 

He leaned down so his lips were closer to your ear. “I could keep fucking you nice and slow—but I have a feeling you want more than that,” he said. “If you want me to fuck you until there are tears running down your face, all you have to do is ask.”

You turned away from him in an attempt to hide your face, the redness of your cheeks. 

“I’ve known you for ten years, beautiful, don’t pretend you’re shy now.” One hand touched your face, pulled you back, made you look at him. “What do you want?” 

You groaned, your eyes fluttered closed as your hips moved in frustration, in lack of anything. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “You can do it. Use your words.” He ran his thumb along your lip, dragging it down. 

“I want you,” you said. 

“Well, we’ve established that,” he teased. 

“I want you to—” you started, hesitating, trying to figure out how to say the words you wanted to say. “I don’t want you to hold back because it’s me. I want you to fuck me how you want to.” 

“See, baby,” he said. “Was that so hard?” He ran the back of his finger down your cheek. 

His hands moved from your face and dropped between his legs, moving along his cock for a few strokes before he aligned himself with your entrance. He pushed forward, starting slow, establishing that same rhythm that made your head loll back. But he was closer this time, hovering over you. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into skin, anchoring yourself as you move your hips against him. 

He let out a low groan, and you can’t help it—you pull him down, lips crashing into his. The kiss was messy, hot, both of you moving hungrily, tongues sliding against one another, moans escaping into mouths. 

He picked up the pace, sliding in and out of you faster, harder. You arched your back to get a better angle, dropped your hands to ball them into the fabric beneath you. 

Your eyes fluttered closed. 

“Eyes open,” he was quick to remind you. 

When you opened them, he was looking at you, same lazy smirk you’ve known your entire life, just more dangerous now, sexy. You weren’t sure what was going to happen after this, but neither could you find it in you to care as he slammed into you over and over again, harder each time, shaking the bed. 

“Oh,” you moaned. “My god.” 

He grabbed your legs again, holding them at a ninety-degree angle with one hand, by the ankles. 

It only served to deepen the ankle, to make your eyes roll back even more, your fists tighten in the blanket. 

“Beomgyu,” you said. “Oh my god.”

“Tell me again, baby,” he said, panting. “How much you want me. Please.” 

It was a fight to get the words out as he drove into you over and over again. He didn’t slow down to let you speak, to let you get your thoughts straight. 

“I want you so bad,” you breathed. “So bad. Don’t stop.” 

He grinned. Proud of what he had. 

Your toes curled, and your back arched, and everything tightened. You clamped down tight around him, but he didn’t slow—fucking you through the orgasm as you came. He slowed his pace some afterward, lowering your legs once more. 

“Let me know if you need a break, okay, beautiful?” he said. 

You nodded. 

He pulled out and lowered himself to kiss you, soft and sweet, despite the thin layer of sweat on both of you, despite everything that had happened thus far. He moved off of you. 

“You wanna get on your knees for me, baby?” he asked. 

You nodded, situating yourself on your knees as he moved behind you. You leaned forward, pressing your palms into the mattress. 

He wasted no time. He knelt behind you and ran his hands down your back in appreciation. He positioned himself at your entrance and slid in fully in one quick motion, leaving you gasping for air. 

“God,” you hissed. “Oh my god.” 

“Does that feel good, baby?” Beomgyu asked. He thrust fast and hard, keeping up a pace that made your hands shake. 

You could only moan in response. 

He leaned forward to place a hand over yours. “Can I have this?” he asked. You nodded, and he took your hand, pulling it behind your back. He slipped his free hand over the other one and took that too, pinning them behind your back so your shoulders were pinned to the mattress, your face turned to the side. You could just barely see him out of the corner of your eye. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re so good, you know that?” 

Your breathing is jagged, your body tensing again, tears pricking in your eyes. 

“Beomgyu,” you said. “I—”

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet, I want to look at you when you come.” 

Your whole body twitched because you couldn’t stop it from happening, not with him behind you, slamming into you over and over again. “Beomgyu,” you whine again, because you need it. 

He pulled out fast, releasing your hands and flipping you over by the hips in a smooth motion before thrusting into you once more. 

“Oh, look at you,” he said, wiping some of the tears off your cheeks as he moved inside of you at that same slow pace once more. “Did I make you cry?” he asked, mocking innocence. 

You dug your fingers into his shoulders in response, and he hissed in pain and enjoyment. He worked his way back up to the same speed, eliciting more moans, more tears. He captured your lips, snaking his arms under your waist to hold you against him as he kissed you. 

“God,” you started, “I’m going to—” you cried against his lips. 

He quickened his pace, grabbing onto the headboard above you as he slammed into you over and over again. Tears slipped down your cheeks as your back arched and came for a third time that night. He kept going until the very end before pulling out, spilling his come across your stomach with a groan and a few ragged breaths before he collapsed at your side. 

The apartment went quiet. 

Only the sounds of your breathing recovering echoed within those walls. Beomgyu got up eventually. Cleaned you off. When he returned to bed, it was to slip in next to you, to pull your body flush against his, to press kisses into your hair. 

“So,” he said, holding you tight, your face nestled into the crook of his neck. “That was fun.” 

You nodded, too tired and drained to say anything else. He smiled into your hair. “Sorry, I kind of wrecked you, huh?”

You twisted in his arms so you could find his eyes. “Maybe a little,” you laughed under your breath. 

A sudden clarity passed over his features. “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” you said. 

“I was serious,” Beomgyu said. “About wanting you, I always have. That wasn’t a lie.”

A smile broke out across your face. “Beomgyu, I’ve had a crush on you for like five years. I thought I was the idiot.” 

“Turns out we’re both idiots,” he said. 

You make one last stop, about two hours out from your destination. A small rest stop off the highway. You get out to stretch your legs, trying not to think about the inevitable reunion that will occur moments after you arrive at the new apartment you and Soobin secured. You should be excited. You are excited.

It's been six years since you met Soobin, and nearly five since the start of your relationship. This huge step isn't daunting. It isn't. Moving in together across the country has always been something the two of you have wanted, and moving back to Soobin's hometown just made sense. Unfortunately, it's not the Soobin of it all that's driving you insane.

Soobin has always made you feel comfortable and confident, happy and loved. There's no insecurity there, and you pray there never will be.

One source of tension, however, has always existed like a ghost just outside the relationship—haunting you.

"It's going to be fine," Soobin says, catching the look on your face, the haze that's hovered over you like a rain cloud for the past several days of driving. He lets the gas pump by itself and moves toward where you're leaning against the car, placing one hand on the top frame of the vehicle while his other hand comes up to touch your chin. He smiles, and it's almost impossible not to smile back. "I promise," he says, and you trust him.

Your smile isn't forced, but he still catches the wariness in it, the uncertainty. The way your eyes don't fully lock onto his. Even though you trust him, and he knows you trust him, he can tell the difference between you feeling better and you pretending to feel better. If anyone else knew you this well, it would be annoying. But so many things aren't annoying when it comes to him.

"He doesn't like me," you say, even though you've said it so many times before. Even though you both know it to be the truth. It feels good to say it anyway, to declare it—so when things inevitably go wrong later, you'll be able to say, See, I told you he doesn't like me.

Soobin sighs. This must be a great source of contention for him, too. Is he just as stressed, just as anxious, as you are—only better at hiding it? Maybe you should put on a braver face, be more positive, for him.

It's difficult, though, when it's his best friend who hates your guts. It's not like you're blameless, really. Although it did feel like that at first. Now, however, it's boiled into something between the two of you, a bitter rivalry, constant bickering, and anger that feels more like hatred from his side. And the way he looks at you sometimes—it's like he really hates you. And what are you supposed to do with that, when he's your boyfriend's best friend, when you're moving in next door, when you're going to be spending so much more time together than just vacations and quick trips home?

"He likes you," Soobin emphasizes, even though he must know it isn't true. If anyone knows what's going on inside Yeonjun's head, it's him. Sometimes it feels like they have an entire secret language you can't decipher. They can exchange full conversations with just a glance.

"You're not a very good liar," you say, with a small smile, attempting to feel lighter about the whole thing. If you can joke about it, it can't be that serious, right? "Besides," you say, reaching out to grab him, hands holding onto each side of his open hoodie so you can pull him down closer to you. "He likes you. I'm just there."

The gas pump clicks off to the right, but neither of you move.

He just smiles again, slipping his hand into your hair. He looks around, pretending to care if anyone can see the two of you, before he lowers his lips to yours.

It is a good distraction. You have to give him that. But it only works as long as his lips are on yours, and soon enough, you're back in the car, and the anxiety starts anew.

THREE YEARS AGO

The first time you met Yeonjun, he came to visit over Christmas break. It was your first Christmas with Soobin, the first Christmas where you stayed in town, neither choosing to go back home to visit your families. And it was Yeonjun's first time, too. His first time visiting Soobin at school. His first time meeting you.

Your college apartment was a mess. A small one-bedroom stuffed with books and cluttered with trinkets.

You remember being excited. This was Soobin's best friend, after all, and you'd heard so much about him—all good things.

It hadn't even been much of a conversation, deciding the plans for the holiday. Soobin brought it up, and you were delighted at the idea of his friend coming to visit. Nothing in your mind signaled a red flag. This was someone Soobin cared about, and if he cared about Yeonjun, that meant you would, too. And besides, you wanted—more than anything—for Soobin to have everything he ever wanted.

It was unfortunate that thing ended up being Yeonjun.

You flitted about the small apartment, rearranging decorations, putting last-minute touches on the Christmas Eve dinner you'd spent hours preparing—cooking is not your strong suit, but you tried. It was important to you, really fucking important, to make a good first impression. The place looked nice. A few of your college friends sat on the couch, sharing a bottle of wine and picking at the appetizers you'd left out.

But you couldn't sit still.

Soobin had left over two hours ago to pick him up from the airport, and your stomach had been an absolute mess the moment he stepped out the door. You wanted so badly to make a good first impression. That's what you remember so clearly about that night. Just how badly you wanted him to like you.

And he did, at first.

They appeared at your door sometime later, covered in a light dusting of snow. Soobin had a bundle of gifts in his arms, and you smiled at the sight of him. You leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, just as Yeonjun appeared behind him.

"Hey," you said, offering a warm smile, trying to be inviting. You introduced yourself and stepped aside to let them both in.

Soobin gave your hand a tight squeeze before disappearing to place the gifts beneath the small tree you'd crammed into the corner of the apartment, leaving you and Yeonjun alone in the entryway, looking at one another.

He seemed to be studying you. Now, you look back and wonder if he was looking for flaws, cracks that he could exploit later. Things that were wrong with you that he could point out to Soobin.

But then, he looked harmless.

"Hey," Yeonjun said. "Nice to finally meet you."

It seemed genuine at the time. But it was another one of those things that you would question for years to come.

"Yeah, you too," you said. "I've heard so much about you."

"All bad, I'm assuming."

"Oh, of course," you teased.

He smiled. It caught you off guard, how handsome he was. You never got used to Soobin's attractiveness, either. Every time you saw him, even two years into your relationship, it caught you off guard. Yeonjun was the same. With dark hair and pouty lips, he looked at you—for a moment—in that same completely captivating way that Soobin did. Like you were the only person in the world.

Something shifted in the middle of the evening. Yeonjun sat at the bar counter, looking into the kitchen with a glass of wine in his hand, watching as you and Soobin finished dinner. He engaged in offhand conversation, quipping back and forth with both of you. His eyes followed both of you around the room in a way you didn't find strange at the time.

"Open," you said, holding a mini-marshmallow poised to throw into Soobin's mouth.

He followed your order, and you tossed the marshmallow perfectly into his mouth. He high-fived you, and you both laughed.

"Cute," Yeonjun said, with a laugh of his own.

Soobin grabbed a marshmallow. "Your turn," he said, aiming at Yeonjun's face. Yeonjun didn't budge.

The smile on your face faltered when you looked at Yeonjun. He wasn't looking at Soobin, wasn't preparing himself to engage in the game you were all playing. Instead, he was looking at you again.

Soobin threw the marshmallow anyway, and it bounced off Yeonjun's cheek. You snickered, and Yeonjun pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Tough crowd," you said, and Soobin smiled.

Yeonjun didn't look away from you. His gaze was so serious, so trained on you. Your lips parted because you wanted to say something. But the way he looked at you had you locked completely in place, unable to form words. Because why did he look so upset, so angry, all of a sudden?

Soobin noticed after you did and laughed to brush off the awkwardness that had developed seemingly out of nowhere.

Yeonjun raised his empty glass of wine and got up from the stool. "Need more wine," he said, and disappeared across the room, letting himself get swallowed whole by the rest of their friends and their inquisitive attitudes. Soobin turned to you, and you looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

"What was that about?" you asked.

Soobin wrapped an arm low around your waist and pulled you closer to him. "I don't know," he said, peppering kisses on your nose, cheeks, and jaw. "I'm sure it's fine."

It wasn't fine. Just as they were about to sit down for dinner, Yeonjun pulled Soobin aside. He held up a hand, thumb pointed toward the door. Yeonjun's eyes crossed the room, finding yours. You couldn't hold his gaze and looked away before he could. A deep furrow developed in Soobin's brow, but they spoke too low for you to hear over the sound of your other friends.

But then the front door was opening, and Yeonjun was walking out of it.

For a long time, Soobin stood with his arms hanging at his sides, staring at the door, like he wanted to follow Yeonjun out.

Eventually, he took a seat next to you at the table, clearly uncomfortable. The dinner went on without Yeonjun, and everyone enjoyed the meal you and Soobin cooked together, but every time your eyes drifted to Soobin, it was dreadfully obvious how upset he was.

After the rest of your friends left, you found Soobin in the kitchen and tugged him away from the dishes to settle in with you on the couch.

You didn't say anything, just rubbed your thumb on the back of his hand while he rested his head on your shoulder.

"Did something happen?" you asked, after some time had passed. The silence, backfilled with faint Christmas music, was getting to you—as was the lack of answers and the confusion surrounding the weird encounter with a friend you'd been looking forward to meeting. "It didn't seem like he liked me very much."

That made Soobin perk up. "No, that's not it—" he started, meeting your eyes. That softness about him that had enchanted you years prior had never left. He still looked at you like you were everything in the entire universe, like you could never hurt him. Like he would never hurt you.

It was nice to be naive.

"It's just…" Soobin started again, trying to figure out how to get his words across. "Yeonjun is never anywhere he doesn't want to be. I just don't know why he didn't want to be here."

The hurt in his voice cowed you, made you hate Yeonjun, a little bit, for hurting Soobin. And maybe, it made you hate yourself, too, for not being good enough. For not charming Yeonjun, for not making the grand first impression you'd hoped. For not getting him to stay.

"Maybe we should go talk to him," you said. "He must be back at your place, right?"

Soobin sighed. "Probably, yeah."

You were determined to make that good first impression, determined to figure out what had gone wrong and fix it. You just wanted to fix it.

You tugged on his hand one more time, pulling him upright. "Come on then," you said. "Let's go."

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Soobin said.

"What?" you asked, a wide smile on your lips, empowered by the idea of putting all the pieces back together. "You don't think I'm charming enough?"

"You are very charming," Soobin said, smiling enough that his dimples appeared on his cheeks, which only made you smile more. A vicious circle of smiling at one another, an overt happiness—a couple who did not know what was to come. But wasn't that always the way? The happiness before the downfall, that feeling of nothing could ever feel like this, just before it never does again.